A Patch of Gravel Alongside Route 19 A Quarter of a Mile from the 319 Junction in Stafford Is For Lovers!

Summer doldrums got you down? Tired of searching for the perfect family vacation spot? Not looking forward to spending those valuable weeks of free time in the same old boring way? Then why not put a smile on your family’s face this summer and take them to an earthly paradise that’s out of this world!

This summer, take a trip you and your family will never forget to. . .

A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD!!!!!


Commissioned in Connecticut in the summer of 1934, (at the same time a dashing young Adolph Hitler across the ocean was ordering the mass murder of his political opponents during the award-winning "Night of the Long Knives"), A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD provides travelers with a touch of rustic New England charm and a poignant reminder of the Holocaust which befell the Jewish people in WWII!


It's entertaining and educational!

Combine learning with leisure--all at your leisure! When it comes to work or play, business or pleasure, there’s no mutual exclusivity at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD!

Come for the tire-changing and child-reprimanding, but stay for the thistles and gravel!




What is there to do at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD?


A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD is conveniently located a quarter of a mile from the 319 junction in Stafford!!!

And if you don’t feel like driving, the yellow diamond-shaped road sign is only ten to fifteen feet away!!!



How far are you located from the man in the white coat fishing at the pond?


A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD is only a stone’s throw* away from the man in the white coat fishing at the pond. Please note during hours when the pond is frozen or his wife has called him to dinner, the man in the white coat may not be there. For the man in the white coat’s hours of availability, please visit www.apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319
junctioninstafford//maninthewhitecoatfishingavailability.html.org. **

*Please do not throw actual stones at the man in the white coat

**website under construction

How late are the yellow lines open along route 19?

If you’re looking for a little action to **spice up** the night-life, don’t worry: the yellow lines along Route 19 are open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week! We proudly offer a left yellow line and a right yellow line so you and your partner can paint the town red!

**asterisks, they don't mean anything. We just put them in there to spice up the words "spice up"

Is it true you can get AIDS just by having unprotected sex or sharing a needle with someone who is infected with the AIDS virus?

Anything’s possible at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD! What are you waiting for? Book your vacation today!


What a wonderful vacation! My nieces loved playing in the gravel!

--Ant: Laramie, WY



The staff was very accomodating at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD! Even though we were a large group and arrived unannounced, we felt just like part of the family!

--A Pile of Trash: Chicago, IL

My wife and I had an amazing time at your yellow lines! The food was out of this world!

Joseph and Mary Scavenger: Aerie, PA

www.apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319junctioninstafford.org

twitter us!

About The Author

Lofretta Blipboom is the first African-American woman. Despite her Hispanic/Latina heritage, she is proud to be a lesbian working hard for the equality of Filipinos. Last year, she was awarded the Asian-American Medal of The Pink Ribbon in honor of her achievements in the Islamic community of Northern Ireland. In addition to her efforts at removing guns from the hands of inner-city streets, she continues to work within the homosexually-gay Native American population of Pakistan through such programs as T.H.R.U.S.T. and P.E.E. in order to further the knowledge of abortions and the education of condoms.


Lofretta lives alone in Femur, OK with her three children: Dot, Feather, and Scalp. She divides her time between sleeping and waking, often confusing the two in a literary lucidity which she uses to great advantage in works such as Morgan's Wheel: How Freeman Redeemed Shawshank (1995) and the The Brown Escalator: Civil Rights in the Age of Multi-Floored Malls (1987)


Affirmative Hope is Lofretta's nineteenth book on the Inauguration of President Barack Obama. Her relentlessness in chronicling the minute-by-minute activities which led up to to the capturing, by a third camera, a few seconds before 10:17 a.m., on the morning of January 20th, 2009, of our 44th president's famous half-smile and head-tilt have earned her the moniker "The Chocolate James Joyce".


Lofretta is also a trustee of The Leni Riefenstahl Girls, a non-profit, female-run, racially-empowered, diversity-driven, multiculturally-fueled, rainbow-generated Fortune 500 company--dedicated to the conversion of black-and-white movies to black. Between books, she volunteers at the Po' Center, silkscreening Che Guevara images on camouflage T-shirts for disenfranchised rich white girls. On Tuesday afternoons, she hosts the popular NPR radio programme, Sanctimony Live.


In her spare time, Lofretta is a black nationalist, a black panther, an illegal immigrant, an employer of illegal immigrants, a highly-paid diversity seminar leader, a tenured race and gender-obsessed literature professor, a college girl in a keffiyeh, an exploding Palestinian, a Marxist, a death-row inmate, a militant dyke couple, and a writer and performer of numerous poems she's written about her pussy and her dick.


Bio written by Lofretta Blipboom

Hey Ladies, Who Wants To Make Love To A Drifter?

Hey ladies,

I'm just drifting through town. Checking out all the ladies. Ladies like you.

Oh me? I'm just a drifter. A long-haired drifter.

Thank you. I grew it myself. That's what happens when you drift.

Town after town, convenience store washroom after convenience store washroom, until that one day when you look in the dirty mirror and see how long your dirty hair has grown since you started drifting.

Mind if I smoke? What's that? Oh, it's a state law that you can't smoke under the awning even if you're outside?

No problem. I'll just step over to the side here. Hell, I've drifted all the way from California to New York, I suppose it wouldn't hurt me to drift a few more inches. There. How's that? Ooh, I like that. A much nicer view over here.

What's that? Why am I drifter?

Er. . .uh. . .nobody's really asked me that before. . .I, uh. . .

I drift because. . .

Because I'm a failure. It takes a success to put down roots. I've never been too successful at being a success. But I've never failed at being a failure. And when I feel that old feeling of failure crop up, no matter what city or town I may be in, all of a sudden the pretty girls and the big money starts to make my eyes hurt--the eyes of my heart, you understand--and I just have to get away and be alone in my traveling. Cause a man don't need to be crying in the presence of the pretty girls and the big money. Gives 'em both too much power. More than they already have.

So I guess you gotta get going? That's your boyfriend ringing on that skinny phone there? I completely understand. I guess I'll drift on over to the other side of the street. Maybe I'll drift on out of this town before the sun goes down. Sure was nice talking to you and all. . .

What's that? Oh, thank you. No, I'm glad you find me funny. That's what. . .well, I was going to say that's what I do. But really, it's not what I do--it's who I am. I'm just funny. I know I'm funny cause I'm so sad inside. I guess I already told you that I was a drifter and. . .

Anyway. . .So I understand if you gotta get to your boyfriend and all. . .oh, by the way, which way are you going to be walking? I'm asking cause I'm going to start drifting again here pretty soon and I don't want to drift in the same direction as you, cause you might think that I'm trying to drift with you. . .but I'm not.

I'm a drifter. I drift alone.

I hate to ask. . .but could you please stop laughing? Please? Don't you need to answer your skinny phone?

Okay, I'm drifting now. . .please stop laughing. . .please. . .

What's my name? I don't have a name. . .I'm a drifter. I can't be pinned down with a name. . .

It's Will. . .or Willy. . .or William. . .now would you please let me go away before I have to face my inferiorities?

Listen, you don't need me. . .you have to trust me on this. . .I'm atoning for my sins, I'm living out my karma, I'm making restitution. . .whatever you want to call it, that's what I'm doing. . .now, please let me drift. . .let me drift away. . .

Goddamnit! Stop laughing! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND? I THOUGHT I HAD IT FIGURED OUT AND I DIDN'T! LIFE WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE THIS DIFFICULT! I THOUGHT I DESERVED THE BRASS RING, BUT THE BRASS RING HURTS TO LOOK AT! IT'S LIKE STARING AT THE SUN!

THERE IT IS! SPEAK OF THE DEVIL! THE SUN'S GOING DOWN! AND I'M STILL HERE!

YOU GOTTA LET ME DRIFT. . .LET ME DRIFT. . .THE SUN'S GOING DOWN AND I'M STILL IN THIS TOWN. . .

NOW GET AWAY FROM ME!

You're just a fiction. . .I know that. . .

I know what fiction is. . .I live it.

But it sure felt good to write you. . .

. . .I'm going to drift on now. . .

. . .away. . .

. . .alone. . .

Why I Believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the Best Shampoo

INTRODUCTION (ROUGH DRAFT):

In our society today, there are many different shampoo brands. There are even more shampoo bottles. Sometimes you will see many bottles of the same brand. This happens a lot in the store when you buy a bottle of shampoo. For example, when you take a bottle of shampoo off the shelf--surprise!--there is another bottle right behind it that is exactly the same. Well, not exactly. The one in your hand is in your hand and the one on the shelf is on the shelf. That is to say, there is a spatial division between not only the various brands of shampoo, but also between the various bottles of shampoo. It would not be fair to the rest of the people who use that brand of shampoo if you bought all of one brand of a shampoo that a store stocked for the price of one bottle. That is one of the many reasons that God invented the spatio-temporal universe: to allow many different people to buy different bottles of the same brand of shampoo.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #1)

In our society today, there are many different shampoo brands. Different types of hair require different shampoos. A person cannot will their hair to conform to the needs of a single universal shampoo. That is to say, a person with dry hair cannot make their hair moist without the aid of a moisturizing shampoo. Humans are not self-sufficient in that regard. Therefore, if the only brand of a shampoo in our universe was a shampoo for dry hair, it would not be fair to the millions of people who have moist hair and vice/versa. This is one of the many reasons why God endowed mankind with the ability and the desire to create multiple brands of shampoos to conform to the manifold idiosyncracies of individual human hair.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #2)

In our society today, hen. I have always liked the word "hen". But I cannot for the life of me figure out a way to use it in this paper on shampoo. Hen. Hen.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #3)

In our society today, shampoo plays an integral part in the cleaning of hair. Teachers, firefighters, railway workers, jingoists, and even bakers are among the many occupations held by people who wash their hair using shampoo. Though some occupations require head coverings (like a firefighter's helmet or a baker's tall hat) many of these individuals still clean their hair in the event that they might remove their head covering later in the evening (or in the morning, if they are working a graveyard shift) so people can see their hair (including themselves if they are in or around a mirror). This is one of the many reasons why God invented headwear: so that man could notice the difference between a covered head and an uncovered head and realize that he came into this world without a hat and will leave this world without a hat. When we go to meet our Maker, we should have clean hair because we won't get a chance to wash our hair in Heaven where there is no need for water because our deepest thirst for glory will have been sated and all our sins washed away.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #4)

In our society today, writing instructors often admonish students to keep their religion out of their term papers. This is endemic of a rapid secularization of our institutions of learning and God will not hold guiltless those who defame His glory by keeping Him out of the classroom.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #5)

In our society today, students must recognize that teachers hold the key to their future in the form of a grade book. To not do so is to run the risk of dropping out of school and engaging in free thought, living a righteous individualistic life in accordance with the whims and eccentricities of one's own hairstyle, and dying a martyr's death at the unclean hands of the Dirty-Haired.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #6)

In our society today, many different people use many different brands of shampoos in many different bottles. Some people may even use two bottles of shampoo to wash their hair if they are in a hotel and they only have small bottles of shampoo and a lot of hair. Some people who are bald don't use any shampoo at all, unless they are pretending they still have hair in order to make themselves feel better. Maybe they put a little shampoo on their hand and wave it a few inches over their head in an attempt to recapture the glory of their youth. I feel bad for those people. They need blow jobs, too.


INTRODUCTION (FINAL DRAFT)

In our society today, there are many different brands of shampoo. One of the many brands of shampoo is VO5. One of the many brands of VO5 is Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo. One of the many brands of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo is Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein. In my essay, I will show why I believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the best shampoo. (SEE FIGURE 1A)


FIRST BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

It has often been said that silk is sexy and sex is silky. Some people disagree and say that sex is sandpapery and rough and there's a lot of blood and coarse hair. Those people are male homosexuals. But whenever there is a woman involved, either in a heterosexual sexual relationship or in a lesbian relationship (the good kind without real dykey-looking lesbians, but sexy girls kissing each other on Youtube) there is at least some element of silkiness involved. Women are silky and smooth. For example, when you lick their stomachs, it tastes good. It feels natural and right to lick a woman's stomach. Her tits are nice, too. I like biting their thighs also. Sometimes I have left bruises.


FIRST BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

When we think of the word silk, we often think of nice things that won't terrorize us. There is a safety in silk. If a shampoo said "Islam" on the bottle that would mean "submit". One should never submit to a shampoo out of force, but come to it freely of their own volition. This is one of the many reasons why God invented Himself: so I would one day write this paragraph.

SECOND BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

The first time I saw a bottle of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein I was really high. I came to the store to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. But soon I found myself wandering around the store and pulling out those coupons in those little electronic dispensers just so I could watch another one come out. I was fascinated by the process. It seemed as if there were an infinite amount of coupons in this miniscule dispenser. Then a black woman


SECOND BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

The first time I saw a bottle of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein I was really high. I came to the store to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. But soon I found myself wandering around the store and pulling out those coupons in those little electronic dispensers just so I could watch another one come out. I was fascinated by the process. It seemed as if there were an infinite amount of coupons in this miniscule dispenser. Then an African-American woman in a blue Duane Reade smock approached me and said, "Child, is you gonna waste all my coupons? Them's is made out of paper, child. Don't you know today is Earth Day?" I told her I didn't believe in Earth Day since it was started by a man named Einhorn who killed a woman and that I always preferred the Cosmos to the Earth anyway. Then I tried to quote a line from Shakespeare but forgot how it went; something about "Earth will pass away. . ." but I might have been thinking about the line from Hamlet which was "There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio" which didn't really do anything to advance my position. Or I might have been thinking about some line from the Bible which goes: "Heaven and Earth will pass away", but I didn't want to say "Heaven" if I just told her that I liked the Cosmos, because I consider the Cosmos Heaven and the Heaven Cosmos and if the Cosmos pass away along with the Earth then it wouldn't make sense to prefer the Cosmos to the Earth since both are finite entities of a limited duration. And since my argument for the preferential reverence of the Cosmos over the Earth relied heavily on a presumed infinitude to the Cosmos, I realized I was in a very scary position. What would happen to me if this African-American woman realized that I was about to engage in a philosophical fallacy in the middle of the store? Would she call security? But then I stopped myself and said to her, "Heaven cannot be finite. If it were, it would not be Heaven. Heaven cannot be constrained neither by space nor time. Therefore, if the Cosmos are Heaven and Heaven is the Cosmos, the Cosmos cannot be finite. So, yes, I DO prefer the Cosmos over the Earth."

THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

She looked at me as if I were crazy. Then she asked me if I was going to buy anything. I had forgotten what I had come into the store to buy. I should have told her I wanted to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar, but even that would have been wrong. You see, my memory fails me even now. I know I didn't want a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. That is, I don't remember the exact candy bar I wanted, but I have to put something specific in this narrative in order to give it context. If I just say "candy bar" the teacher's going to bust my balls for using non-descriptive language. Uptight cunt. How's that for desciptive language? You're an uptight cunt! I don't remember the name of the candy bar I wanted, you uptight cunt!


THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)

Now it's killing me--the name of the candy bar I actually wanted. It had peanut butter in it, but it wasn't crunchy. Oh, wait. It WAS crunchy--but it wasn't crispy. So it was something crunchy, but not crispy. That had peanut butter in it.

THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #2)

You know what? I think I wanted a bag of pretzels and then a regular Reese's peanut butter cup. Two different things. One crunchy thing and one peanut butter thing. I guess my mind is colllapsing those two items together, because there's only so much specific memory the human mind can contain. You can have a million different memories and get by, but then let's say there's just that one little thing--like the memory of wanting two things at the Duane Reade--and now you're not just remembering one thing (the memory of wanting something at the store) but two things (the memories of wanting two things)--and your head explodes. It's like that story of the Princess and the Pea. She can't go to sleep cause there's that one pea under all the mattresses. The only difference here is, instead of a pea, it's two different thoughts about wanting two different things. And instead of not being able to sleep, your head explodes and your brains splatter the walls. No, that would probably require a gun. I'm worrying about nothing. It's fine. I can go ahead and remember that I wanted two different things: a bag of pretzels and a regular Reese's peanut butter cup.


THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #3)

By the way, doesn't "crunchy" and "crispy" mean the same thing anyway? I think candy bars try too hard for alliteration sometimes.


THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

No! I remember now! I actually went into the store without any preconceived specifics about what type of snack I was going to get. Yes, it's all coming back to me now. I just wanted a snack. And the way I figured it, I would go into the store, see the selection, and then use my powers of decision making to make a decision. As a matter of fact, I remember calling my mother before I went into the store. She was shocked to hear from me. It had been nineteen years since she had heard from her only son. I remember she asked me, "Where have you been? We've missed you all these years! What are you doing with your life?" And I said, "Momma, I'm going into a store and I don't have any preconceived specifics about what type of snack I'm going to get." Then I hung up on her when she started to cry and asked me if I was still taking my medication.


FOURTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

Meanwhile all these memories are taking place as the black woman

FOURTH BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

Meanwhile all these memories are taking place as the African American woman in the blue Duane Reade smock is staring impatiently at me, waiting for me to tell her what I came into the store to buy. She left for a minute and returned with a frying pan from Aisle Five and told me if I didn't tell her forthwith, she was gonna hit me with it. I stammered I stutt-Istam-stumm--I stam-sttu--stammer-stut

FIFTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

She hit me with the pan!

FIFTH BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)

Pan me with the hit she!


FIFTH BODY PARAGRPAH (REWRITE #2)

Me the hit pan she with!

FIFTH BODY PARAGRPAH (FINAL DRAFT)

She hit me with the pan!

SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

"Ouch! My hair!" I screamed. It always hurts my hair more than my head when my head hurts. My head is strong. It can take it. But my poor little hair! It got all bloody! "Look at my hair!" I said, "It's all bloody!"


SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)

"Ouch! My head!" I screamed. "My hair is all bloody now." She told me that shampoo was on Aisle Five in the Rite Aid on the other side of town. I left the store and got on the cross-town bus with bloody hair. People stared at me and laughed. I felt like a black

SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

"Ouch! My head!" I screamed. "My hair is all bloody now." She told me that shampoo was on Aisle Five in the Rite Aid on the other side of town. I left the store and got on the cross-town bus with bloody hair. People stared at me. I felt like an African-American in the South before the Civil Rights Movement. Before Black People Were Called African-Americans. BEFORE EVERYTHING BECAME CAPITALIZED. WHEN I FINALLY GOT TO THE RITE-AID, I WAS NO LONGER HIGH. EVERYTHING BECAME CLEAR TO ME NOW. I NEEDED SHAMPOO TO WASH THE BLOOD OUT OF MY HAIR. THEN, AFTER GETTING SPRUCED UP, I WAS GOING TO VISIT THE EMERGENCY ROOM AND ASK POLITELY FOR A DOCTOR TO PREVENT MY DEATH WHICH WOULD HAVE BEEN A MOST UNFORTUNATE THING CONSIDERING THE FACT THAT I WAS STILL ALIVE AT THE TIME OF THE INCIDENT. WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE RITE-AID I WAS SHOWN TO THE SHAMPOO AISLE BY A WOMAN NAMED ARJANI (SHE MAY HAVE BEEN A MAN, IT'S HARD TO TELL SOMETIMES WITH SHORT-HAIRED INDIAN PEOPLE). THE FIRST BOTTLE THAT CAUGHT MY ATTENTION WAS VO5 SILKY EXPERIENCES MOISTURIZING SHAMPOO CHAMPAGNE KISS WITH SILK PROTEIN. IT WAS ONLY A DOLLAR FIFTEEN. WHICH IS EXACTLY THE AMOUNT THE TOOTH FAIRY LEFT UNDER MY PILLOW THIRTY YEARS AGO WHICH I HAD BEEN SAVING JUST IN CASE I EVER NEEDED TO BUY MY BABY TEETH BACK; YOU KNOW, IF I EVER HAD A BABY OF MY OWN I COULD SAVE MONEY BY GIVING HIM MY OLD BABY TEETH. HAND-ME-DOWNS AND WHAT-NOT AND DASH-DASH. SO I BOUGHT THE SHAMPOO AND TOOK IT HOME AND WASHED MY HAIR WITH IT AND EVERYTHING WAS FINE AND I LIVED TO TELL THE STORY.

CONCLUSION (ROUGH DRAFT)

Hen.


CONCLUSION (FINAL DRAFT)

In conclusion, after washing my hair with VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein, my hair felt silkier than ever. It felt like I had a woman in the shape of my hair on top of my head. I licked it and it felt right and proper to do so. I bit it gently. My cock throbbed as I thought of teacher and how silky smooth she is. Her tits, her long legs, how I want them wrapped around my back clenching me tighter and tighter in the warm comfort of her moist cunt. I will squirt in teacher like I squirted VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein from the bottle onto my head to make my hair as silky as teacher's thighs. I can't wait to bite your thighs teacher. I will leave bruises. You will come to me for more bruises, teacher. And I will gladly give them. That is why, in our society today, I believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the best shampoo.

figure 1A: VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein

A Rembrandt Now

Time is a painting
of whatever I am seeing at the moment

My perception of time, however,
is an outline of the painting of Time,
drawn on cheap tracing paper.

If my tracing paper outline
rests exactly over the painting of Time,
the contours match up and
everything is okay.

On a good day,
I can even convince myself that I am the artist!

Yet sometimes I think about mistakes I've made.
Or things I neglected to do.
Or people that are no longer around.
Or goals I failed to realize.
And I move my tracing paper outline to the left.

Sometimes I doubt I'll ever matter much.
And I become consumed with fear and self-hatred
at all these childish things I once believed
would come to pass and did not.
And I see a pauper's grave
and no one there to cry.
And I move my tracing paper outline to the right.

And my outline looks ugly and artificial
the farther away I get from the original painting.
The painting is filled with such color and detail
whereas my measly man-made image
is nothing but a chicken-scratch approximation of the masterpiece
that was at one time directly in front of my eyes.

(The best place for a painting to hang!)

And I hate myself so much
because I'm not as good an artist as Reality.

Reality, the prodigy.
Reality, with its effortless strokes
that make every moment into
a Rembrandt Now

How prolific!
Moment after moment
Another masterpiece!

The Universe, Reality's gallery,
ever-expanding to contain the ever-expanding body of work
hatched from the ever-expanding Mind of the Invisible Genius!

While I, with my Crayola
lash out at the canvas;
a baby jealous. . .
. . .not fit for apprenticeship. . .

I am not worthy to hold the palette.
I am not worthy to clean the brushes.
I am not an original.
I am only a copy.
Throw me away.
Throw me away.

Course Syllabus: Philosophy of Relativism

PHILOSOPHY OF RELATIVISM

MTW 11-11:50a.m.

Instructor: Wm. Franken; Office Hours: Saturdays, 3-3:27a.m.

Welcome to the Philosophy of Relativism!

OBJECTIVE:

In this course, you will gain a deeper understanding of the philosophy of relativism. You will see how relativism throughout the ages has brought us to a point where we can't understand anything at all. You will discover that everything is just a series of subjective opinions. You will realize that nothing is either teachable or knowable. You will come to see that everything is pointless, even this class. In fact, you don't need to come here anymore. Class is over.

WITHDRAWING:

If you would like to withdraw from this class, it's too late. You already took it.

SPECIAL NOTE ON TUITION REIMBURSEMENT:

If you would like a refund for your tuition, please be advised that all requests for reimbursement need to be submitted before you read this sentence. Now go home and leave me alone. I've earned my tenure for today.

Never Eat Alone Again

I’ll never eat alone again.

Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.

Now that I have a partner, a love-mate, a female antithesis to my maleness, I’ll never eat alone again.

I have finally found that special someone to pull the chicken bone out of my throat.

I owe everything I have--even the very air that I breathe--to Christian Match Dot Com.

God bless you,

William and Mary of Orange


---------------------------------

I’ll never sleep alone again.

Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.

Now that I have a wife-person, a help-lover, a breasts-and-vagina possessing entity, I’ll never sleep alone again.

I have finally found that special someone to prevent me from falling out of my crib, strangling myself on my blankie, or perishing from other forms of Sudden Adult Infant Death Syndrome (SAIDS)

I owe everything I have--even the dreary continuance of this never-ending nightmare we call life--to Christian Match Dot Com.

Kill me now,

John and Jackie Kennedy of Camelot


=============================


I’ll never fuck alone again

Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.

Now that one of my ribs has been plucked from me during my sleep and given its own profile on an internet dating site, I'll no longer have to pay a prostitute to dress up as a hand.

I owe everything I have--including every ego-validating orgasm that I inflict upon my quaking and dripping better half--to Christian Match Dot Com.

Oh GOD!! OH!! CHRIST!!! OH FUCK YEAH!!!

Adam and Eve of Eden


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


I’ll never procreate alone again.

Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.

Now that I have been elevated from amoebic organism, given opposable thumbs and the capacity for rational thought, sexually compartmentalized into a separate and distinct male gender and provided with a compatible female life form for the purposes of biological reproduction, I’ll no longer have to rely on my previously asexual regenerative capacities to procreate.

I owe everything I have--even the multitudinous progeny I have carelessly overpopulated the earth with throughout the entire course of human history--to Christian Match Dot Com.

What have you done, you fools? God help us all,

XY and XX of Birds of Bees

Lesson Seven

YOU MAY NOW OPEN YOUR BOOKLETTES AND BEGIN

1. She IS pregnant.
They ARE pregnant.
He _____ pregnant.

2. Nokia want Wombat. Wombat no want Nokia. How much miles Nokia walk for Wombat if Nokia know Wombat no want Nokia?

a) Any
b) All
c) Some
d) None
e) None (but different kind)

3. The cost of syphilis is one 50 dollar crack whore. If Jeremy wants a triple dose of syphilis, how much will he spend?

a) 25 dollars
b) 17 dollars
c) 150 dollars
d) The Gross National Product of Rosie O'Donnell

4. Lice is to scabies as pustules are to _____

a) St. Thomas Aquinas
b) Rhyme and Reason
c) Boils
d) Meet Asian Women
e) Meet 1000s of Asian women in your area
f) Meet 1000s of Asian women in your area today at Asianpeoplemeet online dating.

5. Draw the shape of your doubt on a separate piece of computer. Remember to complain.

6. A train leaves the airport at half past seven. A quarter till eight, people point at the train and say, "Look! A flying train!" What time will it be when people realize everything they were taught about trains was wrong?

7. Josannah is a word problem writer. One day she writes seven word problems and then takes a break to have a cigarette with her friend Scratch. On the way to the lounge, she is stopped by her boss, Mister Cragmore. "Josannah," says Mr. Cragmore, "how many word problems have you written so far today?" "Seven, Mr. Cragmore," says Josannah timidly, like a five-foot tall mouse in cheap lipstick. "Only seven?!?" shouts Mr. Cragmore, "Hmm. Josannah, I'd like to talk to you in my office." "But, Mr. Cragmore--" begins Josannah. "No buts, Josannah. Your cigarette will just have to wait," says Mr. Cragmore. “If. . .and. . .Mr. Cragmore--” says Josannah. “No ifs or ands, either,” says Mr. Cragmore, “If your cigarette really loves you, I am sure he will wait for you. Right now we need to talk about your job.” “Okay, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah and then turns to Scratch, “Scratch, you will have to smoke a cigarette without me. I’m sorry.” Scratch looks upset, “But Josannah, I don’t know how to smoke and you promised you were going to teach me today.” “Excuse me, Scratch,” says Mr. Cragmore, “but I need to talk to Josannah right now. You’ll just have to learn how to smoke from old movies.” “Yes, Mr. Cragmore,” says Scratch. “Okay, Josannah, step into my office,” says Mr. Cragmore. Josannah and Mr. Cragmore step into Mr. Cragmore’s office; Mr. Cragmore first (because he is the boss) and then Josannah (because she is the employee) “Have a seat, Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore. “Thank you, sir,” says Josannah as she crosses her legs like a girl. Mr. Cragmore goes to the liquor cabinet. “Would you care for a scotch and soda?” asks Mr. Cragmore. “No thank you, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “I don’t drink.” “I understand,” says Mr. Cragmore as he hands Josannah an empty glass, “Josannah, how long have you worked for us here at Word Problems Incorporated?” “Oh, let’s see,” says Josannah, “I lost my virginity when I was seventeen. That was the day that you hired me. So all in all, I would say seven years so far.” “Yes,” says Mr. Cragmore, “Seven years as of this half hour. Josannah, are you happy here at Word Problems Incorporated?” “Yes,” says Josannah, “I love my job. It has a great dental plan. I can get thirty-two teeth with the purchase of every mouth. Why do you ask, Mr. Cragmore? Is something the matter?” “Well, Josannah, as your employer, I am concerned. Lately your word problems have become very strange.” “Strange?” asks Josannah as she licks her empty glass, “How do you mean, Mr. Cragmore?” “Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore, “when you first started working here at Word Problems Incorporated, you wrote word problems about trains leaving a station at a certain time at a certain speed. They were concise and to the point, usually focusing on a certain mathematical or scientific proposition. But now. . .well. . . like I say, I’m concerned. There seems to be a lot of needless exposition in some of your latest word problems. Last week, for example, you wrote a word problem with a twenty-five page preamble about the fall of man and the doctrine of original sin. The week after last week, you wrote a word problem with three appendices and a map of ancient Judea. The week after this week, I can’t really say what you will write as that is in the future, but if it is anything like what you have been writing lately, well, I am concerned that my concern will grow exponentially. And that concerns me.” “What are you saying, Mr. Cragmore?” “Well, Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore as he takes Josannah’s empty glass and refills it with more emptiness, “I may have to fire you unless you start writing normal word problems again.” “Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “I’m afraid I still do not understand what you’re talking about. My word problems may be a little off the beaten path at times, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call them strange.” “Josannah,” sighs Mr. Cragmore, “what about this word problem that you and I are in right now? Would you call this a normal world problem? I certainly wouldn’t. There’s no need for me to even be in it at all, yet here I am, peppering it with meaningless dialogue. And Scratch? What the hell was that all about? This is just damned weird. There’s no other way to put it.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “that you object to my employing a little creative license. I was just trying to counteract the stultifying atmosphere of having to write for these standardized tests all the time.” “Goddamnit, Josannah!” shouts Mr. Cragmore, “That’s not your job! I’ve got the fucking board of education on my ass, day in and day out, complaining that these standardized tests are all bullshit anyway! The last thing I need as the CEO of a multi-million dollar word problem corporation is some rag-tag two-bit upstart trying to be James fucking Joyce! Now goddamn it, end this word problem right now before I fire your sorry ass!” “Yes, sir” says Josannah as she gets up and leaves the office and returns to her desk. The clock above her wall reads 12:30 p.m. Josannah sets a goal to write 40 normal word problems by the end of her working day at 5 p.m. Assuming that the current time on the clock is correct, if Josannah writes 4 normal world problems every half-hour, will she reach her goal?

YOU MAY NOW CLOSE YOUR BOOKLETTES AND END

Dear Erasmus

(ed.--the opinions of Erasmus do not reflect the opinions of Will Franken. Will Franken is not in any way responsible for anything Erasmus might say or do. There is a clear demarcation between Erasmus and Will Franken. The two are NOT one and the same. They are as distinct as snowflake to snowflake)

Dear Erasmus,

I am so confused! I was walking today in the street and a car hit me! Now I am dead! I don't have any health care! Who is to blame? The government? The car? Me? Show me which way to hate!

Signed,

Jeremiah Lucille-Ball

DEAR LUCILLE-BALL,

HATE COMES IN MANY LAYERS. THINK OF IT AS A SERIES OF CONCENTRIC CIRCLES.

MY ADVICE IS TO HATE INWARDS BEGINNING WITH THE WIDEST CIRCLE. IN YOUR CASE, YOU SHOULD HATE THE GOVERNMENT FIRST FOR NOT MAKING IT EASIER TO OBTAIN AFFORDABLE HEALTH CARE. THEN YOU SHOULD HATE THE CAR FOR KILLING YOU. THEN YOU SHOULD HATE YOURSELF FOR BEING A FUCKING IDIOT AND WALKING IN THE STREET.

YOU BROUGHT IT ALL ON YOURSELF. SEE YOU IN HELL.

ERASMUS

Dear Erasmus,

Today I went to the grocery store and bought an onion. When I got home, I realized I already had an onion. I took the onion back to the grocery store and exchanged it for an orange. Then I went home and found I already had an orange. I took the orange back to the grocery store and exchanged it for an apple. I took the apple home and saw that I already had an apple. I took the apple back to the grocery store, but the grocery store was closed.

So I went to the Apple store which was open for another two hours. I exchanged my apple for an iPhone. I took my iPhone home and saw that I already had an iPhone at home.

(I do not take my iPhone out in public. It is a home iPhone)

I took my iPhone back to the Apple store, but the Apple store was closed. So I went to a heroin dealer and exchanged it for some smack. I took the smack home and realized that I already had some smack in the fridge.

I sure felt stupid! I put the new smack in a mason jar and stored it in the cupboard with the green beans and preserved prostitute parts.

By that time, I was exhausted and didn't feel like leaving the house any more for the rest of my life. So I pulled out the smack that was in the fridge, cooked it, and spiked up.

Well, no sooner did that smack hit my brain and I began to nod off than I realized--I was already high on life!

My question is: what does one do if one already has everything one could possibly want or need?

Signed,

Lucille Jeremiah-Ball

DEAR JEREMIAH-BALL

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE CANDY LAND GAME OF LIFE. THERE IS NO MORE WANT. THERE IS NO MORE NEED.

YOU ARE IN A COMA. TAKE A BOW. YOU'VE EARNED IT.

ERASMUS

Dear Erasmus,

Today I was walking down the sidewalk and driving down the street at the same time (I have been two people ever since my wife walked out on me last century)

As I turned left and right simultaneously, I saw the strangest thing!

Signed,

Ball-Luc-Jere-Miahille

DEAR BALL-LUC

COULD YOU BE A LITTLE MORE SPECIFIC?

ERASMUS

Dear Erasmus,

Oh, sorry about that! I always forget to end thi

Anyway, as I say, I saw the strangest thing! I saw two people and they each had one hand of the other clasped within one of their own hands. Their fingers were meshed together in an interlocking fashion.

That's not the weirdest part, though. They weren't yanking each other in separate directions! They were walking together in this strange manner. They were smiling. I saw no blood. No tears. There was no sign of a struggle, even though the female of the species towered over the male and could have easily devoured him in one cruel stroke! They actually seemed happy!

Should I have called the police?

Signed,

Howstellagothergrooveback Whenharrymetsally

DEAR HOWSTELLAWHENHARRY

WHAT YOU WITNESSED TODAY WAS PHYSICAL AFFECTION BETWEEN A MAN AND A WOMAN. AT THE PRESENT, IT IS ONLY ILLEGAL IN CERTAIN PARTS OF NORTHERN CALIFORNIA AND GREENWICH VILLAGE.

IF YOU HAVE NEVER TRIED IT, YOU SHOULD. EXPRESSION OF THE SELF CAN BE THE HIGHEST EXPRESSION OF THE SELF. IF THERE'S ANOTHER SELF JUST LIKE YOU WITH DIFFERENT GENITALIA, THE RESULTS CAN BE EXCITING AND BABY-PRODUCING.

ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WERE PLAYS AND POETRY; THERE WAS MUSIC; THERE WAS ROMANCE; SUCH SIGHTS WERE NOT UNCOMMON IN THE CONTEXT OF THAT BYGONE ERA.

GO ON, NOW, AND BECOME ONLY ONE PERSON AND LOVE ANOTHER SINGULAR PERSON IN THE MANNER YOU WITNESSED TODAY.

LOVE, CHILD, LOVE. . .FORWARD IS ITS DIRECTION. IT IS WAITING FOR YOU.

THE TIME OF DARKNESS IS GONE NOW. KISS THE SUNLIGHT ON THE LIPS OF YOUR BELOVED. SHE IS THERE. SHE IS THERE. BASKING IN THE GLOW OF YOUR RADIANT HEART.

I TRUST THIS LETTER FINDS YOU IN FULL POSSESSION OF YOUR FACULTIES, FOR THERE IS NOTHING INSANE ABOUT LOVE. THE PRAGMATISM THAT ARGUES AGAINST IT, THAT IS WHAT YOU SHOULD FEAR. READ THE BOOKS, HEAR THE SONGS, THAT EVOKE THOSE TENDER PASSIONS.

FORWARD IS THE DIRECTION OF LOVE. LOVE IS THE SHORTEST DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO POINTS. THE WAY BACK TO ONE'S YOUTH IS THE FORWARD MARCH OF LOVE.

AGE IS THE MONOLITHIC CONSTRUCT WHICH LOVE DEMOLISHES. ITS STRENGTH IS ALL-CONSUMING. WHEN HARNESSED PROPERLY, IT IS A FORCE THAT MOVES MOUNTAINS, TURNS BACK TIME, PARTS THE SEAS, RAISES THE DEAD, STILLS THE WINDS, AND LAYS THE STARS AT OUR FEET.

LOVE HAS NOT GONE AWAY.

ERASMUS

Things I Used To Eat When I Was Growing Up In Missouri

A lot of people think that just because I'm from Missouri I've never eaten anything. Nothing could be further from the truth. Go ahead, measure the distance between the belief that I've never eaten anything and The Truth and you'll find a distance greater than that between the earth and the sun. You'll need some pretty long arms to hold that tape measure, I'll warrant you.

But seriously, I ate quite a lot of things growing up in Missouri. Here are twenty-five of my favorites from childhood. Some of which I still find myself eating from time to time even today, well into adulthood.

1. Peanut butter and syrup.

My mom would often make this for us kids in the morning if she was in a hurry and didn't have time to cook anything. We didn't know the difference. As far as we could tell, she spent hours on this meal. It was many years later when I finally realized how easy it had all been. She would take a slice of bread, spread some peanut butter over it and then pour syrup over that and hand us a fork. I remember always liking it, partially because I liked the trippy swirling patterns that the peanut butter and syrup used to make. I used to stare at the end of my fork before each bite, blowing my young and impressionable mind.

2. Biscuits and gravy.

Need I say more? The ultimate breakfast food. You can't get it in New York at all and in California they ruin it by making it healthy--I've even seen green gravy in San Francisco! No, no, no! The white gravy with the little bits of sausage in it. In the Midwest, in the South, that's where you find the real stuff. Biscuits and gravy were the perfect foundation food. You could eat them alone as a meal or you could pile all sorts of stuff on top of it--like hash browns, bacon strips, or cheese slices. At the Shoney's Restaurant breakfast bar in Sedalia, I used to even cover it with mushrooms! Ironically, I never preferred my mother's biscuits and gravy. She wasn't that good of a cook, actually. There were very few meals that she made that I enjoyed. One was the aforementioned peanut butter and syrup and the other was--

3. Burritos (and Mexican food of all formats: homemade, restaurant, and fast-food)

Soft flour tortillas, Old El Paso refried beans, grated cheese. Yes, burrito night was a happy night in our household. At least for me. My sisters hated them. Not me. I was always sure to clean my plate when two burritos were on it. This passion for burritos--and, by extension, Mexican food in general--I have carried with me all of my life. From Taco Bell to Tijuana, I've tried them all. Some old Missouri standouts include Mexican Villa in Springfield and El Sombrero in Sedalia. Gone, but not forgotten include Taco John's and Taco Grande.

4. My dad's chili

Technically, chili falls under the rubric of Tex-Mex, which is why it is receiving its own slot here. The only time my father stepped in to do anything remotely domestic was when he made chili. It was filled with meat, beans, and tons of melted cheese. It was painfully hot--indeed, that was its charm. And the masochist in me couldn't resist chasing each bite with a raw jalapeno pepper. Mostly to impress my father who was fond of eating jalapenos straight from the jar. I used to take three slices of Kraft American cheese and lay it on top of my already cheese-saturated chili and then crunch up a fair amount of Saltines to sprinkle all over. The result was an irresistible paste!

5. Handi-Snacks Cheese and Crackers

This was an after school treat. I remember watching "The Flintstones" in the late afternoon, munching away on Handi-Snacks Cheese and Crackers. For those of you who don't remember, Handi-Snacks Cheese and Crackers consisted of a small plastic tub with two compartments. The longer one contained a stack of five crackers. The shorter one contained processed soft cheese. It came with a little red stick that you used to spread the cheese onto the cracker. I had a ritual with these. You see, I liked the cheese a little bit more than the crackers. So I would spread a tiny amount on each cracker and eat them quickly just to get them out of the way so I could focus on my real interest: the cheese sans crackers. Once all the crackers were gone, I would scoop up the remaining cheese with the red stick and shovel it all into my mouth.

6. Oatmeal pies

You know, if you asked me today if I would like an oatmeal pie, I would probably say no. But when I was a child, I ate quite a good deal of these. Small little cream filled things with an oatmeal cookie covering. I can't tell you why my interest in oatmeal pies faded over the years. It's probably best not to think too much about it.

7. Coca-Cola

We were raised on Coca-Cola. We drank it more than milk, more than juice, more than water. Our refrigerator was always packed with cans. In the garage, dad kept an extra supply of twelve-packs in case we ran out, which was quite often. As a child, I averaged anywhere from six to twelve cans a day. I was never discouraged out of concern for my health from drinking such an excessive amount. Rather it was because my parents drank even more of it than I did and didn't want me guzzling too much of their stash. Nowadays, my favorite soft drink is Dr. Pepper. But back then, I hated it--mostly because it didn't taste like Coke. Pepsi, as you might have guessed, was frowned upon severely. It simply wasn't done in our household.

8. Mister Salty pretzel sticks with Frito-Lay bean dip

This was another after school snack favorite of mine. A bag of Mister Salty pretzel sticks and a can of Frito-Lay bean dip. I would take a cluster of pretzel sticks and scoop up a generous amount of bean dip (some brown paste in a tin can) and wash it all down with an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Often I would go through an entire can of bean dip and half a bag of pretzels in one sitting. I couldn't eat anything else with bean dip except pretzels--even though I know now that most people probably used chips; or perhaps refrained from bean dip altogether.

9. Totino's party pizzas with pizza rolls

My mother used to buy Totino's party pizzas, which I absolutely loved. She would spray the baking tray with Pam before heating one up in the oven and, like one of Pavlov's dogs, I would come running. I want to be very specific that no other brand of frozen pizza did for me what Totino's did. As I've gotten older, I've noticed that Totino's aren't available in many places anymore. I'm concerned about the company, to be honest. I hope they're doing well in these tough economic times. When I was a child, I used to eat an entire party pizza with a fork. Even though on the box it says that one pizza will serve up to four. When I started living on my own at sixteen, I used to cook two of them simultaneously (preferably sausage and pepperoni combination) and sprinkle a box of Totino's pizza rolls over the top of each pizza. When everything was cooked, I would pull the tray out of the oven and put one pizza on top of the other with the pizza rolls sandwiched in the middle. I would then put the entire concoction in a bowl and eat it all with a fork.

10. Pillsbury cinnamon rolls with lots and lots of butter

Another breakfast treat before school. Honestly, I was less interested in the cinnamon roll and more drawn to the butter, which I would heap without consideration, either for personal health or my mom's grocery budget, centimeters high on each roll. I was not satisfied until the entire top of the roll was yellow with slowly melting butter. The best time, I thought, to take a bite was when the butter was still cold and the roll was hot. The two temperatures turned into a tantalizing tornado of taste!

11. Pop Tarts with lots and lots of butter

The same as above except with hot pop tarts instead of hot cinnamon rolls. Butter spread all over the rectangular surface of the pop tart (the flavor of which was irrelevant) and bites taken while the butter was still cold.

12. Reese's peanut butter cups

As the commercial says, "There is no wrong way to eat a Reese's". True enough, although I was always filled with remorse at the fact that I devoured the cups whole with one swallow. I ate everything that bore the Reese's logo. The single and double and king-size packs of the peanut butter cups. The miniature ones that came in bulk-sized plastic bags. The easter-egg shaped ones that came out once a year. And, though they were not my favorite, even Reese's Pieces had a special place in my heart. To this day, I always take note when Reese's comes out with a new variation on an old theme. My personal favorite over the last few years has been their Crispy Crunchy Bar. When I was very young, probably six or seven, I remember asking my mother "What is Heaven?" She answered, "Heaven is a place where you have everything you've ever wanted for all time." For years, I imagined Heaven as a grocery store that carried nothing but Reese's products.

13. Buddig brand sandwich meats with Kraft American cheese slices.

I was probably in 5th or 6th grade when I got turned on to Buddig brand sandwich meats. I wonder if anybody remembers them or if they're even available anymore. They were very heavily processed, thinly-shaved meats that came in handy little pouches. Supposedly they could make three or four sandwiches. Not for me. The whole clump of meat came out of the pouch and went onto the bread. Then came three individually unwrapped Kraft American cheese slices. One on the top of the meat, one on the bottom and one right in the middle. When I began living on my own and buying my own Buddig brand sandwich meats, I realized how impractical they were on a cost level. I think for the same amount that an individual pouch of Buddig meat cost, I could have bought an entire week's worth from Oscar Meyer. Buddig brands came in all different kinds: Corned beef, pastrami, ham--but my favorites were chicken breast and turkey.

14. Stove-Top stuffing and my grandmother's noodles

I have put these two together because I associate them both with Thanksgiving. For most people, Thanksgiving is Turkey Day. For me, at least when I was younger, it was Stove-Top Stuffing and My Grandmother's Noodles Day. I haven't had grandmother's noodles in a while, so now it's just Stove-Top Stuffing Day. It's a consistency that runs throughout my dietary preferences. You can see the same principle operating with biscuits and gravy (#2) and my dad's chili (#4)--that is, the more a food resembles a thick, colorless paste, the more apt I am to enjoy it. As far as my grandmother's noodles, I don't really know what they were. They were just long, flat white noodles. When I saw a picture of a tapeworm in a medical book years later, I thought "Wow! That looks like one of grandmother's noodles!"

15. Four plain McDonald's cheeseburgers

By the time I entered fourth grade, my regular meal when mom would take us kids to McDonald's was four plain cheeseburgers. I ate them all in one sitting, usually averaging no more than three bites per cheeseburger. Only McDonald's had a special saltiness to their meat that I found difficult to describe but easy to devour. Today, I still prefer them plain--although I usually don't order them that way. You see, my main beef (no pun intended) with non-plain cheeseburgers wasn't the ketchup or the mustard or even the onions. It was the pickles. The goddamn, motherfucking pickles. I hate pickles more than Satan himself. You'll never get me to eat a pickle, I'll guarantee. Nevertheless, ordering four plain cheeseburgers (now, it's usually five) takes longer than ordering four regular cheeseburgers, because they have to make them special just for me. So now I just order them "as is" and wince when I lift up the bun to remove the pickles from each one. I detest pickles so much, I can't even bear to look at one longer than a second. Needless to say, pickles have no place in this list!

16. Hardee's Mushroom and Swiss Cheeseburger

I was eleven or twelve years old when Hardee's (known as Carl's Jr. on the West Coast) unveiled their Mushroom and Swiss Cheeseburger. There have been plenty of imitators since then, but I bear witness here today that Hardee's was the first; at least in the field of fast food. It was a stroke of genius. In so many aspects, their food was atrocious. But the combination of mushrooms, Swiss cheese and hamburger on a lightly toasted bun breathed new life into a fast-food franchise that, already at such a young age, I had cynically turned my back on.

17. Cauliflower covered with melted cheese

One of the only vegetables I don't mind eating--save for broccoli when I'm at some social function and they have one of those plastic trays with the dip and I'm looking for something to do with my hands because I'm bored with all the small talk--is cauliflower. The reason I liked cauliflower as a kid was because it was so bland and tasteless that it didn't interfere with the taste of the melted cheese. You may be noticing another dietary pattern here. As with butter in the examples of pop tarts and cinnamon rolls, certain foods like cauliflower were merely an excuse to eat melted cheese. That is to say, I could have eaten butter and melted cheese straight--yet, despite my ever-escalating eccentricity--even I knew that would be a trifle weird. Cauliflower, like pop tarts and cinnamon rolls, were simply a means to an end.

18. Cookie dough

When my mother made cookies, I could have given a shit less about the end product. It was the dough I was after. Many a time, she would leave a bowl of dough on the counter, go off and run an errand, and return to find half the lump missing. She used to tell me that I would get "worms" if I ate too much of it. I didn't really know what she meant by "worms" until we took our dog to the vet after she got heartworms. I swore off dough for about six months following that. Nowadays, I get my fix in the summer months with cookie dough ice cream. I remember feeling a sense of connectivity when I saw that ice cream companies were unveiling a cookie dough flavor, for I knew then that I was not the only one who had grown up enjoying its singular taste. There are many of us from all walks of life, all over the globe. Out of the closets and into the streets, I say. Although I should note here, once again, the consistency factor; for it was in this spirit that I also enjoyed a brief period of eating play-dough. A flavor I doubt that even Ben and Jerry, in all their corporate psychedelica, would deign to unveil.

19. Dairy Queen's Peanut Buster Parfait and/or Hot Fudge Brownie Delight

It was one or the other of these delightful delicacies for me when we visited the local Dairy Queen. And it was the hot fudge that piqued the interest of my taste buds. The ice cream, quite often, got in the way. A big blob of vanilla nothingness that one had to wade through with a small red plastic oar just to strike oil. Black gold. Texas tea. . .

20. Snickerdoodles

My mother used to make this type of cookie called a Snickerdoodle. I couldn't tell you what it was or even what it tasted like. I know it had some sort of sugary coating and it was soft and chewy. But that's about it. I just know that I loved them and couldn't get enough.

21. Crab Rangoon

This one almost didn't make the list. Remember, these are all foods that I ate while growing up in Missouri. I discovered crab rangoon when I was fifteen--one year before I left home and became a man. Had I waited just a little longer, crab rangoon would have found itself on The List of Twenty-Five Foods I Discovered As An Adult (due in November from Harper/Collins) Before I lost my crab rangoon virginity, the only thing I found halfway interesting about Chinese food was the fact that they made cookies that had little slips of paper in them. Crab rangoon, however, turned my whole conception of the Orient inside out. It expanded my mind. I became interested in Eastern thought. I started reading the Tao te Ching. My mind ran rampant with questions galore: What strange food was this; so crunchy, yet so pasty? Why do only some Chinese restaurants sell it? Is it only for the elite? How curious that, despite its name, I can taste no crab in this concoction. . .as indeed I could with. . .

22. Crab legs!

I was twelve years old and was spending the summer with my father in Texas, who was supervising the construction of a Western Auto store in Houston. One day, following work, he and a co-worker picked me up from the motel and we drove to a place called The Heritage Restaurant. I remember on the sign outside reading the word "smorgasbord". I asked my father what "smorgasbord" meant and he told me that it was a buffet. That made me happy, because I knew what a buffet was. I love buffets. I know, I know--it's lower-class and red state of me to say so, but still--I love buffets. In fact, I would count buffets as one of the top twenty-five in this list, but the very nature of a buffet prevents it from being compartmentalized in such a limiting manner. That is to say, if a plate of food is Jesus the Son, then the buffet is God the Father. The enjoyment I receive from both, of course, is the Holy Spirit. Yet this particular buffet table sported something that I had never seen before at a Western Sizzlin' or a Golden Corral or a Ryan's Steakhouse--dead crab body parts! My healthy curiosity got the better of me and I went back to our booth with an absurdly large pile. My father, in a rare instance of paternal patience, showed me how to use the nutcracker/plier thing, extract the meat, and dip it into the lemon/butter sauce. The taste? Well, to rework a recent metaphor, if the crab is God the Father and the meat is his Son, Jesus Christ, then I had just had my First Communion! Zowie! Wowie! But the drag was, it took so damned long to get to the meat. Especially when one is mechanically inept, like myself. So today, if you gave me a fork and a tub of crab meat, I would go to town. But getting it from the crab legs themselves? No. I am much older now and life is too short.

23. Long John Silver's Fish and Hushpuppies

There was something beyond the food at Long John Silver's that appealed to me. Don't get me wrong, the food was (and still is) excellent. But there was also an adventurous element that appealed to a young boy's imagination. It was the gestalt of the dining experience. I don't see too many Long John Silver restaurants anymore, but the ones I have seen in adulthood (most recently, the one near Vallejo, California) have been converted to look like any other fast-food franchise. They've lost their individuality, to be sure. But back in the day--oh, back in the day!--a kid could be the king of the high seas! The restaurants looked like pirate ships! The people at the register even wore pirate hats! My family would get a seat near the plate glass windows and, unlike the grownups, I didn't see cars and trucks buzzing by on South Limit Avenue. No, I was on the ocean, braving the waves, consorting with the sordid and vulgar pirates that manned the rickety ship. I ate voraciously to give myself strength, because I knew that at any moment, I might have to draw my sword to defend the skull and crossbones that flapped overhead. Yummy hushpuppies. The scrumptious breaded fish. And those addicting little fried crispy things scattered all over the styrofoam plate. Years later, LJS introduced chicken into their menu. I was older. Time to put away childish things. No more fish for me. It was a box of ten chicken pieces and some honey mustard to go--and a baseball game on TV back at a lonesome apartment.

24. Cornbread and pinto beans cooked in a pot with a hambone

One of the other rare meals in which my mother excelled. Exactly as the title suggests: you put a bunch of pinto beans in a boiling pot with a grisly hambone, let it simmer for awhile, and then serve them on a plate with a huge chunk of cornbread. Why did I love this so much? Well, let's see--if you mash up the the beans and mix it with the crumbly cornbread, you get a thick, colorless paste! You see, although I deplore socialism for humans, I quite like it for articles of food. If only everything edible could be stripped of its individuality and rendered into a thick, colorless paste, how happy my stomach would be!

And, finally, before I announce the last one, let me just say that this list is by no means comprehensive. There were many qualified foodstuffs from my past that, for the sake of space, had to be omitted. That being said, the last one on this list is:

25. Pussy

Ha! Ha! Just joking. No, I wouldn't discover that food until I was seventeen! But seriously, the last one on the list is:

25. String cheese

One of the most interesting toys every invented is the Russian matroshki, or nesting doll. That is, the doll within a doll within a doll. I've been fascinated with the concepts of macrocosm and microcosm ever since I was a child. I could literally meditate on a matroshki for hours, even to this very day. Can the layers of larger dolls extend into infinity? Can the smaller dolls become infinitesimal--going from atomic to the subatomic? Can matter be dismantled ad infinitum? The matroshki seeks to, at least on a subconscious level, pose this existential question. On the dietary plane, the same can be said for string cheese. How many strands of string cheese can one peel away until nothing remains of the original portion? I spent many an afternoon in front of the television, coming up with a myriad of answers to that question.

Replacing a Mirror with a Window

Today is a better day.

In fact, things are better overall than they were a year ago.

For I have seen The Other Side.

I used to think there was only one side. Life was very two-dimensional. And even when life appeared three-dimensional, it still wasn’t enough. I wanted one more dimension.

I have seen The Fourth Dimension.

I haven’t spent a long amount of time in either of these places; The Other Side or The Fourth Dimension. But at least I now know they exist.

So there are two worlds for me now, whereas before there was only one; one that became increasingly smaller day by day. Moreover, I know that one world out of the two is better than the other. When I am in the new world, I apprehend its superiority with both mind and heart. When I am in the old world, I can only apprehend the superiority of the new world with my mind alone.

For when I’m not in The Other Side or The Fourth Dimension--even though I will have visited them just hours (or minutes!) before--I am convinced that I shall never see them again.

Or if I convince myself that I shall see them again, my desire to visit them is gradually snuffed out like a dying ember. You may say to me, “But why don’t you go visit The Other Side or The Fourth Dimension if you are so much more at peace there?” and I will say to you from the gurgling blackness of a heart strangled by material desires, “Why would I want to see those landscapes that are so beautiful when I know they are only temporary? Would that not just compound the misery I now feel? To apprehend such beauty only to have it snatched away when I least expect it?”

Plus, I don’t know how to get to the new world of my own volition. I possess no key to The Other Side. I paid no fare to see The Fourth Dimension. I arrived at them accidentally. Or perhaps some formless grace that emanates far beyond even that which we call the event horizon became as a giant cosmic hand and stretched itself forth to pluck me up from the prison of myself and grant unto me a spiritual parole.

What is this new world? Well, empirically, it looks and sounds the same as the old world. Which is a relief. For there are too many beautiful sounds and sights I would hate to lose in the abandonment of the old world. Physically, I function in the same fashion in the new world as I do in the old.

I think there’s only one difference, really. And that one difference makes a world of difference. A world of difference between the old world and the new world.

The direction of my concerns, my cares, my emotions and my thoughts is inverted. In my soul, I replace a mirror with a window.

One afternoon, about three or four months ago, I was walking in Chinatown (the one in New York). As the sun set, I found myself troubled by manifold desires such as I have never been before. It really doesn’t matter what the desires were, for having now glimpsed (albeit briefly) this new world, I know that (in the end) all desires are essentially one and the same. Specificity in regard to desires is mere window dressing (or mirror dressing!)

Just that morning, I found myself actually enjoying those desires. That is, anticipating their fulfillment at some point in the linear future. Do you know what I mean? Like the feeling of wanting to fall in love? Or the belief that if you just persist at something, eventually you’ll receive riches and fame? These aren’t bad feelings. If, that is, one can control them; to prevent them from growing gargantuan in one's mind--eating away all other concerns; not only for others, but also for one’s own psychological well-being.

But by the end of the day, those same desires that I had flirtatiously enjoyed that morning had indeed grown gargantuan! In fact, I thought, as night fell on lower Manhattan, that I would rather take my own life than go on desiring! I couldn’t imagine living another hour with the noise of want that was SCREAMING IN THE ECHO CHAMBER BETWEEN MY EARS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Suddenly, I found myself, by choice or by accident I still know not, at the doors to the Buddhist Temple near the Manhattan Bridge. I had been there many times before, but never in a state of spiritual despair.

I flung the red doors open and, in front of the massive golden Buddha that sits peacefully at the center of the temple on a flowered dais, I fell to my knees on the padded prayer pad beneath his mystical and idolatrous presence.

I clasped my hands as if I were in a church. And I said in front of this renowned Eastern image what essentially was a Western-styled prayer; hands clasped and head bowed, thus I whispered:

God, help me. . .help me. . .my desires are going to kill me. . .help me. . .save me from my desires. . .

I was afraid to finish the plea, yet I didn’t know what else to ask for. All I knew was that it was too early to return to the outside. I remained indoors lest I return to the despair that I knew lie beyond them. So I just kept asking the same thing over and over.

Help me. . .please, help me. . .don’t let my desires kill me. . .help me. . .

Then my refrain eventually condensed into only: Help me. . .help me. . .help me. . .

I must have been there two or three minutes when suddenly the two words escaping my lips were altered dramatically.

Thank you. . .thank you. . .thank you. . .

????????????? thank you ??????????????????

I didn’t know why I was saying “thank you” at first. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop saying it.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I didn’t mean it at all. Not one iota. Gratitude was the furthest thing from my mind. I even said it through clenched teeth, with venom and bitterness in my heart.

Thank you! Thank you! Goddamnit, thank you!

I remained on my knees for at least another five minutes as a feeling of contentment slowly--and I do mean slowly!--washed over me. Eventually, I stopped saying “thank you” and started whispering it. Then I stopped whispering it and started thinking it. I got up from my knees and looked toward the ceiling and then at the golden Buddha whose shining head almost touched it--all the while with this new and strange loop playing in my mind: thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. . .

I left the temple thinking only: thank you.

And I went to where I was going thinking only: thank you.

As I went to where I was going, I saw people differently from how I had viewed them only minutes before. No longer were they a nameless, faceless mass conspiring to be in my way. Instead, they were The Way. A gorgeous sea of individuals each precious in their singularity. I stopped to talk with strangers. And as I talked and listened to them, thank you were still the only two words evident in my consciousness. How utterly different the world appeared! Everything seemed so indescribably beautiful! I felt so. . .innocent.

That was my first visit to the new world. It lasted about four days. I’ve been back about three or four times since then. The longest I’ve been there is about five days. More interestingly, the shortest duration I’ve been away from the new world, since discovering it, has been less than twenty-four hours. This new record was set yesterday evening when I left the old world yet again and returned unto the new.

Wish you were here!

You ask me why I believe in God.
I ask if you know the cadenza to Beethoven’s Violin Concerto.
You ask me why I believe in Angels.
I ask if you have heard The Beatles sing.
You ask me why I believe in Miracles.
I ask if you have read of the pilot who landed on the Hudson.
You ask me why I believe in Good and Evil.
I ask you which side won World War II.
You ask me why I believe in Providence.
Because I went looking for help and found gratitude instead.
You ask me why I believe in Salvation.
Because I said Thank you. . . with my lips,
while screaming Fuck you! with my soul.

I Stand Corrected

I'm sorry. I may have come across a little positive in my latest blogs; conveying a sense that things were going to be okay after all and I might finally be achieving something that had always eluded me: happiness.

I was wrong. I spoke too early. I'm embarrassed now. There is no happiness for me.

This contemptible organ, the brain, what is its purpose but to kill me? How I wish it were a tooth in my mouth that might be extracted.

My heart is heavy and nothing can lift it. It is a stone thrown into its own lake of blood. . .sinking fast. . .

I cannot swallow, the lump is too large.

I cannot breath for apathy prevents me from inhaling.

It seems as if I can only exhale. An infinite release of air that starts once, but ends never.

This body has seen enough. . .

Once I told a psychiatrist who wanted to put me on bipolar medication:

"Look, man. I just want an anti-depressant. I want to keep the mania. Take out the bottom part and keep the top. Cut the string, that's all. Let the balloon float."

"Let the balloon float. . ."

"L et t h e ba ll oo n f l o a t
l e t t he ba l l o o n f l o a t


l e t t h e b a

l l o o


n



f l


o




a
t . . .

That One Word

I believe in God. I always have. I don’t know how to define that God. But I do call it God and not "Higher Power". "Higher Power" is just a new age way to say God. I’m not new age. So I just say God. It’s easier to say God.

But it offends more people than "Higher Power". Good.

God.

I’ve never been an atheist, even though I wasn’t raised in a religious family. But neither was my family composed of secular humanists. We weren’t intellectuals. We were blue-collar. We didn’t make enough money to be secular humanists. When times got tough, we called on God. True, it wasn’t often. Grit and self-determination carried us as far as it could. But once in a blue moon, we’d have to fall on our knees and turn our eyes toward heaven.

There isn’t much to be smug about in a blue-collar household. Secular humanism cannot exist without smugness.

True, I was agnostic for many years. Until my early twenties, I thought I’d play it safe and straddle the fence. Then I discovered Pascal and Blake and Aquinas and Augustine. Then I opened my eyes and I realized how daft I had been! Miracles were everywhere! How incredulous it was to conceive of existence as mere accident! What smugness, indeed!

So I believe in God. That’s probably why I have such a problem with Islam. We have two different conceptions of God, the Islamic world and myself. I don’t like theirs. My God creates and does not destroy. My God advances and does not retard. My God unshackles and does not imprison. My God is art and not censorship. My God is God and not allah.

Am I saying that the Christian God is better than the Muslim God? No. In fact, I haven’t even said that I was a Christian. For I am not. But I bet that's what you thought I was talking about, didn’t you?

That’s because I use the term God. And not "Higher Power". Or "Mother Earth". Or allah.

God.
God.
God.

All I am saying is that My God is better than theirs.

Monday night, I was at a dinner in San Francisco following a show. I was having an argument with an atheist friend of mine.

I really enjoyed the argument. He didn’t believe in God and I did. I thought I was making some great points. He didn’t. Still, it was fun. Like I imagine a tennis match is for people who don’t smoke.

Then a girl came in and sat at our table. The discussion stopped there. I have learned that when it comes to women, it’s best not to talk about religion or politics until after you have taken them to bed.

The girl began talking about roller coasters and how much she enjoyed them.

I told her that I also loved roller coasters.

She said that she liked wooden roller coasters.

I told her that I preferred steel roller coasters. Then I asked her where she had come from.

She told me that she had been having a discussion with some friends at another bar and had become bored.

I asked her what the argument had been about. She said that it hadn’t been an argument. It had been a polite discussion.

I told her that I preferred arguments. That it was fun to draw a line in the sand and engage in ideological fisticuffs. She told me that she preferred polite discussions. I disagreed and said that arguments were better.

“Okay,” she said, “Well, you and I can have an argument about wood versus steel roller coasters.”

“No,” I said, “That’s boring. How about this one: My friend over here doesn’t believe in God and I do. Let’s get into that.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m an agnostic, so it doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Oh, I know what it’s like to be on the fence, too. But let me see if I can get you to fall down from it.”

Then I tried to use an experiment I picked up from C.S. Lewis to convince her of the existence of an underlying moral code to the universe (separate entry to follow). She began to panic and motioned frantically for my atheist friend to come and help her out.

She began talking about right-wing Christian extremists, even though nobody had mentioned the name of Jesus Christ. The Spanish Inquisition was alluded to, even though nobody had brought up Catholicism. Sexual repression was decried, even though nobody had mentioned Puritanism.

The panic was solely about God.

Not "Higher Power", not "Mother Earth", not the "Wise Buddha", not "Ganesh". . .

God.

My atheist friend and the girl teamed up against me. At one point, the girl threw up her hands in disgust and said, “Why should we even have this conversation? You’re never going to convince me and I’m never going to convince you, so what’s the point?”

“Because,” I said, “my beliefs wouldn’t be worth anything--even to me--if I didn’t try to convince anybody of their truth. The same goes for any philosophical belief, scientific proof, or political platform. That’s the essence of progress. If you’re convinced of the truth of something, what’s the point of keeping it to yourself? What if Edison had refused to share his discoveries for fear of being impolite?”

The tennis match continued. Doubles against a single.

Then I lobbed what I thought was a really good one: “What I find telling is that you described yourself as an agnostic. But for some reason, the moment I mentioned God, you started clinging to my atheist friend like a life preserver. As an agnostic, couldn’t you just as easily have been pulled this way? You seem to have the jumped off the fence, all right. Without any struggle at all, you've landed in the pastures of non-belief.”

Later, my atheist friend and myself had a cigarette outside.

“You know,” he said, “I think that agnostic girl likes me.”

“She probably does,” I said, “after all, you’re the atheist.”

God.

More than "Higher Power", more than "Vishnu", more than "Xenu", more than "Goddess". . .

How that one word still has the power to attract or to repulse.

God.

You’ll find it standing just outside of Nature. For that is Its creation.