Am I write?

Writing sucks. It’s a chore. It’s frustrating. It’s work. I would much rather be pal-ing around with my friends, or eating cookies in bed, or doing some sort of adventure sport, or drinking beers, or wearing a turtleneck. So why do I write?

For the finished product of course. It’s not about the journey. F the journey. The journey hurts my back and my eyes. Why do women get pregnant? Not for the pregnancy. I’m told those are unpleasant. They get pregnant because they want a baby. Well me too. I’m not the nuturing type, and a pregnancy would really ruin my figure, so i’m not about to get knocked up with a real baby, but a word-baby, I can carry that to term no problem.

Humans have an insatiable drive to create. I am human. Therefore, I have an insatiable drive to create. Artists create art. Musicians create music. Architects, buildings. My fingers are too clumsy for art, my ears, too unrefined for music. I could possibly be a passable architect, but I was once  told that most newly trained architects work in a firm as an assistant to the master. I like to be in charge, so architecture is out. Word-smithing though, that I can do.

Building a piece of literature, no matter whether it is a fictional story, or a letter to a business colleague, or an instructional manual containing proper procedures for scripting C++ programming algorithms, involves a certain flow. It is not unlike solving a complex math problem. You add and subtract until you finally achieve a balanced equation where all your sums add up, and when you are done, entropy has been avoided for one more day, and the universe can continue to exist without dissolving into atomic chaos. All that, just from writing something down.

I write to become immortal. I think this is the reason for all creative endeavor. No matter what you make, be it a child, or a painting, or a story,  you do it because you know that your existence is fleeting, and you want to leave something of yourself behind. Tolkien and Zelazny are dead, yet I know them. I’ve met them. I still see them every time I open one of their books.

The more I write, the less I fear death, because I know I too may yet live forever. That’s why I’m sitting hunched uncomfortably at my desk right now, instead of playing video games in the living room or pounding weights at the gym or chasing the almighty dollar. Sweet muscles and a fat wallet are nice. Eternal life is better.

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On living in the Suburbs

As I sit here in my underwear, slowly merging into one sweaty unified mess of a creature with the leather sofa, borrowing an unidentified neighbor’s wireless internet, I must admit that there are pros and cons to living in a close-knit neighborhood like a suburb. The pros? People are close. The cons? People are close. Close enough to easily visit, close enough to steal internet from, but also close enough to accidently see me naked on at least six seperate occassions throughout an average day. Also, close enough to get all up in your business. Please, read a draft of the letter I just recently composed and placed in mailboxes up and down my road. I believe you will see what I mean.

Friends, I give you THE LETTER

(Place names have been erased on this internet version to protect our privacy. Whatever is left of it. Which isn’t much. Fucking Suburbs.)

Dear Neighbors,

Greetings from ___________! We are new to the block, and we thought it would be polite to introduce ourselves. We have been lucky enough to meet some of our neighbors in person already, and we have nothing but nice things to say about them, and this street. Everyone we have met has been very welcoming, and has really helped make our new house become
our new home. Good neighborhoods are like that, and we feel blessed to be able
to share yours. For those people who we have not had the good fortune of
meeting yet, please feel free to stop by and say hello at any time! Until our
paths cross however, we would love to tell you a little about ourselves.

Frank is the proud new owner of the house at ___; you probably noticed him moving in a couple months ago. For your reference, he drives the white Honda, and the beautiful black Yamaha motorcycle. He was only recently joined by myself (Max) and my lovely
girlfriend Marissa. I have been friends with Frank for many years, and when
recent career moves brought Marissa and I to the________ ________ area, and we
found that Frank had this wonderful new home that was just a little bit lonely,
we jumped on the opportunity to fix that problem for him. For further
reference, since it is always nice to put faces to names, I (Max) drive the
orange Chevrolet coupe, and the orange Suzuki motorcycle, and Marissa drives
the white Mercury sedan. She is also the girl. So that’s easy.

Like I said before, if we have not yet met, don’t be shy, we would love to! Also, if you ever need a hand with anything, a cup of sugar, or even an emergency roll of toilet paper,
don’t hesitate to ask! We want to be the good neighbors that you deserve.  Also, since we are new to the art of home ownership, and we may unknowingly break some unwritten code of suburban life, PLEASE LET US KNOW IF SOMETHING WE ARE DOING IS BOTHERING YOU IN ANY WAY.

I must stress this, because today Marissa got home from work, and received a fright when a couple police officers knocked on our door. They explained that a neighbor called them in regards to our cars being parked on the front lawn. That is just silly. Police
officers exist to respond to emergencies, and they do an excellent job, but their resources are finite, and calling them in regards to something as insignificant as cars parked non-traditionally is highly irresponsible. Especially when you could have just come
to us with your concerns instead.
Had you voiced your concerns to us, we
would have been able to explain that this arrangement is only temporary as we
complete work on our driveway, and the cars will soon return to their proper
place on pavement. We take pride in our property and our neighborhood; we are
simply in the middle of some needed upgrades to modernize our home. If you were
the person who called the police regarding this, please give us a call or stop
by. As neighbors, we value your opinion, and we would like to apologize for
offending you. Even if you were not the person who called the police, please,
please, please come to us first if there is anything bothering you. We will be
happy to listen. That is what friends do after all. And if you have no idea
what I’m talking about, since only one person felt upset enough about our
naughty, naughty yard-cars to involve the authorities, and it probably was not
you, all I have to say is hi! We are glad to be here, we love ___________, we
love ____________, and we can’t wait to meet you!

Respectfully yours,

Max, Marissa, and Frank

(___) ___ ____

 

 

Yeah, right around the end of the third paragraph is where that went sour, huh? All I can say is really? Really? I love our house, but living in the ‘burbs is a real adjustment for this rural boy. The vast majority of our neighbors appear to be at least 300 years old, probably have names like “Gertrude” and “Howard” and are bitterly waiting to die alone and forgotten.Oh, and also their grandchildren are probably hipsters. Vile creatures.

Where I grew up, my neighbors still had teeth, minded their own business, respected other people’s privacy, and were usually just coyotes or the Sasquatch. I have worked up a righteous rage, and I sincerely hope that whoever called the cops for this stupid shit finds the stones to tell me face to face. Because then they won’t have a face. I will have torn it off and taken to wearing it myself, a la buffalo Bill, or that texas chainsaw freak.

It puts the lotion on the skin.

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Max Tyson P.I. and the mystery of the Oriental Massage

“Is it a whorehouse?”

This is the question I have been asked nearly every day for the past few months, without fail. The reason being, a new business has taken up residence in the mini-mall across the street from my work, in what used to be an asian nail salon. The new tenants have covered all the windows and doors in plain white curtains, and nailed up an equally unadorned sign, (white with black lettering, typeface courier new, or some similarly generic font, all capitals) that reads simply “Oriental Massage”. Is it a whorehouse?

That’s not my first question. My first question is, are these actually new tenants? Or did the asian nail salon people simply decide to try their undersized rice-fed hands at something else, and trade their footbaths and emory boards for people-shaped tables and ky jelly? Related question, if yes, is there anything those people can’t do? So industrious.

Either way, to every single person on the face of the earth “Oriental Massage” is evidently synonymous with “You want sucky sucky?”. Are enough Oriental Massage parlors rub-and-tugs that they really deserve this rumor? Can it be validated? I have heard testimony from some people who know some people who work with people who have gotten their knobs polished at a similar establishment in whichever Springfield the Simpsons live in, but I have yet to meet someone who can personally say yes, this happens here. I go in and I pay a middle-aged asian lady with an annoying accent and a funky odor to rub on my johnson.

Is it a whorehouse indeed.

My answer…probably not. My reason being, i’ve never actually seen any customers go in. I feel like, if it were a happy ending type place, it would be busy, because hey, who doesn’t like a happy ending to the grand story that is massage? In the several months that they have been open, and I have been across the street wasting my life at work, staring at their heavily curtained windows, wishing one would fall down so I could see inside, or at least that the Zombies would finally get their act together and start their glorious rebellion so I don’t have to work anymore, the only person I have ever seen enter or exit the building is a small asian man, who I assume is the owner. He alone is entertaining enough, he usually steps outside to talk on his cell phone, or to just stand creepily for hours, but occasionally he brightens my day by doing something really  creepy, like practicing his tae kwon do in the parking lot, or jumping rope. Anything to pass the time as he moves toward financial ruin I suppose.

Honestly, they are being crippled by poor business decisions. Their first mistake was naming the place “Oriental Massage”. You need to rebrand that shitake. When your business’s name immediately makes people ask other people “Is that a whorehouse?” unless you are actually a whorehouse, that’s not good. The heavy curtains and ugly ass plain sign don’t help either. These, plus creepy owner/parking lot gargoyle dude don’t make for an inviting atmosphere, now do they? He can’t very well flag down passing cars and offer free samples either, like the asian folk annoy me with at the panda express at the mall. If I wanted your fried brown turd or whatever you’re selling, I would come up and buy it. Now leave me alone, i’m hungry for something that doesn’t look like you stole it from your neighbors dumpster. A pushy people, the asians. (broad generalizations are fun)

So, back to “Oriental Massage”. Since it doesn’t have any actual customer’s, it probably is not a happy ending type place. It’s kind of sad too, because they can easily get customers if they just renamed themselves. They can keep all the same workers, the interior can be exactly the same, even the exterior doesn’t need to change. Just the sign. If it said something like “Peaceful Rivers Day Spa” or basically anything in french, you know damn well people would be like, “Oh how lovely, I should treat myself and my loved ones to a spa day, spas are so fancy, and I do so need a massage, I wonder if they do deep tissue, or hot stone?” And then they would go in.

“Oriental Massage”, no matter if it is not what people assume it is, cheapens the neighborhood. A day spa on the other hand, how very posh. I can speak only for myself, and the billions of people like me, but I don’t know much about the quality of massages. Slap a fancy name on the place, maybe do some advertising in local media, throw up some stupid indoor water feature, and bam, no matter what they charged, i’d feel like I was getting my money’s worth. A massage is a wonderful thing, it makes a fellow feel luxurious and rich for twenty to thirty minutes. I’ve given gift certificates to loads of loved ones for massages at fancy sounding places, and they’ve always been highly appreciated. Is the massage quality really any different whether it is being given by Sven and Olga, or Kim and Li? Probably not. Once i’m on that table with someone kneading away up to their wrists in my back hair i’m a purring like a walrus.

Oh Oriental Massage. Your mystery runs as deep as the Mekong river. Perhaps I may never know your secrets. Lord knows i’m not going to be the first customer. Someone else should go in though. If they come across the street to my restaurant and tell me what it was like afterwards, i’ll buy them a slice of pizza.

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I am the one who is the person who likes to read the things that are these

You know I like to read, and if you’ve ever actually read any of the stories i’ve written, i’ll bet you can guess as to what exactly I like to read. Yep. Nerdy shit.

You would probably like to be the one who makes fun of me now. Unfortunately for you, I am the person who can probably kick your ass. It’s just not fair is it? A real life nerd, with iron fists of lightning rage sauce. Neener neener poo poo.

Now. Since you can’t stop me because i’m bigger than you, i’m going to tell you about some of my favorite nerdy books. This is not a comprehensive list, nor is it in any particular order. Basically, these are some books I can see on my bookshelf from where i’m sitting right now.

I just finished reading Terry Goodkind’s Sword of Truth series for the umpteenth time. Basically its 13, one billion page books about wizards, its a shameless copy of Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series, with the only difference being that it’s actually fun to read, instead of hideously boring. It does get preachy at times however. The bad guys are communist priests.

I’m also a huge fan of Glen Cook, and especially his Opus, the Annals of the Black Company, a series of gritty fantasy novels about a group of tough-as-nails mercenaries trying to come to grips with their long forgotten origins. These I like because they have all the best facets of a good fantasy story, you know blood, guts, and undying love, plus they talk about refreshingly real things like farts and boners.

Let’s see, Roger Zelazny is also a trip, his old Chronicles of Amber are defintely worth a look. Neil Gaiman is doing good things, as is James Lovegrove. There are more, but I can’t see them from here, and I grow bored with this diversion. I bid you good day.

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I’m sorry

There. I apologized. I said I would give you all a post a week, and a new  fictional story every month. This past month, I did not keep that promise. Sue me. (don’t actually sue me…i’m not sure if there are any actual legal grounds for litigation, but in case there are, and you’re feeling like calling your lawyer, it won’t be worth your time. I don’t have fancy things like money.)

Truthfully, I did not forget about my commitment to you, I have just been terribly busy. Marissa and I are moving (again), and although it is just to a nicer place fifteen minutes away, it is still a time and energy consuming process. Luckily, that process is wrapping up, and I can once again focus my energies on the good stuff, I.e. words, and their clever usage. Check out this assortment of words:

“Alastar Singh was a god-damned wizard.”

Now that’s a good sentence. You’re probably feeling pretty excited now, right? Don’t worry, you should be. That’s the first sentence of the new story I owe you. I’ll be working on it as much as possible because, after all, I want to know what happens too. It sounds fun.

For now, please allow me to tell you a brief story about something that happened to me recently. Non-fiction!? I know! I haven’t done that since the old Oregon blog, but that’s just because life in Oregon was interesting, and life in Connecticut is….not death. It does have its rare moments however, which can lead to experiences like this:

I saw a cow.

In its most elemental form, that’s the entire story. What I could further mention however is that the cow was a brown cow. It was also happily eating grass and weeds. Oh, and it was also in the center median of a busy highway.

Glorious.

I was on my motorcycle and I had a schedule to keep, so I couldn’t afford to really appreciate this event as much as I would have liked, but in the brief period of time between when I spied the cow, and when I passed it, I like to think I got a lifetime’s worth of enjoyment out of that experience.

The cow was on the far side of the Jersey barriers, so it  was of no real concern to my direction of traffic, and as such, there was no real back up of cars. The other side of the highway was stopped dead however, as some concerned citizens had left their vehicles and were attempting to herd the errant beast into a waiting…wait for it…..UPS truck. Yeah. What can brown do for you? Evidently it can transport runaway cows. After my initial chuckle at the entirely ludicrous scene I couldn’t help but wonder, how did that cow get there? From the looks of the grass in the area, it hadn’t been there long, it was just passing through and grabbing a snack on the way. But passing through from where? And to where? Where do lonely brown cows go when they have a free afternoon? How did it cross the highway to get to the center median to begin with? Did it play frogger with traffic? Did it fall out of a truck? Did it find a left exit or overpass somewhere and wander up on the shoulder? All I know for certain is that there was a definite mischievous glint in old Bessy’s eye. I’ve never seen a happier cow. And i’ve been to California.

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