Apophenia Chapter Twelve

 

Chad’s car is a 2003 PT Cruiser, navy blue, full of homework papers, stinking clothes, and miscellaneous detritus. He immediately turns on his stereo just as I’m settling into the vehicle, and the Queens of the Stone Age song No One Knows kicks on extra crunchy, the blown subwoofer on my side of the vehicle providing extra distortion. We take off, Chad pressing his foot on the gas pedal like a septuagenarian, creeping toward stop signs, pausing for two seconds at red lights, the light night flow of the city’s traffic passing us by like blood cells. We’re on our way to the heart, the fleshy, vital heart that beats and pulsates through these sad sack lives, pushing us onward, head over heels, trying to get us to move, to breathe, to live, to fuck. Chad lights a joint while he’s driving, and I only laugh and wonder how slowly he’ll continue, now under the influence. He offers me a tote, and I smile and say what the hell and take it. I’ve been living in a repressive environment, one of fatness, omnipresent pasta, mulleted men, and discarded ambition, and I’ve traded that life for one of muscles, drugs, guns, and youthful degeneracy. Does Chad fit into this? I think, looking at his effeminate complexion, smooth and oval-faced. I don’t know right now, and it’s fine, I conclude, to not know. We pull up to Cans and park in the lot, and it’s more packed than I would’ve imagined. I see the Conans standing before the entrance, engaged in a heated discussion with the bouncer, both of them wearing sleeveless shirts and cargo pants with combat boots. "Are those your friends?" asks Chad. I only shake my head and pull him forward.

"What the hell you mean Predator’s a shitty movie?" says Arnold, talking up to the bouncer, an African American fellow well over six feet tall.

"It’s not my favorite, alright? I’m more of a Terminator fan," says the bouncer.

"Terminator? Did you hear that, Dave? James fucking Cameron? That goddamn movie has time travel in it, and don’t get me started on how retarded time travel is. Why wouldn’t Skynet keep sending terminators back in time? Why would they quit just because Linda Hamilton stopped them once or twice? Is there a limit on that shit? Furthermore, is time linear, Maurice? Is it a straight line? I just can’t believe that. I believe in the grandfather paradox," says Arnold, emphatically gesticulating, moving his arms around in circles. "Back to the Future, Terminator, they can suck it."

"Predator’s got Carl Weathers in it," points out Dave.

"Why should I care about Carl Weathers? Just because he’s black?" asks Maurice.

"That’s probably why Dave said that, but forget him. Predator is the perfect action movie. The first part is your basic military flick. You got Schwarzenegger dealing knives and one-liners, cars blowing up, a solid team of bad-ass dudes. But then the tables turn, so to speak. The Predator starts hunting them, and they don’t know how to deal with it. There’s that scene where they blow apart the jungle with their machine guns, these big, muscled dudes, they’re helpless and left swinging their dicks around impotently, to no fucking avail. Is there that kind of phallic imagery in Terminator, Maurice? Can you really tell me a movie with fucking time travel in it is a better film? The machines will destroy us? Hell, that’s the most cliché sci-fi theme ever."

"Do you guys want in or not?" asks Maurice.

"You don’t have to let them in if they’re behaving badly," I say. "This is Chad, a classmate of mine."

"What’s up," says Chad, putting his hand forth. Neither of the brothers moves to shake his hand.

"We don’t shake hands," explains Dave.

"What’s wrong with you all?" says Maurice, shaking Chad’s hand before it is withdrawn. "You shake another man’s hand unless he’s done something bad to you."

"Man is a funny word. It has a varying definition in some circles," replies Arnold.

"If I let you two assholes in, you better drink a lot and tip the strippers," says Maurice. "Five dollar cover charge."

"What the hell we gotta pay a cover charge for if we’re gonna drink and tip the strippers?" asks Arnold. Maurice is about to reply with a barrage of obscenities, but I cut in and hand him a twenty dollar bill. The boys and I enter, going down the entryway, into the bar where we grab a table next to the stage. The crowd is good, much better than I expected considering Leslie’s constant complaints. I look at Arnold, who’s apparently still pissed about Maurice’s preference for Terminator over Predator, and ask him if he’ll go buy everybody drinks.

"Purple Rain over there needs to give me some money," he says. "I’m not spotting him anything." Chad fishes in his pocket and gives Arnold a five dollar bill, and he goes to fetch the alcohol.

"Do you guys get into fights and disagreements everywhere you go?" I ask Dave.

"He does, and I usually have to back him up," replies Dave. "We don’t play nice with others."

"I’m told that success in life often depends on how to win friends and influence enemies, or some crap like that," I say. "Social decorum and basic manners don’t apply, I guess, to barbarians such as yourselves?"

"I don’t know that we’re looking to get the same things out of life as most people," says Dave. "We don’t particularly care about living in poverty, as long as we have enough money for food, drugs, and other basic amenities. The comforts of modern life are overrated. I don’t have a television, a cellular phone, a garbage disposal. Our refrigerator is twenty years old; our furniture consists of pieces we’ve scavenged or stolen. Arnold and I desire strength over all things, not just of the body, but also of the mind. The whole Nietzschean concept, the will to power, the triumph of the individual over the harshness of the world—that’s the ideal we’re striving for. I don’t want to live in a McMansion with a four-car garage and a bunch of kids. I’d rather live out in the urban wasteland burning effigies in my backyard, stripped to the waist, drunk and belligerent. I’m selfish. I’m dedicated."

"You’re an artist," says Chad, interrupting.

"I think of myself that way. I don’t know if Arnold does. But he is, too. He’s probably a greater artist than me."

"These goddamn beers were five dollars a piece," says Arnold, slamming down our drinks. "Now I remember why I don’t go out anymore."

"We never went out in the first place," says Dave.

"That ‘cause we’re banned from half the bars in this town," replies Arnold. "We did go out, initially. Otherwise, we would’ve never been banned."

"Those are some nice melons," says Chad, as a stripper walks past our table.

"Hooters," says Dave.

"Bazoombas," replies Arnold.

"Ah, the conventional male obsession with tits. It feels good, you know, to hear you guys fetishize something normal, as opposed to, say, cannibalism or anthropomorphic ponies," I say.

"Hey, don’t think we don’t like to get freaky in the bedroom," says Arnold.

"Please don’t say we, Arnold," says Dave.

"Dave, you’re a weird motherfucker, at least as weird as me, so don’t be all leave-me-outta-this-shit, because I have stories, and you know I’ll tell them," replies Arnold.

"At least I’m not into pegging," says Dave.

"You know, we have some nice strap-ons for sale at Les Adultes, available in all sizes and colors," I tell Arnold.

"Dave likes it when they pee in his mouth," says Arnold.

"Welp, I’ve had about enough of this discussion," says Chad. "Can we just look at the boobies and leave all this weird stuff where it belongs?"

"You a Mormon?" asks Arnold.

"No, why?" replies Chad.

"He does it missionary only, like Bram Stoker intended," says Dave.

"Excuse me, what? Bram Stoker wrote Dracula. Are you thinking of Brigham Young?" I say.

"Whatever the little leprechaun’s name was," says Arnold.

"A leprechaun didn’t found Mormonism," says Chad.

"The fuck it didn’t. A little racist leprechaun that’s polygamous? Wears a green buckled hat like a pilgrim? Dances with a box of Lucky Charms?" says Arnold.

"Now you’re just fucking with us," I tell him.

"That ain’t me," says Arnold, as the first stripper comes on stage. She’s blonde, curvaceous, conventional, a decent pole dancer. The boys watch and salivate; I can see the horniness radiating off of their eyeballs, dripping onto the table, ugly, desperate, obscene. They grip the table; they fixate their vision, peering holes through this large-breasted female, boring into her soul, eager to see something that no one else can, through the shallow skin, the shiny exterior. They want, they want, they want—they have no conception of balance, of shared sexual pleasure, they only know the needs of themselves, the raw, angry desire—Arnold grits his teeth, he gnashes and bites his lip—and the blonde dances, writhing her hips, moving her breasts like ammunition. Some toss dollar bills up at her, not many, but a few. The Conans have come prepared, and they spew cash all over the stage, the sum total likely not exceeding forty dollars. I watch her collect, smoothly bending down, not taking her eyes off of the audience, giving us her face, her radiant, sun-tanned visage. Jasmine could be up there, dancing, strutting, having money rain down on her priceless flesh. I don’t know if I could stomach the cynicism that flows through my veins. It is, nonetheless, an amusing fantasy.

Candy is next, as I knew she would be. She comes out like a firecracker, all sparks and flickering lights, her eyes wide, her smile large enough to devour our glances, our ambitions, our hungry needs. She struts and stalks upon the stage, prowling, almost crouched down, like a beast of prey, until she finds the pole and latches on, her moves unbelievably graceful, tight, practiced, effortless. I am absorbed, soaking in every movement like it is the last I will see, appreciating the skill and mastery on display. What is art but gestures of an artist? The body she has, most of it granted to her by God, is bent and cupped by preternatural gyrations, ranges of motion I do not think I have, nor will I ever. Graceful, limber, supple—I can’t think of enough words to describe her, nor do I tear my eyes from the figure that moves, motivated by the stage, the music, the cries and praises of the audience, all of us hunched over and offering up our life savings just for a glimpse of affection, of acceptance and exclusivity. Desire is selfish; it can be no other way, and I imagine how the boys must feel, looking at me in my black dress, my legs long and lean and more beautiful than any limbs of theirs. What do they have that I cannot offer? What can they give her that I cannot?

The Esteemed Critic Reviews The Menu

 

Revenge is a dish best served cold. Or hot, in this movie.

Every artist yearns to be understood, or at least, appreciated, yet every artist with ambition has to pander to the rich in order to climb the ladder of status. Yet at the top, it is never worth it, because no one at that level cares about art, they only concern themselves with fame, power, and money. Thus, the artist's soul is damaged, for his or her art is no longer even art but just another cog in the capitalist machine that powers our world. The desire for recognition makes prostitutes out of all of us, The Menu suggests, although it conveys this message in a much more humorous manner than my staid prose. Anna Taylor Joy plays an escort named Margot who is hired to accompany foodie Tyler (played for many laughs by Nicholas Hoult) to an exclusive island restaurant called Hawthorne, operated by famous chef Julian Slowik (Ralph Fiennes). This dinner is more than it initially seems, and each of its clientele are there for a purpose, that is, besides Margot, who is a last minute substitution. There's an aging actor (John Liguizamo) who's there to try to push a reality TV show; a threesome of finance bros interested in name dropping and status; a food critic (Janet Mcteer) who has sunk many a career; and an aging couple of richies who can't even name a dish they had, despite dining at Hawthorne ten times. Fiennes is great as an insane celebrity chef, with his facial expressions reminding me of his villainous role as Lord Voldemort. I can't say too much more about The Menu without giving too much away. Let it suffice it to say that it's incredibly funny, and definitely worth seeing, especially if you've ever had a service industry job. A much better comedy thriller than Glass Onion.

Shadow Warrior 3 Review

 

Here's a little taste of the carnage.

The Shadow Warrior reboot series, developed by the Polish team at Flying Hog, is a strange one. From what I remember of the 2013 reboot, it was a good time, with some aimless level design. 2016's Shadow Warrior 2 was something of a let-down, with its procedurally-generated maps and Borderlands inspired lootfest. Shadow Warrior 3 is a straight up Doom Eternal clone, which makes me wonder if Flying Hog is pulling a meta-joke on us with the series. Is every sequel going to be a copy of another hit shooter? That being said, Shadow Warrior 3 is a really good Eternal clone. Just like Eternal, its enemies have weakspots, and there are climbable surfaces and grapple points to aid your movement as you run from its demonic hordes. The enemy designs are pretty cool. There's a zombie in a wheel chair that lays explosive eggs, multiple-armed samurai, and a giant ogre with a hammer for a left arm, a la Hellboy. There's even some suicide bomber demons that run at you while screaming, which is a nice reference to Series Sam. The early levels are beautiful, featuring a feudal Japan art style that really pops. Shadow Warrior 3 is an Unreal Engine 4 title, and it's pretty much on par with Doom Eternal in the looks department, although the later levels aren't as pretty as the opening ones. Unfortunately, there's a bit of a shader cache stutter, although it's really only bad the first ten minutes or so. Otherwise, it runs at a steady 144 frames per second at 1440p maxed on my RTX 3080 powered rig. In the humor department, Lo Wang is about as mature as ever. Most of his jokes suck, although I might have uttered a chuckle or two. His former god sidekick Hoji, however, is really annoying. His voice actor sounds like he's trying to pull off an impression of Heath Ledger's Joker, but the delivery is all wrong and too nasal. The story involves Lo Wang and former villain Zilla trying to save the world from a gigantic dragon, and while it's not compelling, I did watch the cutscenes with more interest than I did those in Doom Eternal. Shadow Warrior 3 knows that it's a derivative shooter, and the fact that it breezes by in just under six hours makes sure that it doesn't overstay its welcome. Its worth a solid twenty or so bucks, but you can play it on Game Pass right now. I had a good time with it.

New Music: Don't Ask Me

 

I wrote this song about ten years ago after my wife asked me why I didn't write more songs about her. It's my go at a soul song. Probably one of my favorite compositions. Went with a more minimal arrangement than my initial go. The guitar solo is a good example of my style. Dirty, nasal-tone, plenty of bite, etc... Alright, I'm done complimenting myself, hah.

Apophenia Chapter Eleven

 

I go to the show on Friday night, arriving at Bohemians around ten-thirty wearing a black dress and high heels that I purchased the day before from a boutique at the mall. The Conans tell me that I look good; they are honest men, whatever their other failings, and although I don’t need their confirmation, it feels good to receive it. The dress and heels are not for Chad Arroyo, nor for any member of the Part-time Poets, but no one needs to know that. Bohemians is teeming with life, some of it having devolved into lower species of living, judging from the tattooed, pale flesh on display and the stench of clove cigarettes. It’s a hippy/hipster place, full of beanpole men clad in beanies and skinny-jeans, and similarly dressed women with pixie cuts. I dive through a cloud of marijuana smoke and emerge at the bar, where I order a Jack and coke. The lighting is soft and blue, the crowds huddled together, isolated, the music on the sound system anti-folk. I let something out of my chest in one long, drawn-out breath, my eyes closed. When I open them I see the Berry Eater watching me. He’s standing alone in a corner, wearing black like me, hair uncharacteristically combed and slicked back. I raise my eyebrows at him, and he looks away. He holds a Styrofoam coffee cup, his eyes huge in the dim blue light, and as I stare he moves suddenly, lurching forward and sitting himself next to me at the bar.

"A nice night for making romance," I say.

"You don’t want to talk to me," he says, looking down at the bar. "The girl over there didn’t want to talk to me."

"Which one?" I ask, looking down the bar. "That Tinkerbell look-alike with the big-rimmed glasses? What are you doing talking to manic pixie dream girls? They aren’t real, you know."

"She’s hypergamous. She’ll only sleep with someone of a higher social standing."

"I don’t think you’re right about that one. She looks like she’ll sleep with anybody who’ll buy her a drink."

He laughs, shakes his head, mumbles something, and takes a drink of his coffee. I notice he has a hair growing out of the side of his cheek, a curling, twisting follicle that seems to spiral into nothingness.

"Every time I see a girl like that walking down the street with some loser, I fill up with rage inside," he says, tapping his fingers on the bar surface.

"That’s not healthy," I respond.

"Feminism isn’t healthy. Male oppression isn’t healthy. Fucking a bunch of guys isn’t healthy."

"Well then, don’t fuck a bunch of guys," I tell him.

"Hah, that’s funny. What if I slapped you? Would that be funny?"

"How does a two-inch heel through one of your eye sockets sound? Because that would be the result," I threaten, looking him in the eyes. He’s inexplicably angry, his eyes showing it, their centers dark holes feeding red spider webs.

"You’re a misandrist or a slut, I can’t decide which. Maybe both," he says, getting up from the stool and walking toward the exit. I watch as he spills his coffee all over a couple’s booth, inciting shouts and curses, people yelling at him as he scrambles through the doorway, vanishing into the night.

"Who was that jerk?" says Chad Arroyo, appearing beside me. "You look nice."

"That was the berry-eater. And yes. I do look nice. What are you going for with that suit?" He’s wearing a purple crushed velvet number with a top hat, like something the Mad Hatter would wear.

"I’m looking to approximate the appearance of a colorful gentlemen at ease with himself and the world."

"You ditch the top hat and it doesn’t look bad."

"You’re a fount of wisdom, Leona," he says, placing the top hat upon my head. "Sound check is coming up. We’re all wearing colored suits. I picked purple for its royal connotations, and also because I dig Prince."

"Because you are also short and androgynous?"

"He’s a funky craftsman who can really burn it on guitar when he wants to. An 'auteur' as the French would say."

"No one cares about the French," I respond.

"Everyone loves the French," says Chad. "Thanks for coming. Looks like we have a pretty good crowd."

"So on a scale from one to ten, how terrible is your band going to be?"

"A five? I dunno. You know what Gibbons says. Art is subjective."

"It is not. Everything has rules, Chad. Everything has patterns which are discernible. That’s what my customers tell me. The crazy ones."

"Your customers?"

"Knock ‘em dead," I say, slapping him on the back. He retreats to the stage, putting on a guitar, a baby-blue telecaster covered in electrical tape. I’ve always loved electric guitars, despite my inability to play them. The sleek shape, the curves, the signs of wear and tear, the once bright primary colors faded from strumming hands and marred by sweat and blood—can there be a more intimate instrument? A guitar is an extension of one’s personality, one’s habits and cares. A generic mass-produced instrument like Chad’s telecaster becomes unique with every gig and every piece of electrical tape. His guitar tells me he’s a nostalgic fellow (the baby blue) who isn’t sure what he wants to do artistically (the ugly crisscrossing of tape). He wears it high on his chest, not low by his knees. He looks square up there, with his boxy hair and nervous grin, like a kid performing at a talent show. It’s endearing, and I find myself rooting for him. Maybe he’ll make it, this kid. Maybe the Part-time Poets are destined for great things.

The singer Reggie comes out on stage, impossibly thin and manic, his eyes inflamed, spittle already forming at the corners of his mouth. I order another Jack and coke, knowing that this is going to be an ordeal. Reggie starts mouthing into the microphone, making orgasmic noises, thrusting his thin hips and sucking in his stomach like he’s about to vomit. The guitarists play, shards of chords coming out of the amplifiers jagged and broken, and when the drummer starts a primal beat I still haven’t figured out if the sound check has ended or if this cacophony is their first song. "Another," I tell the bartender, handing him a twenty. He closes my tab, and I retire to a booth in the back, far away from the Part-time Poets and their rambling chaos.

It takes about an hour for them to finish their set, and I find myself enjoying a few of their songs, probably due to the three Jack and cokes I consume, indie art rock not being one of my favorite genres. The berry-eater never reenters the bar, though his shadow hangs over the entire evening. Soon after they finish, Chad approaches, two beers in his hands, his face dripping sweat, his purple crushed velvet suit damp and likely suffocating.

"So how were we?" he asks.

"I didn’t walk out of the bar," I answer.

"That good, huh?"

"I think you accomplished exactly what you wanted to," I say. "The hipsters were entertained, and really, as long as they’re happy, who cares about the rest of us?"

"I care," says Chad, sitting next to me and pushing forward a beer. "Here, a little reward. An IPA with double hops. It should cure all that ales you, hah."

I take a drink and make a bitter beer face.

"This is about the sourest thing I’ve ever tasted. My palate developed on Old Milwaukee’s Best and Miller High Life. This is a system shock," I explain.

"Great game by the way. A true classic."

"I’m assuming you’re referring to a video game. I don’t play many video games."

"Get with the times, Leona. Everyone plays video games. Even girls," he says.

"I do cooler things, like go to strip clubs." Ah, there it is. This is why I’ve put myself through the Part-time Poets. I want to gather all of my eggs together in one grimy basket.

Chad raises a bushy eyebrow. "You’re going tonight? To see your stripper friend?"

"That’s right. My roommates are going as well."

"You have roommates?"

"Two bodybuilders named Dave and Arnold. They’re a pair of characters. Brutish, slovenly, utterly charmless folk. Definitely not your kind of people."

"Your life is more bizarre than I imagined. I want to go."

"You don’t seem the strip club frequenting sort."

"Because I don’t look like a Neanderthal?" he asks, gesturing toward his clownish getup.

"Because you look like you’d be embarrassed to get a boner, though that velvet is kind of pimpish," I admit.

"Look, Leona, either I hang out here with the other hipsters and listen to them tell me how I can improve my band, or I go back to my apartment, smoke a bowl, and eat a box of Cap ‘n Crunch. Those are my options at this point." He puts his hand out on the table, looking me in the eyes, his helmet-like hair adjusting itself like a sentient being. "Or, if a certain lady is most gracious, she’ll invite me out with her and her crew to participate in reinforcing the patriarchy."

"Christ, if you talk like that, they’ll eat you alive."

"I kid, I kid. That last comment was said because it was something you’d expect me to say, and I wouldn’t want to fail to meet Leona Chaney’s great expectations."

"I could punch you in the throat again," I suggest.

"That was really mean."

"I know." I shrug my shoulders, nod toward the door, and Chad and I depart for Cans.

Apophenia Chapter Ten

 

The Conan brothers are tanning in their front yard. Both of them are wearing Speedos, their faces down, the murky light of the sun bronzing their hides a golden brown like meat on a roaster. Arnold has sunglasses on; his breathing is slow and relaxed, a great beast slumbering in his den. I pick up a rock on the sidewalk and beam him on the ass, and he barely twitches. Dave’s golden mop mixes with the browning grass. The Conans can never keep their lawn alive. They perform too much bullshit on it.

"The one, the only, the Leona Chaney," says Arnold, his voice a rumbling purr. "The queen broad to rule them all. The attitude. The chip on the shoulder. The ass that can’t be ignored. Even Dave looks, and as we are all aware, Dave is damn-near impotent. She’d turn a queer man straight, and then back again. How are things in the world of Leona? Is everything fine and dandy? Right as rain?"

"Things suck," I say, plopping down on the brown grass beside the tanning bodybuilders.

"I’ve heard a rumor that there is a very special poo residing in your toilet," mumbles Dave, still resting face down.

"A religious poo. A poo of knowledge," continues Arnold.

"An idiot scheme by my mother’s boyfriend. He wants a priest to bless it and declare it a miracle. He thinks he can make money, charge people admission to see it." I shake my head and lie down like the Conans.

"To make money off of shit," says Arnold. "That would be an accomplishment."

"Certainly a challenge," responds Dave. "Does it really look like Jesus?"

"If you use your imagination," I admit. "I’m not even religious, and I find the very idea blasphemous. I don’t want to go home. I feel like that house will be swallowed by a sinkhole or struck multiple times by lightning.

"God is dead, and no one cares," says Dave.

"Can it with that Goth shit," say Arnold. "Do you remember when Dave wore eyeliner in high school? He was a mopey motherfucker. Listening to the Cure and Bauhaus. All those records are stacked in the basement along with his stormtrooper boots."

"We all go through stages," I say.

"You can always live with us," says Dave.

"Yeah, this place needs a woman’s touch," says Arnold. "And I don’t mean that in a sexist way. The house smells like the asshole of a truck stop tramp. We need someone who reeks of flowers and perfume to counteract our stench. Someone who might rearrange some messes. Clean some dishes. Make a sandwich or two if needed."

"You’re really selling the place," I say.

"I do my best, twenty percent of the time," responds Arnold.

"Youth is its own aphrodisiac," murmurs Dave.

"Huh?" says Arnold.

"Where’d you get that line?" I ask.

"I read it in a book that I found in a garbage can. Hitler’s Beard or something."

"Stalin’s Mustache?"

"That’s it. It’s full of some trippy poems."

"I told you he was a gloomy bastard," says Arnold. "What are you doing reading poetry?"

"I like it," says Dave.

"Do you like smelling daisies and wearing pink underpants? Do I need to get you some bath salts for your bubble bath?"

"Might be good for the skin," responds Dave.

"One of my professors wrote that," I explain. "One of Gibbons’ better lines. I guess a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while." I pull up some brown grass and throw it to the wind.

"I shot a squirrel the other day. Hit it right between the eyes with a .22. Dave skinned it and we had ourselves a squirrel snack. Not a lot of meat on a squirrel. Stuff is really high in protein, though. Three ounces has about twenty-six grams of protein. I don’t really feel like I’ve eaten until I’ve had at least sixty grams of protein during a meal," says Arnold. "But squirrels are free meat."

"What about rats?" I ask.

"Or dogs?" says Dave. "Lots of cultures eat dogs."

"Barbarous cultures, and usually I’d mean that as a compliment," responds Arnold. "The more barbarous the better. But dogs have too much personality. I’d rather eat a human than a dog."

"Sausage is one of his favorite dishes," says Dave. "Man-meat."

"Look who’s the hillbilly bigot. This is the twenty-first century, motherfucker. I’ll do what I’ll do," responds Arnold.

"Are you gay?" I ask.

"Shit, do I look gay?" says Arnold, flexing his biceps.

"In your Speedo, greased up, sun tanning? Very much so," I say.

"I’m like a one or maybe a two on the Kinsey scale. I’m hypersexual. Anything’s game in the bedroom. If she wants to bring her boyfriend, the more the merrier. Was Alexander the Great gay? The guy conquered most of the known world. I’m not effeminate, if that’s what you mean. I don’t have a lisp, I don’t act like a little princess. I’m an alpha male, and that means I’ll fuck whomever and whatever I want to. I don’t adhere to society’s binary sexual classification system."

"He’s a little queer," says Dave.

"You’re a little queer, with your poems and shit," says Arnold.

"I’m sensitive. I pay attention to the details that you miss," responds Dave.

"Maybe you and your discerning eye should come over and take a look at the poo," I tell him. "Convince them that it’s a fake."

"I’ve never been over to your house before," says Dave, looking at me uncertainly.

"If Dave goes, then I must come," says Arnold. "I would love to see where the queen broad makes her residence."

"It’s a trailer, and it’s nothing special. You guys want to come, fine. Let’s go. I hope you like spaghetti."

"We don’t eat carbs," says Dave.

"We have off days. Maybe today is an off day," says Arnold.

"Well, put some clothes on," I say, getting up. "My mother has enough ammunition for bitching. I don’t need her complaining about my bringing home two naked muscle men."

"Who’d complain?" says Arnold. "Most would be grateful."

"Put a shirt on, you exhibitionists," I say. They vanish into their black hole of a dwelling and emerge just seconds later, each wearing bicycle shorts and sleeveless shirts with gaping arm holes.

"You threw on the first thing you saw, didn’t you?" I ask them. They nod, in sync with each other like automatons. We depart.

…

The Conans look like a circus act inside my mother’s cramped trailer, each of them squeezing their wide shoulders together in an effort to avoid knocking over Mom’s ubiquitous piles of clutter. They look sheepish, embarrassed even, sort of like puppies who don’t know what, exactly, they are doing wrong. Mother, contrary to expectations, fawns over them, oohing and aahing over their physiques, asking about exercise recommendations for weight loss and making them heaping plates of spaghetti without even asking if they are staying for dinner. I watch all of this unfold with silent amusement. Mother doesn’t ask how I know them or why they came over. She doesn’t look at me at all, hardly. The peacefulness of the scene ends suddenly as Diesel announces himself with a roar, rushing into the room, swinging his fists at Dave, his little hands bouncing off the bodybuilder’s quadriceps. Dave puts out a hand and grasps the top of my brother’s head and holds him out of reach. His fists cut through the air harmlessly, though his cursing increases, and spittle flies from his venomous lips.

"Diesel! Behave yourself! These are guests!" says Mom.

"Leona’s stupid boyfriends! We don’t need ‘em! They’re not invited!" he yells.

"Diesel, these are weightlifters. They could crush your little monkey skull with very little effort. Dave, what can you bench press?" I ask.

"Four-o-five," says Dave.

"More like three-ninety," says Arnold.

"That’s over three times your weight, Diesel. Maybe you shouldn’t hit strangers," I tell him.

"I’ll hit who I want!" says Diesel. He’s wearing those damn Captain America underpants that nobody can seem to keep off of him.

"Hey, I got a pair just like that," says Arnold. "I only put them on for the ladies."

"Fuck you," says Diesel before pulling down said briefs and mooning the lot of us. I give him a hard kick right in the naked ass, which sends him sprawling into a tower of boxes. Mother yells; Diesel starts making an ear-splitting noise that’s in between a cry and a scream, while I usher the Conans into the living room. My brother is inconsolable; his anguish and pain reverberate throughout the cramped dwelling, his utterances reaching a crescendo, then breaking up into sobs. The Conans look even more embarrassed, though I’m not, for some reason. I gather them together and point toward the bathroom.

"As predicted, all hell has broken loose. Diesel won’t shut up now, and Mom would be eviscerating me if not for the presence of you two. You want to see the holy poo? There it lies, within the tight confines of that bathroom." I open the door and beckon them inside.

"Yeah, that looks like Jesus," says Arnold.

"It’s uncanny, really," says Dave. "Though there will be doubters."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"How do we know you didn’t sculpt the poo into looking like our lord and savior?" says Dave.

"What do you mean ‘our lord and savior’? You’re not religious," says Arnold. "Religious men don’t masturbate four times a day."

"I consider myself a Deist. I’m simply using a common phrase."

"God, you’re full of shit, Dave," says Arnold. "It should be your face on that poo."

"My face looks like your face," says Dave.

"So you’re saying, gentlemen, that there’s no way to prove that this so-called ‘miracle’ isn’t a fake?" I ask.

"Any miracle requires a certain amount of faith. Though, I’m not sure what this is," says Dave.

"A miraculous bowel movement, that’s for sure. Who’d this thing come out of?" asks Arnold.

"My mother," I respond. The Conans exchange a look. I feel a stabbing pain in my left calf muscle and look down to see a pencil emerging from it. My brother stands a distance away, his features distorted into a bat-like scowl. His chest is smeared with pasta sauce, a streak of red overshadowing his brow like war paint. He flexes his tiny arms, grits his teeth, and then picks up a handful of spaghetti from the plate beside his feet.

"You little bastard," I say, pulling the pencil from my muscle. "I’m going to kill you."

"Don’t even think about it, little dude," says Arnold.

"You’re a penis," says Diesel, before flinging the spaghetti. The noodles land with a sickening smack right on Arnold’s chest, sauce splattering all over Dave and me, red specks dotting the walls. Arnold leaps forward, seizes my brother in his arms, flips him upside down while the nearly naked hooligan screams and thrashes about like a banshee, his little hands grasping and clawing at anything they can reach. He latches on to the carpet for approximately three seconds before Arnold pulls him loose and drags him toward the toilet. I know what he is planning; he’s going to dangle Diesel above the precious feces and threaten (I hope) to plunge his gargoyle head into the foul waters. Mother’s in the room now; she sees Arnold hauling her little boy to the bathroom and starts screaming. I do nothing to stop the chaos. Dave stands and watches, but a look of satisfaction and anticipation crosses his normally stoic visage.

"What the hell’s going on here?" says Dale. We all stop our ruckus and stare at the mulleted man coming through the doorway. He’s wearing a jean jacket, a cigarette smoldering in his mouth, a leathery expression on his gnarled face.

"Little dude needs to be taught a lesson," says Arnold, gesturing at his spaghetti-stained chest.

"Well you ain’t his daddy, and you ain’t doing nothing with that poo in there," says Dale. He pulls back his jacket to display a Bowie knife hooked to his hip. Arnold drops Diesel on his head and takes a step forward, his fists balling up, Dave moving to his side. I don’t want to see one of the Conans gutted, nor do I want to see Dale pulled apart by the surviving brother, so I do my best to diffuse the situation.

"Gentlemen, let’s throw down arms, shall we?" I say, stepping in between the two parties. "No one’s stabbing anybody. The poo is untouched, Diesel unharmed. The little varmint is to blame, to be sure, but he’s just an idiot child. All the teachers say so. Dave and Arnold and I were just about to leave, isn’t that right, boys? We’re going to let bygones be bygones."

"Leona, don’t you go off with those two," says my mother. "You don’t need to be seeing two men. It ain't decent."

"I’m not seeing anybody, Mother, and believe me, the irony of you commenting on my sex life is noted," I respond, incensed. The presence of Dale, my mother's hypocrisy, and Diesel's general shittiness have rendered me irate. "All the sex is drained out of me from work. You know that erotic shop, Les Adultes? I work there. I’m a phone sex call-girl. I satisfy the desires of depressed, perverted men. That’s how I pay my way through college. That’s how I make my daily bread. And there's nothing wrong with that."

"Are you Jasmine?" asks Dale. "I thought I recognized that voice."

"No fucking way," say the Conans, simultaneously.

"Leona Chaney, you can just get the hell out of here," says my mother. "I won’t have that sort of indecency in my house. You come back when you’re clean."

"I’m not a drug addict, Mother. Have fun selling your blasphemous feces. Let’s go," I say, smacking the Conans, kicking clutter out of my way. I stomp out, not a single possession in my arms. From a distance the trailer looks sad to see me go, only two lights on, mournful eyes, haunted and blinking back tears. The boys don't say a thing. The possibility that I have made a mistake doesn't cross my mind.

Apophenia Chapter Nine

Candy meets me outside during my break. We chat, exchange cigarettes, offer each other little stories that we’ve stolen from other lives lived poorly, just like our own. I have a flask in my jacket; I give it to her and she takes a long drink. It’s cold and rainy, like the sun has never existed, and we can’t see much besides the steam clouds emitting from our opened mouths. Her lipstick is a dark red like fresh blood. She’s wrapped in a big faux fur coat, and we huddle beneath the overhang, unable to go back to work. Leslie eyes us from the window, his bushy eyebrows arching briefly in consternation before collapsing in resignation. It is final; we will have our lengthy break. No one is coming into Les Adultes or Cans. Candy says she has to get back to work eventually, but would I come and see the club? She acts like she’s trying to hire me. I rush inside and ask Leslie, and he says ten minutes, or he’ll start answering the phones and dealing with the weirdos. He is such a kind-hearted dictator, a character out of one of Gibbons’ deranged poems.

There is a large bouncer at the door, as predicted. He’s tall but grotesquely fat, his brow wrinkling in numerous folds, his eyes little porcine lights moving sluggishly within their caves. Floyd is the name I am given; I shake hands and venture down the maroon carpet walkway to the spacious area where the stage is. A few sad-looking patrons sip overpriced drinks and stare at a chubby girl wriggling inside a hula-hoop. She’s limber despite the extra weight, more limber than me, her bob haircut moving as a unit with every calculated gyration, a snake tattoo writhing on the bottom of her stomach, just above her thong. Instead of backstage, where I expected Candy to take me, we sit down at a booth and watch. Neither of us says anything for several minutes; I fight the desire to check the time. The lighting cycles between a soft purple and a soft blue. The flask appears on the table, and Candy takes a sip.

"I saw your porn," I tell her.

"What did you think?" she asks.

"Solid stuff. I'd give it an A plus." A little flattery never hurt.

"So how do you grade porn?" asks Candy.

"The sincerity of the actors. Their commitment to the scene. A shared artistic vision. The same as anything else." I take the flask back and swallow some Jim Beam.

"What if they're just thinking of making money?" asks Candy.

"Does it matter? Art is art, no matter how self-aware the creators of said art are. That’s what my professor would say, at least." Jesus, it's as though Gibbons has possessed me.

"There’s a professor who comes in every Tuesday. One of the girls pointed him out. Wears a lot of tweed. Has a thick white beard, heavy set figure," says Candy.

"Kind of like Hemingway?" I ask.

"Was he a writer?" asks Candy.

"Yeah," I reply. "A pretty good one."

"What makes a good writer?" she asks.

"A lack of faith in their fellow man. A drinking problem. An eighth grade proficiency with grammar. The desire to be heard without screaming one’s head off. I dunno." The hula-hoop dancer has finished to little applause and no cat-calls. Candy shrugs and slides out of the booth.

"Our time is up," she says. "We have to get back to work."

"Are you drunk?" I ask.

"Not enough."

I stand up next to her, smelling her peach-scented perfume. She wants to kiss me, I can tell, her eyes say it. Her soft hand touches mine, and I feel dizzy, the whiskey kicking like a mule.

"Why don’t you come by on Friday? Stop by after work. You can see me up there. There won’t be any hula-hoops."

"I can’t. I have to go to a show," I find myself saying, incredulously.

"Maybe come by after. This place is open late, you know."

"What’s going on here?" I ask, my face forming a half-smile.

"You’re a pretty girl, Leona. I’ll see you later."

…

I take the caller’s info and everything checks out. Then I hear my name spoken into the receiver.

"Leona," he says.

"This is Jasmine," I reply, not missing a beat. "What’s your pleasure, big boy?"

"I was going to guess ‘Leona’ before you hung up on me. We were talking about patterns, remember? Why do we try to find truth in meaningless data? We’re inundated by ones and zeros, assaulted by trigonometry through the airwaves, and yet we scatter innards on the ground, looking to augury and other perverse forms of divination. This is how we deal with our inability to comprehend our own existence. We swallow data; we bathe in it. We produce it and regurgitate it and then decipher what we will. Do we create our own luck, my dear? Those gas station lottery cards you purchase, what are you trying to buy? What patterns do you see in the lotto numbers flashing across your bunny-eared tv screen? Do you listen to hymns at night, your headphones cupping your exquisite ears? I watch and watch and listen and listen, and I hear glorious things in the monorhythmic music of your breathing. Those handprints on your windows are created by gloved fingers. Remember, please: this is time that I have purchased, and so you must listen. I get what I pay for, you understand. You prostitute yourself, Leona. You put on a harsh face and fill the air with your quips, you slouch and meander through the halls of your school, yet you run from home to this pathetic little smut-house to answer the desires of strangers, men of filth, men of lust, men of anger. Let’s not use the false name. Let’s admit what we are, all right? You are the stripper across the street, the walking pair of legs and tits. You’re meat, you understand? You fire synapses with your words and create images in the diseased heads of sick men. Words aren’t just words, Leona. What you say and think can be used against you. We each have our own court of law, and we must abide by those laws, else we are no better than beasts. You are guilty, my dear. You are guilty by the very nature of your sex. God made you from the rib bone of man. You sinned, and then we sinned, so who is ultimately at fault? I am not. He is not. She is. You are."

"Listen, buddy, I have your information," I say into the phone, my voice calm and collected. "I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them you’re stalking me."

"You think my name is really Robert Heinlein? Names and credit card numbers are just data. Little things that can be stolen or rearranged. People are data, Leona. Jasmine is data. Leona and Jasmine can be rearranged, stolen, misplaced, dissected and reassembled. There’s a pattern in every human being just waiting to be found. I’ve found your wayward ambitions, dredged from the depths of a trailer park existence. But you’re not being honest, Leona, you know that, right? Honesty is the key. Honesty makes a square peg fit into a round hole. You can bludgeon someone to death with honesty. I guarantee it. Some say that there is nothing but life and death. I think there is nothing but information trying to find a meaning. Most people have no meaning. They are no better than a credit card number. I don’t want you to become one of those people, Leona, which is why I am calling. I am watching. I am waiting. I am looking for a change, and if there is not one to my liking, mark my words, there will be dire consequences. I will be with you on your wedding night. That is all."

The line dies, and I get up and walk out the door. Leslie doesn’t notice; he’s sleeping in his chair, his bushy eyebrows twitching with the passage of dreams. He’s like a dog, Leslie, a big, Stalinesque mutt. I lock the door behind me and run out onto the street. As I walk, I keep looking around me, searching for any sign of the caller. There is no one on the streets; all is calm, dark and cold. The wind picks up and rustles my hair. Newspapers dance down the pavement. All of my steps seem to have echoes. Inside my purse is a butterfly knife, a present from my father, which lets you know what kind of man he was. I fumble around until I find it, and I’m surprised to discover that I’m shaking. Just another weirdo. That’s all. They’re my customer base; without them, I wouldn’t be going to college. I understand them, sometimes, or at least, I empathize with them. They’re just people like you and me. These thoughts do little to temper my trembling. A mad thought tells me to run as fast as I can. I look behind me and see what looks like a face peering around the corner. "Shit," I say, and take off, my legs pumping hard. I run for five blocks before I slow down. There is no one behind me.

Apophenia

 

A wrote a novel years ago called Apophenia that was, of course, never published. And so, like much of my writing, it was discarded in my google docs folder to rot. I have a habit of going through my creative projects every so often to see if there's anything that merits another look, and so I started reading Apophenia and it's pretty gosh darn good, if I do say so myself. My main character, Leona Chaney, is a smart-mouthed, cynical misanthrope, and I enjoy reading her dissertations on the absurdity of her circumstances. It's like I cut a piece of myself off and let it grow and ferment into something new. In all the years I've attempted to write, I've never constructed a character like her. So I've decided to upload half of her adventure to my blog, as well as make an Amazon ebook of the novel, though who knows when I'll get around to it.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

New Music: I Never Know What I Want

 

The riff to this song might date back to high school. I know the mostly-nonsense lyrics reference the Dharma Bums, which I read in my freshman year of university. The song is an attempt at a Journey-like arena rocker. It's kind of hard to pull that off in a cheap lo-fi recording setup, but I give it a go. What I would give for a drummer! That's it, it's decided. One of my kids is going to become a drummer.

The Esteemed Critic Reviews Nope, Raimi Spider-Man Trilogy, the Amazing Spider-Man 2

Jordon Peele's Nope is a movie about spectacle and how we tend to mine it for fortune and fame instead of considering the repercussions. A down on his luck Hollywood horse trainer named OJ (yes, Peele named him that on purpose) and his sister try to prove the existence of a UFO that's abducting their horses. They get more than they bargained for, of course; Peele expertly skirts convention and delivers a twist worthy of Hitchcock, while still horrifying the audience and appealing to their sense of wonder. One of the scariest scenes involves a flashback from the perspective of former child star Ricky, who survives a murderous chimpanzee attack while filming a sit-com. Ricky has never quite dealt with his trauma; he's built a museum to his acting career and entertains internet sensationalists who pay him cash to spend a night surrounded by the mementos of the chimp's rampage. Ricky, of course, makes a bad decision and pays for it. Unlike OJ, who is a horse trainer and therefore understand animals, Ricky thinks that because he survived a dangerous animal encounter, he can handle otherworldly forces. Nope has the kind of internal logic and layered thematic approach critics love. Really, there's nothing to criticize here. See Nope. Along with Get Out, it's one of the best sci-fi horror movies made in the last decade.

Sam Raimi's Spider-Man trilogy is refreshingly earnest and visually-distinctive when viewed through a post-MCU lens. The director's campy aesthetic enhances the material instead of rendering it a joke, a la Waitiki's Thor: Love and Thunder. These movies are also perfectly cast; Tobey Maguire captures Peter Parker's wholesome nerdiness while Kirsten Dunst plays the relatable girl-next-door. Dafoe, Molina, and Church embody the definitive versions of their famous villains, and even canceled James Franco manages to charm as himbo Harry Osborn. There's no post-credit scene, no cinematic universe to push, just a series of movies made to entertain. Of course, Sony was already moving beyond this old fashioned approach with the reboot series featuring Andrew Garfield as Spidey. Less campy, more contemporary in tone, and engineered to imitate Marvel's never-ending churn, The Amazing Spider-Man 2 nevertheless makes some of the same mistakes as Raimi's Spider-Man 3. Too much time is spent setting up future films; too many villains hog the screen; the plot meanders and doesn't quite recover. I liked the cast, however; Maguire might be the best Peter, but Garfield embodies Spider-Man's cocky kid from Queens charm, and there's real chemistry between him and Emma Stone's Gwen Stacy. A third sequel might have featured the Sinister Six, but Sony elected to hop on the Marvel bandwagon and the inevitable gravy train of cash such a union would produce. The Tom Holland films are okay, but they have the same bland sensibilities of every disposable MCU flick, and the supporting cast doesn't match the previous Spider-Man films. Spider-Man was always a property, but he's more so now, just another toy in the vast Disney pantheon of captured licenses. At least he was a character in the earlier films.