Costa Rican Holiday

Here I am- a 26 year old man in a bar in Cahuita, Costa Rica. I don´t know what the holiday is, but all the locals are running around like they just won their independence. I´m just sitting at the bar, talking to my only friend in the world, Tomas, the bartender. I ask for another Imperial and he languidly pulls a bottle out of the fridge and pops the top off with impeccable finesse and ease. An ease that simply screams ¨Bar Tender for Life.¨ I love it here. I can´t speak spanish, but to hell with it- despite the language barrier, I sense no difference in human interaction these days. Nobody says nothin´to nobody anymore. I tell Tomas I´m here to get away from no life at home. He smiles and nods his head like he understands or something. I know he does. His slicked back hair and his toothy grin know everything I could ever say. I smile on, and know that I am home. Home in Central America. Where the cahuita con leche pours in a constant flow only rivaled by the Nile River. Where the locals know not your name and may not even have noticed your skin color, but still greet you with an arm over your shoulder before they say one word. A place where they have a nice, cool Pilsen at the ready for a man in need. A place for someone like me. Home in Central America. During a Costa Rican Holiday.

Happy bday

Tipping roosters isn't my usual hobby. I push two or three every month or so. No big deal. Tin doves are placed in four corners of a room and the game begins. I tiptoe over to one. It runs. I stumble over to another and it greets me. The beasts are sporadic. One minute they hug you, the next they flee! Jim is joining me this week. We're going to compete to see who can knock a hen on the head and then tip it over. We have to steal the roosters, but we'll drop by later to pick you up for the game. Happy bday!!

kicking jesters

A thousand kings roam my prairie side. They pick little leaves off of my cherry trees and I shoo them away of course. The jesters sit in the background, bored. Nothing to laugh at today, little fuckers. They know me. I am ruler. I need no divine right because I am divine. The chimes ring and we all gather for tea time. It is my favorite time of day. I get to hand out the goods while the kings discuss prussian transgression and the need for forestry development. Every now and then, I add a little "quiet down" in and the crowd becomes quiet. A jester moves and the discussion begins again. I kick a jester and the crowd goes wild. A million happy birthdays Brooke Shad.

Bill's Used Car Lot

What is society? Bill’s Used Car Lot.

I wake up at 6 a.m every morning and put on my sports coat (always the same one). I proceed to buzz about the house until my middle aged wife's complaints become too overwhelming. My cologne of choice is Chrome. It makes me feel...empowered. Vitalized I prepare to barrage customers at my used car lot.

Ahhh! Their pleas for peace give me a reason to wake up in the morning. I'll never leave them alone, you see. It just isn't the natural order of things. "I've got a 1980 Pento for sale! It's a good 'un!" Yes, this is what I do. My name is Bill, and I'm 34 years old. I've been doing this job for about 12 years now. Twelve glorious years that I wouldn't trade for the world, swear. Though sort of a funny story, and more so a showing of a divine presence, the way I got this job is unimportant (dropped out of Community College, tried to steal a car, long story), though it may inform some of my behavior. My behavior is, of course, very typical of a man of my position. I lunge at folks who waltz into my domain. Every hour a new piece of meat comes in thinking he or she has a regular day ahead of them. No way. Watch them, khaki shorts and Hawaii shirted. Watch them writhe in utter confusion and disdain for themselves (they chose to enter). the sight is so joyous I can nearly taste it. I would love to eat these moments. It goes something like this: I make a pitch, loudly. They make an attempt to escape, meekly.

There is no exit here at Bill's Used Car Lot. How could there be? My minions guard the "exit" with voracious zeal. I am not alone. I am typical, and there are many of me, but I love me. Who wouldn't? Our steaks usually buy after about a half hour of torture.

You might ask why a guy like me exists; why I do this. I don’t do this for money. What is money on a used car lot? Fodder. Fodder to run for the real prize. The money means nothing, the process everything. It's an added bonus, at best. But I suppose it does give me something to remember the chase by. As i'm buying a sofa, I see those dollar bills in my hand, and I relish the sweat on Mr. Gallon's brow, the slight tremble in Mr. Mahoney's voice, the excitement is there too though, deep in the belly somewhere. When I think back I can feel that too, the rush they must be feeling but are too afraid to show. On my part, the nostalgic elation cannot be matched. You give it a try. You'll see why I do what I do. You'll see why I must do what I do.

There is no exit from this trend of mine. Were I to be born in a world without cars, I would have no purpose and my terror would reign in nihilistic glee throughout the world. When this alternative is presented, I suppose I don't look so bad. (Burning city, or new Jeep?) Well if you want to keep the world safe, the children free, the countries not on fire, you'll buy a used car. I can sell you one for cheap, it's a beaut! O (!) I’ve just got a new Pontiac on the lot. The owner was an idiot, but I swear he never had an accident in his life. You can trust me Betty, Don, Rick, Jimmy, John, Lou. My happiness is your happiness and my happiness is your pain. BUY A USED CAR. BUY ONE NOW. BUY ONE QUICK! No pressure. I am your society, embodied in a little way, so trust me.

Rat Poison (A Manifesto)

All right, so this one is called “Rat Poison” as you can see. What I plan to eloquently and epically portray is what exactly Rat Poison means to me: What you say is that Rat Poison is a flight from life, an extinguishing of life correct? Well, I would argue that yes, it may in some circles be considered an extinguishing of life, however, it is also (more importantly) a proliferation of life and happiness. With excess rodents (more specifically, rats) on earth, we are likely to be greeted with a few vile outcomes: 1. An abundance of (excuse my onomatopoeia. Hey, the writers of Bat Man did it, right? This is rodent-related as well, so I am going to kindly ask you to overlook this lack of tact, or plentitude of colloquial English if you will) the exclamation “BLEH” -In order to eradicate the excess use of this exclamation, I am face-to-face with no better alternative than to implement the usage of Rodenticides (Rat Poison) from the golden gates of California, to the Smoky mountains of Tennessee, and of course the mysterious, cavernous, winding catacombs of New York City. I personally am not fanatical about the prospect of hearing this proclamation of disgust any longer. It pollutes my ears and erodes my being. This is a new generation. A generation that will not cease complaining. It began with the Industrial Revolution, with that wretched supposed “seminal work” of Upton Sinclair by the name of “The Jungle.” In this pathetic excuse for an exposé, the “author” proclaims, in no brief or concise language (the damn thing is 475 pages for Christ’s sake) that the desultory and decrepit conditions in which humans laboriously constructed vessels of importance for our fine country were “inhumane.” Those are precisely the conditions in which rats feel accustomed! Along with the sludge and slander that this loquacious upstart, Sinclair spewed, came an onslaught of reform. Reform! No more rats, no more dirt, no more vile anything. All because a few negligent ivory tower social scientists felt that the conditions were a little too much for humans… So, in a similar vein, I would like to go out on a limb and conclude in this sector of my argument, that with an abundance of rat poison, there will be no more complaining (The heinous flapping of lips that so un-innocuously follow an “inhumane” setting). It is only because this incessant complaining is such a hot button issue for me that I campaign and lobby for Rat Poison everywhere and anywhere. 2. The second (which comes after the first) vile outcome one is likely to observe when an abundance of rodents is present, is more diseases. - Do you remember the bubonic plague? I do not, however, there are likely millions of souls floating in and out of your lungs every second that can attest to the fact that rats helped spread it. Actor Christopher Waltz eloquently hit the nail right on the proverbial head in the 2009 Quentin Tarantino classic, “Inglorious Basterds” when he was speaking with Perrier LaPadite and said: “well yes, rats were the cause of the bubonic plague, but that was some time ago.” It may have been “some time ago” to actor Christopher Waltz, but in my scholarly and un-humble opinion, that is no reason to feel content or complacent. Rats spread diseases. Plain and simple. If you are willing to argue against this conjecture, then I am willing to place you in the same category as Rush Limbaugh (stupid). You simply can’t argue it and still maintain that you are a sane and rational human being. The two entities: 1. being a human being, and 2. Believing rats don’t spread diseases are so diametrically opposed, I liken the argument to that of Yin and Yang hanging out and having coffee. It’s impossible, and from my scholarly room of immeasurable time constraints, I feel that there is simply no need to belabor this point any further. My apologies, I digress. As I was saying, we all know that rats spread diseases. As a part of my campaign, I ensure that everyone that falls inside of the border of the United States will be safe from Bubonic Plague part deux. It’s simply unacceptable, and an argument clear enough to convince anyone to immediately and swiftly join the company of the illustrious “Pro-Rodenticides” (For rat poison) camp. 3. The third vile outcome of excess rats on our planet is one that should hit slightly closer to home. If you’re reading this, I am going to go out on a limb and say that you’re most likely American. Being American, you are a natural born pioneer; it’s an innate quality all of us north of the Mexican border can proudly say we are endowed with. Also, being an American, and having gone through years and years of magnificent pedagogy (The American Schooling System) in American history (8th Grade), I am going to assume that you understand the concept of “Manifest Destiny.” -Being American, and owning your pioneer-like, adventurous spirit that you do, you surely understand the importance of Manifest Destiny. On the off chance that you’re German, we’ll go ahead and call this “lebensraum,” although I’m unsure if it translates the same. Getting back on topic; when America truly began taking over this great land, our forefathers embarked on a courageous quest fueled by the fury of New England, and the prospect of gold and desire somewhere buried out west. We eventually captured all that dust and beauty in between the formerly snake-like, premature colony that we previously called home, and the mystery, the smoky glory of that ever-dynamic Golden Coast of the west. Like I said, no stone was left un-turned, no cave left un-spelunkered, and of course no road left un-paved. We finally owned it. It took quite some time and sweat, but we owned it. If rats continue to populate this planet, it is our territory that they are fucking up and tramping on and smudging up. I will not stand by and let them besmirch my gold. I will not sit up here in my dormitory and let that vile fucking creature lay eggs and shit all over our destiny. If we have Rat poison at the ready, then we better use it. FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT! Tiocfaidh ár lá! Farrell Lucas McKenna Staunch Proponent of Rodenticides

Two Front War

Thinking about his mother even brings tears to my eyes. The memories swirling all about give me the feeling that I know and knew everyone that he knows and knew. My life merges with his and it is just textbook. It is just textbook. All the books say this is exactly the type of thing that should happen. The books also offer up some not so pleasant explanations for why I might feel bad. What form should I take to rebel against the books? An automaton? The ripping pain tortures my soul as i'm degraded to a mere idea in texts everywhere. The very texts I rely on to give me perspective and piece of mind betray me by explaining that which can't be explained. The misery, the anguish, fatigue. They launch a two front war. One side coming from that which gives me pain and the other side coming from that which explains that pain. I have been forsaken twice over. These tears run because I can not.

Less than a product but continuing productivity

I think I can, I think I can, but can I? Junior was a product of his environment and like any good product, he had been prepared for use by society until he was suitable for distribution and participation. Though everyone was sure he was prepared for his role, when he got into Oxford in 2007, he still had some reservations and confusion lingering from what remained of his individual mind.
Junior was in a frenzy and didn’t know why. He would go to his top-notch school, but he would go separated from his peers, still questioning the world and its orders, its possibilities. Junior was preparing to do this, but what he didn’t realize was that he couldn’t do just what he planned on doing. He could never be free to think. Why? Because he was tainted from birth. He saw what was allowed, accepted, appropriate, and no matter how much he might try, he couldn’t rebel completely against these notions. These ideas represented his worlds of good and evil, his notions of right and wrong. Dissolving these would be like instating the Cult of Reason in Catholic France, destined to hit disaster. So Junior parted ways with his family for college, living in a world of false rebellion, impossible rebellion. Oblivious little piece of---
Okay, so this isn’t an oddity in our day or any day. The false rebellion has been pursued for years. The liberal hippie phase that would overcome him would be an illusory one. He wouldn’t like the same music or things as those he tried to reproduce, but indeed he liked their clothes and the way people greeted them in society, warily. Who can say his ailment was really an ailment? Why is this confusion a bad thing? After all, the life he led made him feel unique, untouchable, a thing separate and above all others. It allowed him to live in a pseudo-world. Now why might it be bad to live in a false realm of self importance and hedonism? Well his evolution as a person is surely stunted one could argue, but because he is a product living in a world in which normally he would merely proceed to distribution and non-life anyway, Junior may not be missing much by being in this confused state anyway. He is delusional, there is not even the slightest chance of breaking out of the cycle of “productivity.” He is a slave to his own self-congratulation, pawn in his own game of chess, sad piece of ----
What should Junior do? Where should he go? How should he think and how can he begin to think like that? Junior is nothing and never will be anything. He is the opposite of a human being. He is less human than the products that surround him in society. They are delusional too but they are something, economic tools. He is a self tool. He’s a nice guy though.

Got Book? I do.

No,no,no, you don't understand. I steal books for fun. I'm just like anyone else. I get a thrill out of mischief really. I think in crime, when looking at whether or not something is bad or a subject is guilty, intent is a necessary factor to evaluate. My intent is light-hearted, innocent really. I" seek liberation from a life of normality while hiding the deviant behavior so as to conceal this internal disdain.
My books don't collect dust after I nab 'em. No, no,no. I hide them in different places. I've hidden them in the Whitehouse, My mother's house, this guy named Chris' House, a funeral home, Mount Rushmore and even at the Harvard Library (though I don't have an ID card to enter).
Which book I take depends on my mood. If i'm feeling jolly, I steal Vonnegut. If I feel sad, I steal Kristeva. If I feel bored, I steal Piaget. Of course I don't only steal these authors when i'm in the aforementioned mood. I steal lots of books at a time. The count is somewhere around about 200,000 dollars worth of books. It's an adventure to find a new place to hide each book. Euphoric liberation.