Sitting on my couch very Wednesdayingly around 7 PM on a Monday, I remember my day with the porn star on the floor below me.

As most hormonally imbalanced people have done un-, or the better, consciously done over time, I pieced together what a porn star’s life was like from porn, non-porn television, and day dreams.  It always seemed no less than great but never better than amazing; I was certain they had their amazing days just like I have my great days now, but it wasn’t consistently at amazing that’s just absurd.  Lots of Limp Bizkit, lots of optional blow, a buffet of crab legs/cheesecake, a soft serve machine, clean glasses and dishes, a lot of white walls, guys who don’t do a lot of talking, and no apologies all within giant houses that none of them seemed to own but had no problem having sex in.  In between digesting omega-3’s, one would go in front of some bright lights, get over their fear of people watching and waiting for them to make the first move, take the sex level up from 0, and then head back to the buffet thinking to oneself, “this definitely sounds like the same songs they made for that really bad album.”

The reality of this life is far from my strung together idealized version, at least for the example 11 feet below.  First, I would like to admit that this is not as cool as my middle school self once believed - not only is it disenchanting but it’s also annoying, she’s very loud and disruptive during casual sex with her boyfriend who is  a DJ, presumably, professionally. Her boyfriend must be still trying to find his “sound” for he plays loud terrible music non-stop, which comes close to my middle school fantasy of being a or around porn stars but instead of Limp Bizkit it’s Mudvayne or Disturbed or Staind or indiscriminate rap.  They own two small dogs that are seemingly afraid of life and, I imagine, pray for death every morning.  They cook weird shit.  He owns a marine uniform, whether or not he ever once was one is unknown.  She goes to Los Angeles often.

Monday at 8:30 AM, they’re not awake because the dogs are dead silent and there are no sex noises.  At noon there are dog noises, the source is still indeterminate.  It becomes 1 and there are rumblings around the house - she sits outside smoking. Sometimes the dogs accompany her, but not today, not now - maybe they’re dead.  1:30, they are not - dog noises again, the source could only comprehensibly be the dogs.  2:20 comes with subtle noises of housework or at least the presumed  common labor that should produce such noises; I could be completely wrong and there are set designers that take care of this around 7:15 every evening when the first wave of music usually starts.  Some other possibilities to explain the 2:20 noise: preparing a bad meal, resuscitating the dog, smoking inside and then cleaning the walls and furniture of the smell, some yoga to make herself think that she’s going to start doing this every day, rearranging her French literature but this time in alphabetical order by existential-political undertone, rebuilding her therapeutic box fort to help deal with paternal issues, or minor woodwork.  

The late afternoon approaches and fades into evening, and there is little noise except for some confirmed dog barking and another trip outside for smoking.  The boyfriend comes home to the downstairs mid-range apartment from his must-have day job, or wakes up, and then the music starts to play - at this point it’s all original stuff.  Sometimes they cover up their “love” making with music but not very well; at this point, they are not pretending they have it all figured out.  Their relationship probably transcends conversation.

The music shuts off around 8; they probably watch Bones.  Some nights the music comes back on around 10, but not this night.  It stays quiet.  

Around 12:30 DJ Sexparty and Pornstar make fast art.  Everything is audible and I have the unfortunate knowledge of their pace and what their skin sounds like.  They finish early on this Monday night and they don’t talk afterward.

Not feeling any better, we got back into the Explorer.  Mango never had been so tasteless to me.  The trop bev.  The tropical beverage I had was mango flavored.  You were wondering why I was trying to taste mango.  As we reluctantly pulled out of the parking lot deciding to go back to Trevor’s driveway to await whatever lawful fate would find us, my phone rang again only this time by Alex’s number.  I’m sure I asked “hello?” but all I remember is the roar of laughter on the other end.  Alex explained the important details and we decided to meet at Trevor’s.  Scott burst into tears and I into laughter burning all the nervous energy.

When we met again in Trevor’s once-a-garage-now-a-room room, they told us the story of what happened: after Trevor had taken the left at the second fork, sticking themselves into a dead end, they were surrounded by multiple police cars, spotlights shining, cops out of their cars, guns pointed.  Over the loudspeaker, one cop demanded they show their hands and exit the car.  Trevor attempting to do so while unlocking and exiting the car was reprimanded and once again given clear instructions.  This happened again.  Once Alex, Trevor, Kirk and Bakun were out of the car, one cop demanded “who is in the trunk?” They responded with “him,” pointing at Alex.  The cop again demanded “who is in the trunk?”  Still trying to explain with “him,” pointing again at Alex.  Not taking their word, the cops searched the trunk and presumably found no man, noman, nomen.  Then the whole car was searched and they were frisked.  The cops found the blue curly wig and felt it integral to verbally note this into the walkie talkie.  Upon frisking Alex they found the worst of the contraband on any one of us - the knob from Trevor’s bed.  ”What’s this?” the cop demanded.  ”Uh, a knob,” Alex replied uncertainly.  ”You steal knobs too?”  This was just another group-idiosyncrasy to add to the list for the cops to understand that night.  After this, I’m sure the police asked something along the lines of “why?” or “huh?”  And so my friends explained that this was being filmed for a school project, to which the cops asked if this part was being filmed too.  A balanced battle of hoping this part was being filmed and this part was not being filmed went through their heads - I regret not having stuck around to film the rest of it, but we would have undoubtedly been in more trouble had we filmed this as well.  The police were seemingly understanding, because according to them the weekend previous some disruptive kids were filming for an actual school project at Meijer as well (some friends of ours come to find out the next Monday), and so Alex, Trevor, Kirk, and Bakun were given the sentence of apologizing to the still panicked lady in the white van, the store manager (which is when Steve and Cristina saw them), and the police.  And so they left and called us with the good news.

Scott then explained, “Yeah when you called I just started crying!”

I fancied myself as an “excellent” cameraman based on very little in my life other than the constant pursuit of someone who would let me film something they wanted filmed.  I believe my inspiration was Brad Pitt’s character in Spy Game.  For most of Trevor’s film related projects I was able to film parts of them but never received a credit for it.  I had the camera and was following the rest of the group around Meijer.  It was mostly me pointing it at Trevor as he did things I believe he thought were out of the ordinary but still needed to be filmed - for example, climbing up a shelf and then jumping down on Scott.  The angle was shot correctly but the footage was almost pointless.  

After fragmenting, we all met back up in the furniture section of Meijer.  By the way, did you know that Meijer had a furniture section?  Or furniture worthy of a whole section?  Or enough demand to warrant the selling of furniture in a Meijer?  It all seemed so fanciful as it was the first time I found out they had one after shopping in Meijer stores (not Meijers) for several years.  There sat on a couch with three other guys Alex, Bakun, and Kirk.  The rest of us, including a few others from their group, stood there wondering who everyone was.  Those on the couch were talking and sharing french fries that I didn’t even know about.  Bakun started to explain to one of the others sitting closest to him what we were doing.  ”We’re going to kidnap someone,” he said.  ”You gonna kill somebody?!” inquired the other.  ”No, no, we’re gonna kidnap someone,” Bakun retorted.  ”Who you gonna kill?  Her?” the other inquired further, this time pointing to some passing-by shopper who, justifiably so, felt less comfort then.  ”No, him,” Bakun explained, pointing to Alex.  ”Why?  He owe you money?”  ”No, as a joke.  We’re going to film it.”  The stage was set?  There are still many things I’m uncertain about, such as when it was planned for, why we waited until we did, if we were actually looking for an audience, and when Bakun, Alex, and Kirk stopped to get these french fries why they didn’t ask to get the rest of us anything. 

The plan was simple in practice yet complex in moral ambiguity for a high school student: Trevor, Bakun, and Kirk would be in Bakun’s car driving around the parking lot waiting for Alex to be out in front of Meijer; Alex was to walk back and forth from the lot to the front of the store until the timing was perfect; I was filming; Scott was the person I was pretending to film for a school project.  The other group were hanging out of one of the automatic doors - all six or seven of them, but to not raise suspicions, they all looked anxiously in the same direction.  Once the timing was right, the car squealed it’s tires to a stop, two hooligans got out to attack a screaming Alex.  Alex was screaming very loudly.  Super loud.  It’s very funny and if Alex is ever hurt or scared I will unfortunately only laugh breathlessly at him.  They threw him into the trunk of Bakun’s car and took off.  I unwittingly noticed the white minivan that followed but didn’t think it actually followed.  The other group of kids were laughing hysterically, and Scott and I were satisfied - boredom quelled.  The concerned shoppers coming and going stared in shock as to what they just saw; the other group of kids even went on to lyingly explain to one shopper between laughs that someone just got kidnapped and they had no idea what actually happened - it was great.  

Scott and I jumped into his Explorer, caught our breath, and called them to find out what they wanted to do next - maybe a Dunkin Donuts run for a trop bev.  At this point they had stopped and let Alex out of the trunk but were driving in the winding “park” that toured you around shop after store but eventually let you out to the freeway.  We took the same route to meet up and soon noticed that they were being followed by a white minivan - I immediately called to warn them.  We also had a tail.  We started to catch up with them as they were coming to the end of the road - the road ended with a fork and three lanes.  Two lanes went left to the freeway, one lane went right to a bunch of industrial buildings no one ever went to.  Trevor turned right.  That’s when Scott and I started to sweat.  The van followed and so did we.  We came to another fork not even half a mile down this road, they went left and we went right - our tail followed us.  We found ourselves at a dead end and started to turn around when our tail came within inches of Scott’s bumper and decided to turn, quite widely.  Once our windows were align, we saw two slovenly hillbilly-esq types who stared deadly and without urgency at us.  Scott, wittingly (super pun), asked “do you know how to get out of here?”  They continued their wide turn without so much as a flicker on their dead faces and almost hit Scott’s passenger door.  Scott and I began to really worry.  They drove away.

As we came out back to the last fork in the road, we saw the white minivan stopped and crawled up to it slowly to find an overwhelmed with panic lady with her cell phone out, calling everybody and shouting hysterics.  We politely asked, “do you know how to get out of here?”  She piecemeal-ly said that she didn’t know how to get anywhere and that essentially she was a bit scared.  We said thank you even though I’m pretty sure in that situation, had we not been the primary reason for her panic, we could have been much more mean for her not helping us get unlost.  As we started to drive away, with the freeway in sight, a cop car passed us going at least double the 25 MPH speed limit.  If I remember right, before the words “oh shit” could have their moment in this act, three other cop cars passed by, immediately surrounding Bakun’s car which was now visible to us stuck in some cul-de-sac far to our right.

After we got onto the service drive, I suggested in our shared moment of terror going back to Trevor’s and sit in his drive way.  We asked a lot of questions to anyone who was willing to answer them.  Granted it was still just the two of us and neither of us was in on some elaborate police-involved part of this, so we didn’t have any answers to give.  After about fifteen minutes of just sitting in Trevor’s drive way, phone painfully silent, blood cells taking full tours of our circulatory systems, I thought we should at least make a Dunkin Donuts run.  We decided this was a good idea in case someone say, the police, decided to come looking for the rest of us.  We went in, I bought a trop bev and used the restroom.  While in the restroom, my phone finally ended it’s half hour silent treatment - it was Steve.  This would have been a bad time for him and Cristina to meet up with us.  He asked me with concern rather than curiosity, “what’s going on?”  I asked him, “why?”  He said him and Cristina were just at Meijer and saw Alex, Trevor, Kirk, and Bakun inside, and when he approached them Alex told him they couldn’t talk right now.  I explained everything to Steve.

The fun had by adolescents in high school that appealed to little other people could not outweigh the boredom; we spent most weekends in our friend Trevor’s room which smelled of furry dog shit if the door that led to the breeze way was left open too long.  It’s clear now that all we did was try to destroy, conquer boredom.  It was our only true sickness as a group - otherwise we suffered from very little; Alex and Trevor throwing the curve.  Steve was with Cristina.  Scott brought me to Trevor’s.  Alex showed up.  A couple of guest starring roles were filled by Kirk and Bakun.  There were hopes of Steve and Cristina joining us later but until then, there we were sitting, feeling the tinge of boredom at the root of our follicles embedding it for another weekend.  One weekend before, Trevor, Alex, Bakun and Kirk stumbled upon a solution: false kidnappings.  Alex was the born screamer, so naturally we kidnapped him the most.  They had done this at several different places striking the unconscious apathy of current day gas station attendants and fast food restaurateurs; placing a weight of ridiculousness on the mind and representing a portent of things to come that never came, all things fad-like considered.  Trevor had a camcorder because he liked making films no one liked to watch more than once - no one really knows how he got it considering his room was a garage that was not needed for storage and could not be used for car quarters.  They filmed their first attempts at getting a rise out of the common folk, but it was night and they were all piss poor cameramen, or camera-persons.

Boredom approaching us faster than a soluble single answer to it, we all seemed game for yet apprehensively nervous about another kidnapping only this time at the super store, Meijer - sometimes called Meijers.

We took two cars.  Trevor, Scott, and I were in Scott’s Explorer which had the color of teal one only finds in the early 90’s but befits a semi-skater high school student in the early naughts.  The rest were in Trevor’s family’s car (this was only days after Trevor received his driver’s license - usually spelled “licence” in Great Britain).  That same week at school was the supposed “spirit” week where those going to the school got to show their allegiance and appreciating by taking part in activities and dress codes that specific students created - it truly was the best way to show those specific students you thought their ideas were great by having fun adhering to generic off-beat styles that bent rules.  High school was the best for those who found simple things funny and great.  I at some point accidentally forgot to return someone’s giant blue curly wig.  I stole it passively.  I didn’t care but I also didn’t need it ever.  Kirk spent most of the night with it after he took it out of my truck.  Trevor had an idiosyncratic attachment to things that were “off” to him.  I would claim he was obsessive-compulsive about the order of his room, but it wasn’t quite…real to be that.  His bed, meant to be the bottom bunk of bunk beds, had knobs in the posts.  Alex took one of the knobs, as one of us normally did whenever visiting, and placed it in his pocket Trevor never being the wiser.

At a traffic light somewhere on Middlebelt (sometimes spelled Middle Belt, sometimes pronounced “Middebelt”), the Trevor family owned car was asked by two ruffians in another car if they had “dem grundos.”  However they answered, none of them nor us in the other car had any grundos.  Weeks before, hanging out in the back parking lot of a Taco Bell because the inside was closed a group of similar characters plus a few extra were approached by another car that clearly avoided the drive-thru (sometimes misspelled drive-threw).  The two inside asked us if we knew Big Pete.  None of us knew at the time and some of us to date still don’t know a Big Pete.  I want to know a Big Pete so I can wish that if I could go back in time I would go back to that day and say a reluctant “yes” or wait until they left and told my friends “I should have said ‘yes.’”

I was in Tennessee once. I had $90.00 to my name. I had the posture of a quitter. Who, the drunken man in front of St. Peter’s asked, is your fiction?

I turned my attention to the wild sky. Who is your wild sky? I had the wrong shirt on for the humidity. Who is your fire? 

I left Tennessee the way most writers leave places; alone. I read the first nine pages of a Herman Hesse collection and fell asleep before ascension. I may have dreamt of the drunken man. I may have just been thinking about him. Either way, my imagination had him saying, “you tell people who you don’t love that you love them - the ones you really love have no idea.”  The man with a paper bag for a hand and tar for knuckles seemed to be smarter than he looked. Who writes the letters back? Or better yet, who never does?

Back home, at a diner, I crafted the creamers, the napkin bands, the rind from my grapefruit, and the silk flowers into a portrait of the waitress in a pretty field. You are beautiful, the petals spelled. She wasn’t. At least not to me. But I thought it would make her smile. 

My father left two messages the day I was in Tennessee. He misses mom more than I do. Because of that, it’s hard to call him back. I packed the one-hitter and drew a picture of the old drunk in front of that random church. Who is your fiction?

Who, may I ask, is asking? 

As God always commandeth, never look directly into an eclipse, don’t go out into the cold with wet hair, and most definitely do not masturbate on Mother’s day.  For one unfortunate middle aged miserable sexless man, all conditions fell on the same day one year.  Thirteen days before, God spoketh unto Noah that he would make it rain like a mother fucker (which is an obsolete unit of time measurement equaling roughly 40 nights), and that he was to build a big boat, but not like the big boats he had seen.  Bigger.  This part took a bit of explaining, conceptually, for Noah had seen some of the pleasure yachts that some of the more wealthy had, and Noah, being a relativistic man, kept comparing them to every boat he knew.  God finally goteth the picture across to him when he said it had to house all of the animals, ever.  Noah asked about the animals in other lands.  God said not to worry about those because only He had seen them.  Noah then asked about the animals that were super far away.  God said that if they wanted to live they could make the trip.  Noah then inquired as to all of the people on the planet.  God was not ready for this, because He was always a “let’s run with this idea” kind of guy before thinking it through; but to cover His tracks He said, “they too will have boats!”  This was a lie because He forgot to tell others – luckily He did make a mental note.

Twelve days later, He still forgot to mention it to others.  He most certainly kicked himself for this.  However Noah had proceeded accordingly and builteth the most beautiful of wooden boats without a lacquer finish relative to the time.  It was a particularly cold day, for there was a cold front pushing through.  When God realized it was half past noon and still only 43 degrees Fahrenheit out, He realized He forgot to remind Noah of the three most deadly sins of the day, for Noah was a forgetful gus.  It was also a particularly bitter Mother’s day – Noah’s wife who bore only one child by then was told by Noah on that day that she and her offspring would have to ride in a different boat, as was Noah’s understanding of God’s command.  It was later clarified, albeit briefly, by God that this was not necessarily so.  About three in the afternoon, Noah had decided to take an extra long shower to really cleanse his “inners” as he liked to say to friends and local ladies of the night.  Without drying his hair, he went outside in a hurry to find that it was still not raining (He had forgotten about the time He promised), but insteadeth of a shining sun, he found ever growing darkness.  He looked up to find something “eating the sun” as he shouted.  God having heard this outbursteth, remembered what He was supposed to do and just before triggering his rain/vacation, he found Noah committing all of the sins ever – all three!  He now even hated Himself more for forgetting.  He did what He had to do and gave Noah the radioactivity all over.  Luckily back in Biblical times, radioactivity did nothing to the genetic good stuff that kept cells doing their things and DNA acting like a boss.  It did however give Noah a healthy green glow in dim conditions and a ravenous demeanor/appetite.  

The animals arrived, all with a plus one, which was incredibly rude seeing as though the invite never specified so.  On the other hand, the animals were far more aware of how they had to reproduce than Noah did, so this just ended up better.  They sailed later that evening.  

The first fort night was off-putting for most of the animals who had to dealeth with Noah directly.  He was distant, passive-aggressive, and grumpy.  He grew a crazy amount of facial hair which, according to his wife, was a bit gross.  Soon he stopped coming out of his room for his daily walks.  Around day 27, all the animals and person stopped seeing him for the remainder of the pleasure cruise.  Nobody seemed to mind; the awkwardness only dwindled and soon the fun really started to happen.

Day 41 came as quick as the second and the animals were sad to return to dry land.  Most kept in touch of the years.  However, no one had seen Noah in weeks and some started to worry.  A three-toed sloth and a handful of snails went looking in the captain’s quarters, which was rumored to have been selfishly designed personally for Noah only who “phoned” the rest in.  Nine days later, they found him where they set off to find him.  He was wide-eyed and malnourished.  He didn’t say a word, but shot out of the room and went straight at a group of animals still just hanging out.  He would have went for the sloth and snails but sloths, or slothums, are known for their tough, unsavory meat and snails, as was known to Noah, were to be the punishment food for the prophesized sinful French.  Noah went at the group of animals all bitey like, and took flesh from them with each snap of his jaw.  He bit a spider, a lizard, and a hulk.  Nearly 2000 years later, there were superheroes.

me: candy

Andy: axel

ready to do this porn?

me: yes, yes i am ready to do this porn. let’s do this porn.

Andy: good

me: my place or yours?

Andy: THE place

me: the raft or the factory?

Andy: factory more specifically the raft factory

me: the refectory raft factory?

Andy: no, the one on 17th, the confectionary refectory raft tractor factory

me: with all the confetti?

Andy: confetti yes, topped with spaghetti

me: That’s a strange factory. Especially because Tom Petty, Richard Petty, and Eddie Money all go there for the spaghetti

Andy: yeah, it is strange, which I think is what makes it so special to film porn there

me: Who’s playing Sweaty Eddie?

Andy: Thin, pale, relaxed Paul. the guy who never does anything and falls asleep when he stands

me: perfect. Paulfect.

Andy: he doesn’t like being called that since defecting but hes for some reason ok with Paulfecting

me: He does have a huge cucumber though.

Andy: yeah, well reknown for his gardening, too bad his penis is so ragged

me: yeah, it’s a shame. his penis looks like a turnip. 

Andy: one of those turnips you swore was grown on it’s side, in a tight space, while being melted on the other

Alida’s song Paulsen Gary,

Ten years down the line I will hopefully have grown to accept Wednesdays as equals to any other day.  A week before that I was confused as to why it was a Saturday and not a Wednesday, but given that I was still struggling with accepting Wednesdays, that was better.  I don’t know why I was still fixated on “honest work” - that’s the problem with the world, nobody knows honest work.  Customer service is a real fucking problem - I mean will anyone still listen to Albom then?  Customer service is where the answers are, that’s where the work needs to be, that’s where the focus of today’s youth needs to be and what they need to teach for those $80,000 USD college degrees - $8 an hour will be plenty for those people to give answers and have their “hands tied” over issues unresolved and to take the ear full of hate, glamorous, glamorous hate - hate felt toward someone for answering a phone and being behind in a building owned by someone with more worth.  Honest work still lives and breeds from our strongest corporations.

Your death will be sweet though, I assure you.  Trevor won’t be invited, not for any particular reason (after all, you will have forgiven him for cutting up your face like that by then), but just to make your funeral seem super exclusive.  I will sing McLachlan’sAidia.  You will do nothing as told and as dictated by the nature of death.  I will invite all those that you chose to have an 8 year removed conversation with, back when we discussed “of those you don’t associate with from high school, who would you meet up with for a conversation today?”  I remember my list including those that I would have liked to have a conversation with back then, mostly because as someone who observed rather than was observed, I noticed them very little when we did go to school - so maybe they were just the next step in the allegory, or the predicate of the still withstanding moral of the movieEnemy of the State.  

If your death is sooner, I will not be taking part in it.  This plan is too good and if you want to fuck that up, then settle with the listless, everyday type of funeral.

Why was it so easy to not do assignments and tests?  Do you remember being sick, missing a test in pre-calc and then coming down to the attendance office to have me do some of the problems?  Or back in middle school when people paid you to do their homework for them?  Why did playing the game ever seem so hard?  Ten years from now, I hope my regrets are not the same; I hope I don’t think deeply about the irrelevance of the hours spent and the work put into what I do now as I do now about then.  I realized the “secret” of all that way too late in my grade school career and even spent another six months or so realizing it’s actuality in all things in that realm. 

I feel like what got us into the pool to begin with was that back then we didn’t swim in the pool - we were certainly at the pool, but looking from outside was our thing (and supposedly the thing of everybody).  Our social apathy was symptomal of an awareness rather than it’s own self-sustaining alienation - we were self-alienated because we understood far too well.  That caused us to jump into the pool.

Welcome back to our Book of Creation,

CM14977

Anders Danielle Wrikstrom,

Ten years from now, what are we doing? Well, for starters, I’ll be dead. And it will be a Wednesday. 

Andre Donyelle Wree-Wree,

Ten days prior, what were we doing? It was a Wednesday, so I was puking. You were reading over your resume and googling opportunities to make money for compiling such a ragtag collection of “honest work”.

Angie Belcher’s Wreath,

Ten thousand years from now, what are we doing? I’d like to think we will be given a fresh start. You, as a melody. Me, as a melon. 

Gandy Dancer,

I find it interesting that you are able to trace back who you are now to specific points in your life. I can’t remember being like this. Feeling like this. I remember getting praise from teachers and peers for most all homework I completed before the hour before. But that feels like some in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king shit. I remember you. You had a Pacers jersey on. You used to hit threes. And of course I remember events as they are retold and reminisced over, but 90% of my memories feel no different than recalling plot lines and characters from my favorite novels. I don’t even remember myself as being short until I was about 20. 

I think I’m rather embarrassed of my insignificance. 

And you know, I look back on these prideful moments from my past; Trevor’s movies, The Packet, a gentleman’s bet in Mr. Treppa’s class, ACTs, golf, bullshitting my way through Model U.N., breaking tackles, a solid fight club record, etc. and they certainly don’t feel like accomplishments. Merely necessary checkpoints to keep this little fellow afloat. This isn’t news. All high-schoolers are insecure. My point, once again, is that when I’m forced to evaluate how small my life has been, it reinforces how small it will most likely continue to be. And that scares me. So, I rarely think about it. 

However, I very much appreciated reading your letter because it provided some clarity on hating myself. We were on to something. I get that now. We weren’t special. We weren’t delusional beyond the scope of normal teenagers either. I had a keen analytical awareness. Trevor had the potential that made kids want to start fights with him. You were soaking up information both socially and intellectually,  a rare combination for a teenager. Later, we would discover that by cultivating these attributes as a group, we were destining ourselves to swim in the big pool of people who think what they have to say is important. 

This sounds self-loathing. It’s not, I promise. To this day, I’m confident I have the upper-hand in most conversations. I can gage what people are looking for out of their interactions with me and happily provide them with it. Sometimes I’m really proud of what I write. I love having you in my life too. Without you, I’m confident I wouldn’t have created nearly as much as I have over the past three years. If it amounts to something, it’s wonderful practice. If it doesn’t, I still have an impressive amateur portfolio. 

At times it seems like we are going in the wrong direction, but when you force me to look back at those irritating little fucks we once were, I have to imagine were still moving forward. 

Peace and love,

kunfusin@aol.com

I was given the chance to embark on a spiritual pontoon boat ride the other day during a catholic wedding - not my first rodeo, I’ve indulged once before.  I watched as two people (those whom, I thought, this whole thing was about) sat at an elevated level while a much older man and various guest speakers told us all about the Bible.  For about 30 minutes I heard songs that weren’t written about these two who were just sitting there, not too much unlike a Vegas hypnotist show, nor were by them; heard quotes that weren’t said by either of them; and listened as chants were echoed back from the unwilling to the pulpit (that’s not fair - I shouldn’t say ‘unwilling’, some were quite enthusiastic and well rehearsed) without anyone even looking in their direction.  I was sat three rows from the front - it was the meanest thing anyone had done to me that day; it was a fairly easy day.  This became a challenge for me because I knew that anyone who prayed without the normal closed off sight or bowed head, or those who prayed at a slightly faster rate than the rest, would see that I do not do as such.  Being fingered as a non-prayer wasn’t a weight of a concern so much as I just wanted to be near the back to see who else that I knew and claimed unequivocal piousness was not doing as so required.  The clearly catholic (or of secular equivalence) gentle man at my six was getting louder and louder during the chorus parts of songs/chants and it worried me that he had his lord’s back to a proactive degree.

The building was large and could be seen from any other large building in the city (it did not exceed other tall buildings but it was on par with them which is just as, you know, whatever you want to feel about that, because the church was one floor and basement).  It was so detailed on the inside, like an HD TV and Blu-Ray combo, or specific things in real life; it was truly an attempt at the immaculate - extravagant immaculacy.  For that of the king or the metaphor?  Because you have to consider that there is now a lot of fucking dust in areas that nearly impossible to get to - surely you can’t allow the transitivity of such to mean that V-card Mary was “dusty”?

My mind wandered and wandered until as one of the guest speakers listed off those In Memoriam she came to a name that either just sounded like or completely was Joseph Cuntfield.  Now in a panicked state and sweating trying to commit this (and many other things) to memory andneedingto ask someone else “did she just say Joseph Cuntfield?”, my legs started to grow restless and my palms cold.  I nearly forgot his first name after the first thirteen seconds; I had to go back in order while she was still taking and remember the exact sound.  We sat back down but I did not rest  - I was scared that I might forget how to laugh as an instinctual reaction to something similar in the future.  I decided that I would take the advice that was implied by the In Memoriam speech and Never Forget Joseph Cuntfield.  As I would later find out, my wife (who happens to have a good ear for the the C word) did not hear it.  My senses have tricked me before, even failed me, but they’ve never tricked me like I was an exchange student from Poland, knowing little English. 

Peace Be With You time came.  For those of you having never been in a huge church or apart of a congregation led by a somewhat non-despondent speaker, there comes a time where everyone starts shaking hands, and thus flu-sharing, saying “peace be with you, (optional proper/pro-noun).”  It caught me off guard because the closest words to my tongue were “Joseph Cuntfield” but I was warned by a sigh of “are you serious?” by my wife before people starting touching one another.  I didn’t mean it as I said it.  I said it to two people, both of which I wish peace on, but I only didn’t mean it as I said it because I was still very tired and very much caught off guard by this amazing surname.  I also thought this was the ample time to wage war and wondered if, historically, it had been done before - I mean, we’re just supposed to confide trust in those sitting around us because they opted to be there at that very moment?  Granted this was a wedding and mostly family, but had it been regular churchtivity, isn’t the trust presumptuous?  

Let me jump backwards for a moment, after Joseph Cuntfield was introduced into my vocabulary, but shortly before the Peace Be With You sheepification - the priest started his actual lecture on those who were getting married (which became the second time they were talked about since it started nearly an hour ago) with a rhetorical question that he fully took the reigns of: “did they make a mistake?”  He continued on to point out the statistics and how difficult it is to maintain marriage, etc.  Granted, at the end of the father of the bride speech at my wedding, my father-in-law specified that there was also a 53% chance of making it and explicitly made it clear that he expected us to maintain rather than offset the curve; however, that was not part of the paid portion of the wedding.  I assume they accepted his following rhetoric because he was at the reception and had a meal with him.  My wife also pointed out to me that the priest, when holding his hand up above the two getting married, looked exactly like Saruman pointing to giant eye.

During one of the blessings when all was silent amongst the congregation, the child (about 11 or 12) in front of me moved and it made the pew squeak loudly, his father turned quickly in his direction and stared daggers at him for was probably the better part of a minute.  I knew this man was planning to beat the shit out of his son.  The father had a buzz cut which I hadn’t seen since last time I was in Livonia, short light hair, the eyes and build of a serviceman who probably never saw any action, a reserve maybe; and his son clearly looked exactly like his mother, who was of a darker complexion and darker curly hair, darker eyes, still a look of hope.  Minutes later during the same blessing the father turned and looked at his son again, this time smiling - I knew then he had realized how much he was reallylooking forward to beating the shit out of his son.

Benjamin Bratt sang the last song before the end of the wedding.  I don’t know how they got him.