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


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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


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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.

MID-STREAM: An Essay In Progress Following A Return From San Francisco

--for I knew that as soon as I got off the stage on Saturday night, that it wouldn’t be too long before that familiar Loneliness made its presence felt again. It was such a beautiful night. Actually, it was a very beautiful week overall. It seemed that each show got progressively better, culminating in one of my favorite performances ever on Saturday night. Hence, my reluctance not only to say goodbye for the evening, but to leave San Francisco and the Purple Onion yet again.

Thursday at the Eureka Theatre was a litmus test for myself as a writer. I had done so many podcasts and written so many blogs over the past months that I had, I felt, neglected my duties when it came to writing new live material. Adding to the drought was the emblematic struggle of making ends meet in New York City.

Writing for the internet had made me dependent on two things: technology and solitude. The stream of my ideas raged as torrential as ever. Yet having opened the Pandora’s box of studio creativity, every comedic idea thenceforth was seen as a potential recording project; replete with manifold layers and sound effects. A far cry from those days when I lived in my car at the Berkeley Marina and managed to write multi-character pieces without the aid of a computer.

And the solitude required by studio creativity made me in turn more afraid of my audiences, where I had not been before.

Moving to a new place in Jersey City last December seems to have unleashed something in me which I had often feared over the last few months had disappeared: the raw excitement of standing in front of a mirror and bellowing out comedic pieces in anticipation of performing them for a live audience.

My interpretation of the Geico Lizard as a cockney football hooligan met with success right off the bat. The laughter it received reinvigorated my confidence in my ability to write single character monologues reacting to an unseen second party. Not only that, he’s very fun and easy to perform, thanks to the primal rage I’ve infused in him. Anger is my favorite emotion, for it is so familiar to me.

Yet my favorite of all the new pieces I brought with me to San Francisco is undoubtedly "The Humility Award". Ever since seeing Eric Idle lampoon Richard Attenborough in the final episode of season three of “Monty Python’s Flying Circus”, awards presenters have been among my favorite characters to play.

"The Humility Award" is a self-contained absurdity. What truly humble person would allow themselves to be the recipient of The Humility Award? The applause the bit received was worth more to me than the audience will ever know. I loved it so much that it was the only piece I repeated over three consecutive nights. I loved it so much, in fact, that on the DVD footage of the first night, you can actually see me stifling a smile once I apprehend that the audience and I are on the same page.

That’s right! It was all filmed! All three nights! That was the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae of my post-show afterglow. Everything was filmed. Preserved to be packaged and sold. A product I will proudly sell, despite my longstanding aversion to commerce.

But boy, how I dreaded to get off that stage Saturday night! The Purple Onion is my home, as Mario, the owner, is always so good to tell me. It’s moments like those that remind me of how far I’ve come and how far I have yet to go. From some socially-retarded bookworm in small-town Missouri to being embraced by the Italians of North Beach.

“Life,” says Bruce McCulloch in a little-known Kids In The Hall piece, “is a pretty sweet fruit.” Indeed.

Or as King David wrote in his psalmic glee, “My cup runneth over.”

Either sentiment is apt, although I find myself repeating the latter with greater frequency than ever.

My cup runneth over.

Also, I talked with Michael Ian Black (Viva Variety, The State, Stella) a good deal in the hotel lobby this past weekend. That was a major turning point . You see, I have always been afraid of people who appear to be more succesful than me. Because, I suppose, I am afraid of myself and my own defects. I am afraid of my jealousy. I am afraid of my competitiveness. I am afraid of my pride.

So I went down to the lobby two or three times to get some coffee and each time I saw Michael Ian Black at the far end of the lounge. It’s hard to describe it, but his presence at first bothered me. I knew there was somebody in this hotel who was more successful than me. So each time, I would get my coffee and turn back to the elevators to go up to my room--troubled, depressed, and feeling like a failure after having seen a success.

But the third time, I decided to do something different. As I turned towards the elevator bank with my coffee in my hand, I instead turned around and went and introduced myself to Michael Ian Black.

My approach to things has failed me in a lot of ways. I called myself an artist as a defense mechanism, not as a statement of confidence. I let others call me a genius and privately relished it with an unending megalomania. I told people that I kept to myself because that’s just how I create; failing to mention that solitude and misanthropy were the blinders I wore against having to witness the success of others.

Michael Ian Black shook my hand and invited me to sit down. We were joined by other members of The State who were rehearsing for their reunion show as part of Sketchfest. He told me he had enjoyed my show on Thursday which surprised me because I wasn’t aware he had even been in the audience. It also relaxed me because I felt like an equal, which is, I hate to admit it, one of the most relaxing things to feel like.

On Sunday, before heading to the airport, I had another conversation with Michael Ian Black. We talked about the “business” of comedy and the psychological effects it can have on a performer. I won’t reveal any specifics of the conversation out of respect for confidentiality. But it certainly was illuminating inasmuch as I can say that I am not alone in my neuroses.

God bless you, Michael Ian Black.

One must separate one’s psychological well-being from the roller coaster of one’s occupation. Not only comedy, but any vocation. It’s all the same. I see it now. The realm of the spirit cannot be shackled to the contingencies of the material. Spirits can only live unfettered.

When I think about how I’ve often looked at the world and my place in it, I’m surprised that I’m still alive.

There was a new bartender working Saturday night at the Purple Onion. Usually, it’s A.J. This time, it was a new guy, Luka. As I was rehearsing my set on the sstage, Luka was singing very loudly in Italian behind the bar.

It sounded like the chorus to the early Bee Gees song “I’ve Gotta Get A Message To You”--about a man on death row about to be executed. I asked Luka if he was singing the Bee Gees in Italian. He said that he wasn’t. The he continued singing the same Italian passage.

So for five days, I’ve had the chorus to that Bee Gees song in my head:

I’ve just gotta get a message to you!
Hold on! Hold on!
One more hour and my life will be through!
Hold on! Hold on!

I was waiting for the NJ transit the other day. I was the only one in the waiting area. The reverb was beautiful. So I sang at the top of my lungs:

I’ve just gotta get a message to you!
Hold on! Hold on!
One more hour and my life will be through!
Hold on! Hold on!

I didn’t want to leave the stage Saturday night. The people were so beautiful. The night was so beautiful. The sound of their laughter was the sound of the host of heaven in divine orgasm.

I didn’t want to leave the stage Saturday night. Because I know that tomorrow follows today until today becomes a yesterday. How many yesterdays can one man’s past hold? Till the seams should burst and all yesterdays rain down upon his head until his very life itself should become an endless shower of yesterdays? No more todays? No more tomorrows?

No, this cannot be. I am looking at things with backward eyes. I must invert what I have inverted till the upside-down is right-side-up again.

Babies are not crazy. They have not had time nor resources to drive themselves insane.

The flight was nearly empty going back East. I am so tall, it was nice to stretch out across an entire row. I watched a Richard Gere movie called Nights In Rodanthe. It was predictably atrocious. I laughed when the leading lady cried. I laughed at all the sad parts. I am not completely cured of my cynicism. Nor would I desire to be. I must maintain a little schism; a little cognitive/emotional split between what I do and what is expected of me by the "good society". Just enough of a crack in the Spirit to allow Freewill to exist. Automatons do not get to heaven.

The flight attendants brought me four pre-packaged dinners when I called for them. I am not a regular comedian. I love airplane food. It was a feast fit for a king such as myself who reigned at 36,000 feet above the earth’s surface.

Oh, I hope we never land. . .I said over and over to myself. . .let us go higher still. . .

The flight attendants brought me as much coffee and Dr. Pepper and orange juice as I could drink.

My cup runneth over.

I hope we never land. I don’t want the show to end--

Why Are You Sad, William Franken, Even On This, The Holiest Of Days?

Well, I'm in San Francisco to do some shows, but I came in early to do another show last night. So my hotel isn't ready until Thursday. But this nice family, a friend of a friend, is putting me up until then. So when I got here from the airport, I was all jet-lagged and sad. Then I go to this really nice house and there's a husband and a wife and a son and a beautiful greyhound dog and they were all so nice and look so happy and content with their lives that sometimes I wonder about the choices I've made in this life. Maybe things could have gone differently, I suppose. Maybe I could have had a nice family and a nice house and a nice dog if I had just followed some other path.

This was my state of mind a few hours after arriving.

Also, I tend to get very horny up in the air. Especially when I'm sitting next to a cute chick. If she's curled up in a blanket and sleeping and turns off the light above, I fantasize that we're in bed together and she's going to sleep and I'm staying up to read.

When she wakes up, usually around landing time, I have to resist the urge to say, "good morning, honey!". So on Sunday, this girl next to me on the plane wakes up as we begin our initial descent--she had been sleeping throughout the entire flight. She even had on one of those fancy eye covering things. (What are those things called, by the way?)

As soon as the plane heads in for final approach, she scrambles through her purse and starts furiously putting on makeup. I swear, it was like she was two different people! For five hours, she was snuggling under a blanket while I watched some shitty pre-selected Richard Gere movie and wondered what her name was and if she was dreaming about how cute I am. Then the moment we touch down, she's ready to hit the town with somebody else! The nerve!

By the time I made it out of the terminal to grab a cigarette, I had forgotten all about her. And then--wham!--she walks right past me and embraces this gelled blonde guy and they drive off together in his Porsche.

So I get the snoozing girl in the Continental Airlines blanket and he gets the rouged Renoir. Didn't she know we had a relationship in my head?

Also, I got a haircut Saturday in Jersey City. It was at one of those annoyingly trendy places called Balance. A sign outside read:

OUR HAIRCUTS WILL GET YOU LAID!

So I went in and talked to a group of very beautiful girls and asked them how valid the offer was and if they could absolutely guarantee that I was going to get laid via one of their haircuts.

"Oh, yes!" they said with girlish glee.

"Should I cut it all off? Will that get me laid? I ask, because the last time I remember getting laid with any frequency, my hair was a bit shorter."

"Hmm," said Christina, the girl at the appointments desk, "I don't think you should cut it short."

"No," said Sasha, one of the stylists, "definitely keep the length. You just need to give it some shape."

"Yeah? And you think if you girls give it some shape, that'll get me laid?"

"Oh, definitely," said Sasha. "Long hair is sexy. You just need to give it shape. Right now you've just got a big triangle."

"Well, a triangle's a shape, isn't it?" I asked.

"It is, but it's not a good one."

"How much is it for a haircut?"

"45 dollars," said Sasha

Jesus Christ, I thought as I took the Lord's name in vain. "And I'll really get laid if I do this?"

"Definitely!" they all squealed in unison.

I asked for some time to think it over. The price was steep, but the idea was stimulating. I could pay a girl forty-five dollars to play with my hair while I talked to her about wanting sex. Cheaper than a prostitute and virtually no risk of disease. Two minutes after leaving, I pulled out my cell phone and called the number on the card they had given me.

"Hi, this is Will. We met about two minutes ago. I don't know if you remember me or not. I was the guy that wanted to get laid."

"Yes, I remember," said Christina.

"Well, I think I want to do this. Can I have a five o' clock appointment?"

"Absolutely."

"And, uh. . ." I cleared my throat and said in a hushed tone, "will Sasha be the one cutting my hair?"

"Yes," said Christina.

"Good. . .I like Sasha. And. . .uh. . .how does it work? I just bring the money when I come in?"

"Yes, that'll be fine."

I had three hours to kill before my date with Sasha, so I went home and did the laundry, had a nice shower and a shave, put on some deodorant and some nice clean clothes. I wanted to look good for my haircut.

When I arrived at five o' clock on the dot, I was really nervous. That's how I always am with women. When I first meet them, I'm okay. I can tell jokes, flirt, be confident, the whole ball of wax. It's just when I have to see them a second time that things get all fucked up.

That's when I start to worry about whether or not I'm repeating jokes or if she's had enough time to think about what a repulsive human being I am.

So I was much more subdued when I saw Sasha the second time. I stood sheepishly at the counter, waiting for her to appear.

"Hey!" she said, springing up behind me on those bouncy girl's feet.

"Oh, hi Sasha. . .(gulp!). . .h-h-how are you?"

"Are you ready for your shampoo?"

"You bet!" I said, my pulse starting to quicken, my throat starting to dry, "let's do it. W-W-Where should we go? How does this work?"

"Jason's going to take care of you right over here."

I furrowed my brow. "Jason? What do you mean, Jason?"

She led me to a chair that was being manned by a slender mulatto man with a very large afro and a purple keffiyah. "Hi, I'm Jason!" he said in a well-honed camp.

I turned to Sasha with a fierce whisper, "What's all this about?"

"Jason's going to do your shampoo."

"But you're cutting it, right?"

There was a look of fear in her eyes. "Yes. . .I am."

"I mean, that was the deal, right? I give you the money and you cut my hair?"

"Yes, I'll cut your hair. Don't worry. . .I'll cut your hair."

"Cause I don't want a haircut that's going to get me laid by men. That wasn't the arrangement. I want women, you understand? Lots of 'em. Young, supple. Lithe. . .slippery. . .drippy. . .bendable. . ."

She started to slowly back away. "Yes. . .I'm. . .j-j-just going to get my station ready. . ."

"Keep the chair warm."

Jason took forever shampooing my hair. Honestly, it seemed it would never end. I started to think he was taking delight in torturing me--in keeping me away from Sasha as long as he could. I've washed my hair before and it's never taken that fucking long. It was almost like he was shampooing each hair individually.

When Jason finally released me and sent me over to Sasha, I felt completely emasculated. Here I was, approaching this extremely attractive woman whilst wearing a long plastic miu-miu with a towel for a scarf and a head of wet hair on a scalp that had just been recently massaged by a flaming mulatto Palestinian sympathizer.

I'm sure that was all part of the Sasha's little plan. Take a big strong man like me and try to humiliate him with a queer shampooing. She's probably a goddamn dominatrix in her off-hours. Cooze.

Yeah, I had a grudge, all right. So much so that when I finally sat down at Sasha's chair, I didn't even know where to begin with the small talk. I was downright fuming. So I just picked up from where I had left off earlier.

"So you really think you can get me laid with this haircut?"

"Definitely," said Sasha. Snip. Snip.

"And that's all it will take? Just a haircut? I won't need to change my personality or make tons of money or listen to horrible music in some fuckin' dance club?"

"Definitely," said Sasha. Snip. Snip.

"I'll just. . .get laid? Just like that, huh? Pretty nifty. So about how long do you think it'll take?"

"For the haircut?"asked Sasha. Snip. Snip.

"No, to get laid."

"I don't know. I guess it all depends," said Sasha. Snip. Snip.

I could tell she was losing interest in talking about me getting laid. So I tried to liven up the conversation by sermonizing on the death of romance and culture amidst the ideological wreckage of postmodernism. Snip. Snip.

I discussed C.S. Lewis' notion of the preexistence of a moral code to the universe and how that correlated to Immanuel Kant's conception of an innate morality existing within each individual human. Snip. Snip.

I touched briefly on Baruch Spinoza's model of the universe as an infinite and undefined substance from which particulars emerge in recognizable empirical paradigms. Snip. Snip.

Then I looked in the mirror to see what she was doing to my hair.

"This is going to get me laid?"I gasped.

"Yeah. You look like Eddie Vedder!"Snip. Snip.

"I think I look like Princess Leia!"

"Trust me. It looks good."Snip. Snip.

"It's all bouncy on the sides!"

"That's cause you've got curly hair."Snip. Snip.

"I thought I had wavy hair."

"No. You've got curly hair. This brings out the curls." Snip. Snip.

"I didn't have any curls!"

"Yeah you did."Snip. Snip.

"Nuh-uh. I had waves."

"Those were curls."Brush. Brush.

"I beg to differ. They were waves. Like short, choppy waves. After a jet ski goes by."

"That's what curls are."Spray. Spray.

"Excuse me, but whose fucking hair is this anyway? They were waves!"

"I have a degree in cosmetology and you have curls!"Blowdry. Blowdry.

"Waves!"

"Curls!"

We argued for a little bit longer about the difference between waves and curls. Then, despite the fact that I didn't even orgasm, I paid her the money and felt ashamed for being one of those creepy guys that has to actually pay for a haircut.

I called a friend later and told him what I had done and how I had been seduced by the sirens at Balance hair studio.

"You surprise me sometimes," said my friend, "you're such a sucker to commercial culture."

"Look, man," I said, "I've done the artist thing. Now it's time to grow up and face the facts. We live in a shallow world and I just want to get in on the ground floor."

So that's probably why I'm sad right now. Sometimes I want to get in on the ground floor and I get mad at myself--

--cause I know I never will.

I HAVE NO INTERNET WHERE I LIVE

Where I live, I have no internet.

This is why I haven't been blogging.

I have moved into my own place in Jersey City, NJ.

Now I can be as loud as I want at the top of my lungs.

And so I am now writing live comedy again. (I WAS DYING CREATIVELY IN WOODHAVEN!)

But I have to check my internet at a cafe where they play horrible world music and twenty-year old women with taupe skin and Obama buttons serve me.

(I would fuck this one behind the counter now, though :))

It is harder to concentrate here.

When I first moved into my new place, I had perfect internet for four days. It was really fast! I used "linksys".

Then, all of a sudden, it wanted a password.

I have been all over my apartment and there is one spot, if I move my bed and almost close my computer and hold it flat against the wall two feet above the floor, where I can get internet for thirty seconds before it freezes up.

I have to type with one hand and hope that I do not jostle the computer in the process because I will lose my thirty-second connection and will have to keep clicking the airport thing at the top of the screen until "Fon-Fon Free-for-All" appears again.

I think people are stingy with their internet on the east coast.

The last time that I had a thirty second internet connection with my computer pressed against the wall and almost closed between the space where my bed and the wall is--I googled "How to hack into wi-fi"

I tried some of the tips, like typing "admin" for any WEP password.

But to no avail.

So, maybe it is for the best. As I say, I am writing live stuff again.

I miss blogging, to be sure. But I have big shows coming up in San Francisco in a few weeks

I thought that I would never write comedy again, but I am working on the following:

A bit about a lizard.
A bit about the Gaza Strip.
A bit about Facebook.

and many more.

Speaking of which, it bothers me when women on Facebook post pictures of themselves with their babies. Not that I have anything against babies. It's just that it makes Facebook less of a networking site and more of a wallet.

Here Are Some Things That Have Happened and are Happening

BOOK I: THE MOVE

I have moved to Jersey City, New Jersey. I am now closer to New York than I was when I lived in New York. It sounds Buddhist, but it isn't.

BOOK II: THE STRANGE DVD EXPERIENCE

Today, as I was unpacking, I was labeling some unlabeled CDs and DVDs and had the strangest experience. For a few years now, I have been unable to watch myself performing on video in front of an audience. I didn't even want to hear any of my live CDs! The only thing of mine I could tolerate listening to were my studio podcasts.

There was a time when I couldn't wait to get a video copy of a performance. Once I had it, I would watch it over and over again and be filled with a great sense of pride at my accomplishment. I was overcome with joy hearing the laughter of the audience.

Then, perhaps, I became sick of myself. I just wanted to do the shows and disappear. I felt sorry for the audiences that they had to look at me while they laughed. Oh, how I hated myself. Even before this, I very rarely laughed at anything I did. It all went through the prism of an intellectual vocation. Yes, I see it--that should connect to that and that should connect to that and that will equal funny.

Last month, I was looking for a particular unlabeled DVD and accidentally inserted one of my theatrical performance videos, the original Good Luck With It. (I might not have been watching them, but I certainly saved copies!)

At first I winced--ooh, I don't want to look at that, I thought. But then, for some reason, I decided to skip ahead and see two bits that I only performed once: "The Retrial Of Scott Peterson" (a defense attorney's convoluted argument that Scott Peterson did not murder his pregnant wife, but that the unborn son burst out of his mother's stomach like the alien in Alien) and "The Philosophy of the Matrix" (a pretentious English professor in the year 5792).

Anyway, I found myself laughing at loud. Later, I called a friend and told him that I thought I was making some sort of spiritual progress because I was able to watch myself for ten minutes and enjoy it.

So today, as I was labeling DVDs, I came across a one-off show I did called For Existence, Press One. I didn't really remember the show at all. I just wanted to pop in the DVD, find out what it was, and then label it. But once I pressed play, I saw myself wearing goggles and a breathing mask with a tube coming out of the mouth. My face was totally hidden behind the apparatus. I was gesturing wildly with my hands as a prerecorded high-pitched voice explained the situation: I was a vegan who could only survive by eating helium.

I laughed my ass off! I remember hating that bit at the time I wrote it, but man--I was in hysterics! It was like I wasn't really a comedian and I was watching somebody else on the screen and really enjoying it. With every bit, I would tell myself--"Okay, after this bit, eject it, label it, and finish the rest"--but I couldn't. I was in hysterics for the whole ninety minutes.

That was a very interesting thing. To enjoy watching myself as if I was somebody else. I'm not sure if it was a good or bad thing. It felt good because it's always nice to laugh. But it also felt strange because I was worried that I was going to get fat and sit on a couch and watch me succeed while I failed.

I am still afraid of failure.

BOOK III: THE FUNNY LINE FROM THE TELEVISION

For some reason, I get free cable in this studio apartment. The only thing I like on television is Turner Classic Movies. Every time I'm in a hotel, I turn on Turner Classic Movies and let it play for the duration of my stay, keeping the sound down low until something comes on that I want to see.

I sleep with the television on. Old movies make me feel warm and comfortable. They're better than a woman sometimes, because the women in old movies are better than women in new movies. And women in new movies are the women that women in today's reality largely model themselves after. Myrna Loy? Veronica Lake? No--they're catching fish with Sarah Jessica Parker's nose, women today.

So this is a studio apartment, but I have this big barricade of dressers which form a makeshift wall between my bed and the living room area. On top of the dresser is the television. In the living room, I watch television. When I go to bed, I keep the television on with its back to me, so I can fall asleep to the sound of old movies.

Anyway, the day after Christmas, early in the morning, Turner Classic Movies began a marathon of the delightful Andy Hardy movies starring the lovable Mickey Rooney. I woke up about 6:30 a.m. and heard the following interchange between Judge Hardy (Andy Hardy's father) and a wealthy and snobbish male defendant.

JUDGE HARDY: I fine you one hundred dollars.
DEFENDANT: (with a huff) That's nothing. I got that right here in my pocket!
JUDGE HARDY: And thirty days in the county jail. You got that in your pocket, too?

I laughed and fell back asleep.

BOOK IV: THE BIBLE

I have been looking into Catholicism. Actually, I have always been intrigued with both Catholicism and Hasidic Judaism. But the Hasids once rejected me when they found out that I didn't know whether or not I was a Jew and it really hurt my feelings. I know, I know, they're supposed to reject you a few times just to make sure you really want it. But I just don't have the discipline. I love gefilte fish, though. I didn't like it when the rabbi prayed and made the weird noises. But when he was just riffing, talking about the Nefish (sp?), man that blew my mind like the Hinduistic thought process.

But I need to get on some sort of spiritual path, I believe, to regain and maintain my love for life and such things as humor and music and visions. We didn't really have any religion growing up in my family. But my father was a lapsed Catholic; born into it, if you will. I always liked the art and the idea of ritual and iconography and guilt and the schoolgirls. So with all the Catholic presence in New York, I figured I'd try to learn that one.

I talked with this priest and he suggested I start by reading the Gospel of St. Mark. He asked if I had a New Testament and I said no. I thought he would offer to give me one, but he didn't. I was a little disappointed. I remember in Missouri they used to give them away like they were going out of style (which of course, they were. But I didn't know it then)

So I went to a Catholic church and asked the guy at the front desk if they had any New Testaments and he said they had run out.

So I looked up the Gospel of St. Mark online and read it from a Greek translation. Well, I had a little problem. Now those of you who know me know that normally I hate historical revisionism. But I just couldn't help it. The more I read of the Gospels, the less I thought Jesus was the Son of God and the more I thought he was just a hell-raising rock-n-roller.

I also wondered, as apparently many others have, if Jesus might not have been illegitimate.

I told the priest of my doubts, but he didn't seem upset. He listened with patience. I told him that I had been reading the Bible online and that it was hurting my eyes--hoping that he would take pity on me and give me a free New Testament. Still no luck.

I also told the priest of something strange I had noticed in The Gospel of St. Mark. There's a bit where Jesus is walking with the disciples and he comes across a fig tree and he's hungry. But he looks at the tree and there's no figs on it. Then he says something to his disciples like, "this tree won't bear any more fruit ever!" (paraphrasing, of course). Later on, they walk by the same tree again, and it's all withered and dying. I told the priest that I thought that made Jesus look sort of hungry and pissed off. Like if he can't have a fig, then fuck the tree. The priest suggested it might be a metaphor for good fruit that comes from a good tree or something like that, but I thought he was reaching a bit there. I think Jesus just got pissed off cause he was hungry and took it out on the tree.

But I wasn't (and still aren't) ready to throw in the towel just yet. After St. Mark, I went back and started reading St. Matthew. But I tell you, I was really getting sick of reading it online.

So as I was moving recently from Woodhaven, I noticed that my now ex-roommate had a Bible--a really cool King James paperback. He also had an I Ching and a Bhagavad-Gita. I was going to lift all three, but I decided to just take the Bible.

I had attempted to read the Bible all the way through two years ago and had given up at Leviticus. But this time, I was going to do it. I packed the pilfered Bible and off I went to New Jersey.

BOOK V: THE BIBLE AND THE FLAG

While I was moving, I remembered that my now ex-roommate had given me an American flag at one point. About seven months ago, he knocked on my door and gave me this really large cloth flag and said I could hang it up if I wanted.

I have one window in this apartment I live in now and it has no curtains. I sometimes walk around naked and I noticed there are children in the condominiums across the street. I thought it would be a good idea to cover the window with something lest the children should see me and get the wrong idea that I wanted to be seen by children--which I do not.

So right after or right before packing the stolen Bible, I took the large folded American flag and packed that as well.

I left Woodhaven that night with a very heavy suitcase. I had to change trains three times, lugging this absurdly heavy bag with me.

Once I got to my new place, I unfurled the American flag and hung it over the window--but it was so massive, it bunched up at the floor. So I hung it sideways with the star portion covering the window and the stripes extending perfectly to the end of my bedroom wall. It was a beautiful fit! I loved it! It gave everything such warmth. I was home. . .after all this time. . .I was home.

I had to go back to Woodhaven the next night and get the rest of my stuff. I had hoped to fit the rest in the same suitcase and had also hoped the suitcase would have been much lighter this time around. As it turned out, it was so heavy, I could only drag it. I even had to pack additional bags. Damn and blast! I wanted to be out of Woodhaven for good!

My now ex-roommate was around, so I asked him if he'd be interested in taking a trip to lovely New Jersey in his 1987 Toyota. He said he would for twenty dollars. I told him twenty sounded fine if he would let me use his food to make myself a peanut butter sandwich so I could defray the moving costs by not having to pay for dinner that night. It was a deal.

As I was packing up the last of my stuff, he came into the room.

"You haven't seen my flag, have you?"

"I thought you said I could have that flag."

"I said you could hang it up in here, not take it with you. That's my dad's flag." He's fifty-seven, my ex-roommate and his father had served in WWII. There's no way I could have lied about taking the flag.

"I thought you gave that flag to me because you knew I was a libertarian."

"They gave that to me when he died. It's the only thing I have from him. That and a hat."

I sighed, "It's hanging up out in Jersey. I can give it back to you when we get out there. I just thought you gave it to me because you didn't like George Bush."

"No, they gave that to me because my dad fought in Normandy."

It was painful, but I had to give him back that flag. But when it came to the Bible, I remained tight-lipped. He noticed a stack of his books on the floor.

"Oh, I left some of my old books in here. That's my I Ching."

"Yeah," I said. Still, I had a guilty conscience. "Say, you don't have a Bible, do you?"

"I got a Bible somewhere."

"You don't have a spare one, do you?"

"No, I don't have a spare one."

Christ. What a wretched thief I am.

On the drive out to Jersey, I kept thinking of his Bible sitting exposed on my new coffee table. My timing would have to be perfect. As soon as I opened the door, I would take my coat off and fling it on the coffee table, right over the Bible. I had already lost a flag, I couldn't part with a Bible.

By the time we arrived, I changed tactics. I told him that I needed to take up my bags by myself because the hallway was narrow and only one person could walk through it at a time. He said he had to go to the bathroom and I said that he could use mine after I made sure that there was nothing in the hallway that would block his progress.

I got inside my apartment and picked up my (his) Bible and stuck it in a dresser drawer. Then I let him in to urinate.

We shared a cigarette and talked briefly about the new place. Then he got up to leave. As he opened the door, I looked at the flag. My god, he's forgetting his flag.

But I could not do it. "Don't forget your flag," I gulped.

"What flag?" he asked.

Jesus Christ. . .would he have forgotten?

"Your dad's flag."

"Oh, right."

I almost cried as I removed it from the wall and folded it up.

BOOK VI: C. S. LEWIS

On Christmas Eve, I told my old Irish Catholic friend, Jimmy, that I was having a hard time believing that Christ was the Son of God. Jimmy said, "Well, if he isn't, it's all bullshit, isn't it?"

"You mean like Pascal's 'Wager'"?

"That," agreed Jimmy, "but also you should check out a book by C. S. Lewis called The Great Divorce. And read anything by Flannery O'Connor."

I had already rabidly devoured everything that Flannery O'Connor had ever written. But I still had much to read by Lewis. I had read The Screwtape Letters many years before and had had my mind blown by his portrayal of the Devil as a thought. But that was about it.

The Great Divorce was amazing. I read it all in one sitting. It did not convince me that Jesus was/is the Son of God, but it certainly did hammer home the necessity for faith and selfless love. It was a simultaneously terrifying and comforting depiction of the afterlife. Usually, I am not too much into visual descriptions in literature. That is why Tolkien always bored me. Page after page describing a forest--who needs that? Give me dialogue or give me death.

But C. S. Lewis is a genius at visual description. His conception of Hell is an ever-expanding town where the light is always just on the verge of becoming night even though its citizens delude themselves into thinking its always just on the verge of becoming morning.

In Heaven, the opposite is the case. It is always just on the verge of becoming morning, but to the unsaved souls who look at it from their unblessed state, it is always just about to become night.

So much beautifully constructed religious philosophy, line after line!

The crux of Lewis' Christianity is mind-bending. Check out this all-or-nothing prospect:

If one chooses Christ, everything that one has ever done in one's life, good AND bad, ALL becomes good retroactively. That is, the totality of a person's life is rendered perfectly good by the final choice to accept Christ. Consider the guy who dressed up as Santa Claus and killed nine people recently. Under this radical Christian doctrine, if that man had not killed himself and had been arrested and later turned to Christ, EVEN THE ACT OF MURDERING THOSE NINE PEOPLE WOULD HAVE BEEN GOOD BECAUSE IT LED HIM TO CHRIST!

But since he killed himself, the act of murdering nine people remains bad.

Contrarily, the same holds true if one rejects Christ. If one has performed noble and kind deeds their whole life, those deeds are rendered retroactively bad if in the final choice the doer rejects Christ. For the good deeds will have served no higher purpose beyond the self.

Consider Pity. C. S. Lewis divides pity into two forms: Pity of action and Pity of passion.

Pity of passion holds true love hostage. It attempts to pervert love by binding the lover to the pitied. Therefore true love is always a slave to the demands of those who wish to be perpetually pitied. It requires Love to be ensnared in misery. If those who wish to be pitied cannot feel love, they will have others always pity them. By instinct, I have always known this to be true. This is why my political outlook has developed in the fashion that it has. Abandon the shackles. Close the plantations. Let us live as Individual Divinities.

Pity of action demands of those who wish to be pitied not to wish to be pitied anymore, but to love as lovers love, truly and without demands.

How pleased I was at the first sentence in the preface to The Great Divorce. For Lewis reveals at once the inspiration for the title. It is an undoing of Blake's "Marriage of Heaven and Hell." It is a return to the either/or of our youth. The dissolution of the convoluted union of irreconcilable dichotomies.

Though I still hold fast to Blake's assertion that "Without contraries is no progression"!