Following a long standing policy of early adoption I’ve gotten on twitter. Well, I technically got on it two years ago when I signed up, but today was my first update. Somehow I already had six followers. I was initially humbled by their patience. Ten minutes and six posts later I feel  deeply slighted by the sparseness of my audience and their stubborn unwillingness to be more people. There is a dizzyingly short reward cycle to this medium.

The countdown for my inevitable first racist/sexist/liable remark, and attendant public apology, has begun. Smart odds currently have it at six days; the number comes off the board once regular season NBA start. I’ve been doing push ups between feed checks in preparation for my first shirtless selfie. Tomorrow I stock up on chest wax and purchase a digital camera…maybe swing by Bed, Bath & Beyond to pickup some tasteful pot lights to give  the old mug a more forgiving soft focus. Why didn’t they have this when I was twenty. Good times.

I have spent thirty six years begging the question. If asked, at any given point, the question begged would have varied, as would the motivation, but the underlying sentiment would have been “I don’t care a great deal about this”. The human experience as a whole has often felt like an o.k. party where I know a couple people from work: if I drink enough it could be fun, and I might get laid, but I’m not especially invested in the goings on around me. A ladytype once described me as a sociopath humanist who would stroll whistling through a race riot to comfort a sad friend. It’s fairly apt.

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I am unsure that manly ennui is a thing, but mulling over career prospects and time of life bullshit with Adele playing in the background suggests the opposite as a distinct possibility. A man shouldn’t feel plucky and wronged at the same time; two bars into Chasing Pavement having a good cry and putting on fresh lipstick seems less Buffalo Bill and more legitimate coping strategy. I can’t tell if I’m burning with wrath or if it’s just hot flashes from the estrogen surge. Time to hit shuffle. Musically and otherwise.

I was going to post a facebook comment about the suspension of disbelief necessary to watch random mid-day pornography. I had gotten as far as typing “Where would a twelve year old runaway get the money for a boob job” [1] into my status bar before considering that this made it seem like I’m really into child pornography. I then tried to work in an explanation on how the twelve year old in question was actually a dead eyed twenty seven year old in pigtails and footy pajamas in the back alley behind a Denny’s, when a status update from my pre-teen niece popped up into my newsfeed. Her friend got braces and they look nice. A moment of clarity and flurry of unfriending ensued.

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*This was the first story I ever wrote for public consumption. I originally put it out on my old site chapter by chapter with the idea of matching the style of an old radio serial. It almost immediately went from pulp western to absurdist humor. The craft is pretty shaky, but there is an energy and randomness that I still dig a decade later. It is uncompromisingly my internal sense of humor, so it’s pretty polarizing, but it is still the most fun I’ve ever had writing something.*

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It is rare that something can offend me on so many levels that I just start laughing. I was searching for the original and this came up, before it.  My brain exploded, I was barraged  by so many simultaneous violations of taste and decency it felt like I was playing five hole at a gang bang.  This is akin to David Duke doing a heartfelt cover of “A change Gonna Come“.  Chris Brown must undergo daily medical procedures to have every drop of irony and self awareness drained from his bones. Continue reading →