

The Official Bizarro Bible

by

Breaker Kuklinski

Copyright © 2016 by Breaker Kuklinski. All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Genesis With a Brief Preview

UNDERPANTS (A Cabbalistic Inquiry)

I sent my shorts to some buried web zine.

They assured that the exposure would do wonders for me.

Their standards were so high

I thought them to be deified.

But, they changed all the words

and showed a penchant to add turds.

They put their names on it

While affecting a sissy's bonnet.

Oh my; groan all the lost hope.

Oh my; groan all the lost dope.

It's only another con that I guess.

As now I jest broke and draw less.

Oh my, oh my, oh my, and oh my.

Instrumental fadeout with apologies to The Wizard and the LGB&T set.

Johnny Thunders, 7:11-28

Seemingly Sequential Succinct Scenarios Compiled las Cuatro Multiplicado Por Cinco Anos Luego

In the beginning, all too often incorrectly depicted by the heathens as 1996AD, was the David Foster Wallace (DFW) Word, and DFW was with God, and the Word was God; oftentimes regarded by the enlightened or not as synonymous with DFW. Whatever the later postulations, it is abundantly clear that DFW was with God, at least at the beginning of and during the succinct microwave fry. In that conjunction or conjugation; through DFW all things were made, and without DFW nothing was made that has been made. In DFW was life, and that life was the light of men. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. In abject boredom, DFW whispered; "Bizarro."

Okay, I know. Some of this is a little confusing and-or possibly seen as doublespeak. But the damn thing has to start somewhere; or else it doesn't and then where would we all be? If you don't like it quit here and go read some doctoral thesis on cosmology. No, that doesn't mean make-up ............... at least not necessarily. ....... Ah, better yet, just hold on to your drawers for a second. You have to do this before you can get to the sex and violence parts. Cover girl ain't bad, right? She is soon to come.

The sun did a 180 and rose; or appeared to rise; depending on one's rotationally disturbed point of view, in the West. The Red Witch finally noticed it in the year incorrectly depicted by the heathens as 1999AD and got on her feet for a change; temporarily disengaging the tangled snakes at or above calf level. By the way, this "incorrectly depicted" stuff will be from herein referred to as "ID" to keep it brief; and in an attempt to emulate one of DFW's techniques. ID is not to be confused with id which is defined by Dictionary.com as "the part of the psyche residing in the unconscious, that is the source of instinctive impulses that seek satisfaction in accordance with the pleasure principle and are modified by the ego and the superego before they are given overt expression." ......... On second thought there may well be a relationship between the two ....... .

While we're on the pedantics, this is a good a time as any to point out for those not yet familiar with the rudiments of Bizarro Fundamentalist numerics, that 1996AD ID by the heathens is also equivalent to ID by the devil; and to those of the Bizarro persuasion is simply 1BB, Bizarro Birth, not "Big Boobenstein," AKA Sunday; 1999AD is 3BB, AKA Tuesday; 2001 AD, a big one, is 5BB, AKA Thursday; etc., etc., and circling around.

Back to the Red Witch; or front to the Red Witch; or something like that; whatever; hang-ups not in the book; thereby being ultimately your own literarily challenged, laughable problem. She thought; "And Lo, for the Earth was empty of Form, and void. And Darkness was all over the Face of the Deep. And We said: 'Look at that f***er Dance.'" For possible clarification, the "We" aspect, was ostensibly referring to herself and the accommodating, wrap around snakes. Perhaps emulating DFW, which she would never admit, she said; "Bizarro," and the world was complete. All right again; your personal interpretation depends on your understanding of word, logos, complete, and a number of other vague concepts like that, which frankly, no one else cares about in 20BB.

Bottom line, witchy woman. Right? Okay; but DFW got some kinda insoluble problem with who came first. If he keeps it up, ain't nobody gonna get nowhere, as the Red Witch can be quite nice; but she's got this adamant thing about a preference for that goddam word "We," while DFW periodically keeps whispering "I Bizarro." Now, Red ain't got no problem with the words themselves; but not having taken any Calculus 102 in college; she just got a problem with numbers. Later on, we'll all have had the benefit of hearing Hendrix put things in some sort of perspective when he shrugged out; "If 6 was 9, I don't mind," but at the outset not a whole lot of the prophets had yet shown up.

So, despite liking the feel of having her dark skin exposed to the warmth of the western orb, she adamantly got on her high horse metaphorically speaking or not, and insisted on a "We," which concurrently quenched the thirsty snakes' passions. "Hell," she thought; "I've sacrificed my tail eaters for a shy 'Bizarro.' Hey, dude. It's only fair if you step up your game a little. You know, like I'm adventurous and all that; but I got something going already that's all good. Unowhumsayin?"

The sky rumbled. And "a great concavity" and "a great convexity" manifested on the east coasts of the US and Canada. Since Red wasn't on either coast, the effort was kind of wasted on her, though DFW considered it a pretty big deal at least metaphorically.

Primarily intended as an act of defiance, 1n 3BB, she founded Eraserhead; some verbal emphasis on the head; with a recognition of no risk, but a potential of some degree of profit; if the snakes formed a reading club or something and wired moolah for the nothing which is currently called advertising.

It would come to pass that the profit-prophet surfaced in 5BB appearing as a conciliatory and disinterested Christmas gift from DFW carrying a book titled "Satan Burgher" and another titled; "The Broom of the System." Let's avoid the possible book based acronyms and call him Fats Melnick. Yes, the "man" was made sufficiently bourgeois with supposedly "cool" horn tattoos shaking on flabby white arms. Picture a "Babbitt" with access to a strip mall quality personal designer. But he carried the magic of DFW's book; "The Broom of the System." Okay, it wasn't his best book. He wrote the po-mo, meta thing as a goof just to get through the master's level course given by Leo Osteoporosis, who loved that kind of crap; who then proceeded to complicate things by showing DFW's embarrassing "brilliance" to some of his meta cronies in academe, one of whom had a cyber "friend" who worked for Hachette as a dictionary proofreader, and ........... Yadda, yadda. You know how that babbling expansion thing goes. And frankly, time would show that Eraserhead was a place where many writers dropped their worst stuff.

Anyway, the propelling thing was that in truth Red was kind of desperate, even though she had done some podcasts to suggest otherwise. After she had converted the snakes into potential Bitcoin paying customers of nothing, they lost most of their enthusiasm for Red and gnawed at their tails instead.

Fats Melnick didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. But he compensated for that by carrying his third rate DFW book and his satan book in one hand and his schwantz in the other. Hey, come on. No matter the proliferation of rocks in his head, Fats was bright enough to see that Red didn't have a plethora of options at her disposal.

The introduction to, and perhaps invention of romanticism was hard to deny. And they became one, and two, and three, and four. In need of a bigger house they moved.

Streams had come up from the earth and made one hell of a brown puddle. DFW had planted a garden incorrectly identified as Eden, as opposed to being ID as being "in the east," the fault of a rusted compass blade, where trees grow out of the ground; trees that were both pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were two special trees; special as they were the only deciduous evergreens. One was called the tree of life and the other was called the tree of knowledge.

Red, Fats and baggage bopped into the place and looked for a comfortable seat; of necessity a wide one. They found something suitable on their collective ass. Red and Fats Melnick got it on all right, but Red was a bit adventurous and kind of thought in multiple terms; presently misdiagnosed as schizophrenia and quadrophenia; and all those ground crawlers were still hanging around. With that size it was kind of necessary for Fats to be on the bottom all the time. All the time. All the time. So what's a girl to do? ......... Yeah, but DFW didn't put a clitty right there; so Red became a bit forward.

Well, seriously; one thing a girl ought to know how to do is protect herself. But, no; Red didn't know anything about pregnancy. Yeah, verily; it wasn't entirely her fault. At the time there were no religious cartels, high school sex education classes, Planned Parenthoods, mothers, or annoying STD's. The simplest fact of the matter was that, as far as anyone knew up until now, there were never any babies or births; and the creepy crawlies were not yet invented by the ho's without access to sanitary facilities or that devastating s*** brought in by plane by that promiscuous, foreign faggot. So, it seems reasonably forgivable in her ignorance of the law, to morally as opposed to legally, consider Red's actions to be an early, innocent manifestation of the philosophy of; "If it feels good, do it." Damn thing was that hints of wrongdoing started to be suggested in a silent, physical format, when her belly became a more prominent part of her body and her morning coffee resulted in something out of one of the gross scenes in "The Exorcist." Too bad that at the time there were no priests handy to get it on. Further too bad, that there were no lawyers available at the time who claimed to have had a specialty in competently administering a damages suit, which could result in; rather than a mere monetary settlement for pain and suffering; one which was adept in the seeking of the remedy of specific performance on the part of the perpetrator.

DFW had some problems with the whole thing. That's kind of a given. Despite his penchant for being wordy, this time he realized that he had the options of writing some long-ass s*** he'd never finish because of the third step of complexity which required a multi-viewpoint history of steps one, two, and early three with footnotes; grammatically correct and beyond the derision of Mark Leyner and his supportive s***ty zine flunkies; condescendingly sometimes referred to as reviewers. Sure, their severely limited effect would cost him all of ten coins of the realm; but still, it gnawed at him that Red had the audacity to insist on having fun without him. It was absolutely sacrilegious and worse; it was also absolutely contrary to his instinctive belief that life was meant to be boring if not painful. So, with one stroke of the pen, he dismissed the meta case and allowed Red's parasites to expand with free will; knowing that she would go for the test; resulting in an Allied-Van-Lines-less relocation to Nod; which would unthinkingly be followed by Melnick the Tannaitic Scribe; who was always overwhelmed by the scent of flowers; and took a dull pencil to the dried out leaves in that regard; especially when mingled with his false memory of the dipping sensation; all good only in DFW's preference for long sentences.

Footnote: In the unabbreviated text, this one goes on for another three pages; interspersed with colons and semi-colons; and a middling potpourri of references to a fictional place known as Upsidown; but in the interest of brevity; not to mention the fair warning (Abridged; for the benefit of the vocabulary challenged.) clearly placed in the document's title; and the irrelevance of the salt thing; with the modern advent of salt substitutes; which are low-sodium table alternatives marketed to circumvent the risk of high blood pressure and cardiovascular disease; which is associated with true salt; though not conclusively considered to always correlate to a high intake of it; though tests have shown a weakly positive statistical relationship between certain matters of the heart, insofar as they can be defined; thus the apparent consumer preference for sodium chloride based products; which while maintaining a similar taste; usually contain mostly potassium chloride, whose toxicity is approximately equal to that of table salt in a healthy person; though and therefore that potassium lactate may also be used to reduce sodium levels in food products; being commonly used in meat and poultry products; which as a bit of an aside is really kind of silly to mention in this context as chickens and eggs have not yet been invented; but for the benefit of modern readers; the recommended daily allowance of potassium is higher than that for sodium, yet a typical person consumes less potassium than sodium in a given day; while seaweed granules are also marketed as alternatives to salt; and despite the scientific advancements, retractions, and uncertainties, it is a fact that various diseases and medications may decrease the body's excretion of potassium, thereby increasing the risk of potentially fatal hyperkalemia; and medical doctors strongly suggest that people with kidney failure, heart failure, or diabetes should not use salt substitutes without medical advice; though for the first two categories the benefit of this professional suggestion may be moot, as the "failure" people are 99.9% likely to be already dead, though the advice may prove beneficial to a distinct minority; perhaps taken with a grain of salt (Pardon the levity.) as an alternative and profit motivated manufacturer has issued an advisory statement that people taking the following prescription drugs should not use a salt substitute, though that term bears a fine distinction from the term alternative; those being amil, triam, dit, and cap; often referred to as the four riders, not to ignore other angiotensin-converting enzyme inhibitors; spironolactone, aldactone, eplerenone, and insprone; often referred to as the four ones; while there is a minority, albeit significant opinion that hydrolyzed protein or nucleotides are sometimes added to potassium chloride to improve the flavor of salt substitutes; complicated by the differing generic names for those of these products which have not yet experienced patent expiration; and of most significance to the ignorant layman choices have been conclusively proven to be statistically significantly made merely based on the unprovable claim that potassium chloride may have an unpleasant, metallic taste to some; this information offered as necessary for clarity of the concept; though it has no more relevance to the main story than it partially did at the time of the expanded original; in full recognition that DFW's diseases are catchy ones; and the precisely opposite interpretation may well be the correct one; so without further ado, Genesis begs to continue its more marketable, sexual exploration.

Sans even the dubious benefit of a court appointed, overworked, and under-skilled jackass, Red waddled through the requisites and was eventually relieved when the twins unexpectedly dropped one day. Right on the ground and right on their heads; before the days of injury attorneys who work on a one-third percentage plus out-of-pocket basis; but whose organization called the Bar was able to establish that the damage from head hits often showed up later; and therefore that payments from those with deep pockets should reflect that in the court case of the present. MD's sufficiently equivocate to be considered generally co-operative in their expert testimony.

Wide hips make things much easier. Later, it would be seen that skinny girls carry on quite a bit.

Fats and a greatly relieved Red just stared in disbelief. There were two things making a ruckus on the dirt. One was kind of slithering and inversely reminiscent of a spaghetti western's "mistake on the rocks" scene; while the other had appendages, and looked like a Pokey Gumby in off-white. Melnick and Red, each wanted to just keep going, regarding the little distractions as something like relieving, mobile excrement. But each of them also wanted not to appear to the other as being so calloused as to abandon two squiggling things propelled in their paths or under it. Pretending that the squiggling s***s were something like we would consider a puppy or kitten, the duo feigned warmth, as each stooped to pet the interlopers while smiling to the other, in primary pursuit of being thought of as likeable and nice. Each surreptitiously and abortively hoped that the other would volunteer for the bad guy role, thereby putting an end to the farce. Neither was truthful, and they named the inconveniences as they held them; while holding back their repulsion. The crawler was named Will; and the appendaged one was named Hansen. The little ones did their bests to follow what they thought were friendly giants; though Will had a DFW inspired instinct to clandestinely differentiate convenient addiction from required need. DFW himself, watched, in anticipation of seeing something like what Lynch found a market for in France.

To backtrack just a bit in an attempt to put the disappointing sex depravity and gardening stuff on the back burner; if you will; it is prudent to point out sometime before the obedience and the rejection of that same obedience which would prove either a consternation or a death sentence for the ensuing generation; that previous to the sensational front page story carried in the "National Enquirer," available at every Wal-Mart check-out line, this particular issue soon to come; it was written that God said, "I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds in the sky and all the creatures that move along the ground; everything that has the breath of life in it; I give every green plant for food." And it was so. God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning' the sixth day. ................... Does sound good. Doesn't it? Free eats! Munch on the plants. No need to kill the animals. Hey; good going, God! An obnoxious, cynical nit-picking scientist might have a couple of typically withering questions; but the beady-eyed freaks, in search of government funding had not yet established universities to bestow them with mesmerizing credentials; so they did what came naturally for them; nothing and silence. At any rate, moving ahead to the God-tabloid thing, there are a few differing accounts of how and when God gave his commandments. For the purposes of Generation2 it is not necessary to get into all the nuances, as it is clear in any known rendition that God didn't have any humongous problem with lies. The closest he is reported to have come in making a presidential edict about that one has been translated into English as; "Though shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor." This is commonly believed to be a commandment against lying. Nonsense. A commandment against lying would have stopped at the word "witness." The "against thy neighbor" addition or qualifier begs many questions; one being; "What is a neighbor?" It seems obvious that it is a stretch of the word to say that one who has established no discernable residence on earth is a "neighbor" of an earthling. This could be easily construed as one of those loopholes politicians put in bills; for the benefit of their largest contributors. I'm sure that everyone has heard that; "The devil is in the details." I mean really. Do you consider people who live three miles from you "neighbors?" Of course not. Just keep this in mind when considering the subsequent judgement which could not survive a court of appeals. Back to the story.

In a flash of brilliance, Red said, "With the help of the Lord I have brought forth two men," as she, perhaps unknowingly, disclosed her main focus of interest. Hansen kept flocks, and Will worked the soil. In the course of time Will brought some of the fruits of the soil as an offering to God. And competition-driven Hansen also brought an offering; fat portions from some of the firstborn of his flock. God looked with favor on Hansen and his offering, but on Will and his offering he did not look with favor. So Will was very angry, and his face was downcast. "Bastard is a meat eater, and I'm a vegetarian," he mumbled. Then God said to Will, "Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door. It desires to have you, but you must rule over it." Will again mumbled; "You've gotta be kidding me. To add insult to injury the bastard is now getting sarcastic with me."

Will thought of a plan. Since God didn't like him, and since God presented no personal target, he decided to remove what God liked. Now Will said to his brother Hansen, "Let's go out to the field," leaving off the ending name of "Stoop." Gifted Hansen said; "Hokey dokey." While they were in the field, Will attacked his brother Hansen and killed him; in the same manner as Hansen had killed his animal offerings. Then God said to Will; "Where is your brother Hansen?" Will thought; "This f***er thinks that he's funny," and in keeping said; "I don't know. Am I my brother's keeper?" God said, "What have you done? Listen! Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from your hand. When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth." Evincing a return note of sarcasm Will said to God, "My punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me. I'll have to write books and kill animals." But DFW said to him, "Not so; anyone who kills Will will suffer vengeance seven times over." After God chuckled at his own best witticism, he, then God, put a mark on Will, which was to become Will's trademark logo; copyrighted in the US.

Under the cover of night, God took the Red Witch to him in the sky. Reports of Red's reaction vary from profit to profit. Consensus opinion suggests that she became co-operative after signing DFW to a seven book deal. When Fats Melnick woke, he reached for Red the way he always had done. Instead of feeling warm flesh, his fingers pierced the sandy ground. Mildly distraught he combed the area; calling out; "Red, Red; come back. I'll churn out another one today."

Fats eventually found a woman in the woods. She wasn't olive skinned; but she did have red hair. Fats didn't want to get into a big issue about skin tone and risk having all the liberals on his ass. More importantly, by this time he was pitching a tent which required a loincloth made of the yet to be invented, lycra. Conspiracy theorists have proposed that there is the distinct possibility that Fats got off on flashing, but for legal reasons needed an alibi. At any rate it seems clear that he kind of pretended that this pale white woman who referred to herself as Constance; Connie after five seconds into a proper introduction; was the real deal. The man had his priorities straight. You know; "Pink on the inside," and all of that. Predictably, Eve soon bore him another son, J Harlan, to take Hansen's place. Yeah, a mild case of Nabokovian confusion. They meant to name him D Harlan, but at the time the Sumerian letters used were also representative of numerical values, which caused a misinterpretation by the clerk at the Hall of Records, and ............... To hell with that. You don't want to hear the details. Just think of the typical politician s*** story after they get caught with 50,000 crisp Jacksons in their freezer. For those less politically astute consider; "I didn't know. Someone else must have put it there," "That's not my residence," "I was holding it for my friend," and if caught on film; "I thought it was the broccoli."

Whatever. There is an infinite supply of alibis. The bottom line was that D became known as J, and he didn't like it in the least. Will hated the complaining little f***, but refrained from committing murder, even mayhem, as he didn't want to risk again facing the same charges he got off on with just probation in the Hansen affair. See, this Will boy had the head of an MIT PhD, and making a killing in futures was at the time relatively easy for him, as futures were the first derivative instrument, and not a whole lot of folks were yet well versed in the matter. Will just basically positioned his money as a bet on ensuing war; which time has shown to be only a 98% accurate prediction. And then "good" old daddy got all pissy about something; the only thing clear his preference for animal slaughter. I digress into redundant nostalgia.

As the world turns, Fats was soon to get a massive stroke while on the down-stroke, due to an un-medicated bad cholesterol (LDL) level of over 700. Surprise, f*****g, surprise. J feigned care and concern at Fats' dying bedside, and came away with Dada's approval to continue the bloodline; whatever that honor is worth. Will was contented with an increasing supply of Jacksons which made every whore within 1,000 miles commence a pilgrimage to lower Mecca.

So, to sum up, what we got here is a changing of the guard. Dad's now six feet under and Connie is glad to be finally allowed to be sowing her wild oats one town over. She openly prefers Will, but J still thinks that he was given the lead by Fats; and as a result becomes a Catholic priest. Yeah, go figure. Will is hit with a couple of paternity suits, but he's got his dough hidden under various aliases in Switzerland. The species multiplied and it wasn't because of the altar boy business. Nephilim, fallen angels, and giants were rumored to come into existence; though there is no empirical evidence of that. There is only the lone anecdotal testimony of Douglas the cyclist. Between you and me, Douglas is one of the truly creative geniuses. But, you know, when he lays on a lot of the sharp water he has also seen credit cards who have credit cards who have credit cards. We've all heard of seeing double; but Douglas can go beyond that before even having breakfast. Y'nahmsayin?

Exodus and a Schlep Through Hell

Note: The following segment is traditionally ascribed to Exo Schlepinsky himself, though modern scholarly consensus considers the writing to be pseudonymous or at least conveniently in public domain. In their learned opinion the stories in the first half are legendary in origin; while the spaced visions of the second half are considered to have emanated from various authors between 1996 and 2016 AD who wish to not be associated with it; as has been communicated by their libel attorneys, return receipt requested.

Hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o. No offense intended; just hampered by the required tiresome preliminaries.

"Finally! Let's play."

"Thought you'd never ask. What's the game?"

"I'm the boss and I'm giving you a job you don't want to do?"

"How about I'm the boss?"

"Either way. It's in Paris."

"Oh, either way."

The scene is the office of the chief editor of the "Paris Review." He is talking to or at me. I am one of his reviewers-interviewers. My name is Will.

"Will, I want you to take a trip to the US and interview Mark Leyner."

"Oh, no. What did I do wrong this time?"

"Not a thing. It's mostly because you're fluent in English."

"Your standards must be low. I just lived there an unfortunate while. In all fairness, I was the one got stuck with Leyner last time."

"Okay. Thing is that top brass is on my case to do some more American coverage. US subscribers must be complaining. It's either Leyner or Rainbow Rowell. Take your pick."

"Merde. Where's the pick?"

" .................... "

"Rowell in Peoria?"

"Yeah."

"Leyner in Jersey City?"

"What else?"

"Couldn't we meet in Manhattan? At least there are some good restaurants there."

"Leyner gets intimidated there and clams up."

"Okay, so what did he do this time? Another one about his mother and father?"

"Just mother this time."

" ......................... "

"It's an improvement."

"You know that I went to a lot of school to get here; and it really sucks to get stuck back there with that moron."

"Well, I don't mean to be rude, but frankly, if you were all that hot, you'd be the one being interviewed."

"It's just a matter of reconciling a few hundred pages of incorrect existentialist viewpoint with the incorrect viewpoint of ......"

"Awesome. Here's the tickets. You can doodle on the plane."

"Come on. Look. I'll even volunteer to be the next one to get yelled at by Zadie Smith."

"She not American."

"Oh. With that big mouth? How about that indie Hackle guy? Did a good one a month ago."

"Unreachable. He's off somewhere seeking inspiration from illegal alien poops."

"Genius. How about that other one. Can't get the name. You know, the one who was bright enough to be embarrassed by the s*** and changed his name."

"He's getting all serious now; and despite that will probably be talking about Leyner."

"That's SO meta."

"Bitch. Look, Leyner is funny. It just doesn't seem so in his books. But, if you read the down homey in conjunction with his pretentious interviews, he's quite amusing."

"Just tell me that he's not doing the nutsack thing with his mother."

"Honestly, I didn't read much. But, you know he often talks about his knowledge of mythology, ......... and I guess it's possible. But, again; you don't need to read more than a few pages of the stupid book. Just list a few of the big words in the Wikipedia definition of post-modern literature; mention them to him, and he'll just rattle on five pages worth. He's gotten brave since DFW is not around to f*** him up."

"Flying into LaGuardia?"

"Newark."

"Damn. Got a bodyguard?"

"Christ man. Can't you see how Americans love the Pigalle."

"Pigalle's been gentrified."

"See the lady in the Paris dress with runners in her nylons."

"Joni Mitchell, like circa 1972."

"That's it, end of conversation. Rowell or Leyner."

"Newark, here I come."

A few days later the scene is Journal Square, Jersey City, NJ, USA. For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, square is a misnomer in the mathematical sense. My briefcase is back in my left hand after a short switch to the right, necessitated by the cabbie's insistence on being paid for the ride from Newark Airport. Seems relatively fair. I am right in front of "The Griddle," where I am scheduled to be meeting Mark Leyner, to gather information I can make sound like an interview for my standardly inconsiderate employer at; "The Paris Review."

For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, Mark writes books which get much more publicity than sales. For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, "The Griddle" is exactly that; a long standing establishment which burns the black lines into hamburgers, retails them, and mercifully also supplies indecipherable stuff in a plastic cup to ostensibly aid with swallowing.

Admittedly, I might be out of date with that assessment, as I thought that I had escaped the environs of my birth twenty years prior. Gentrification is possible, but if Genny has been here, she's been wearing a mask; no, an entire costume, replete with shiny red shoes. "Damn," I thought. "Here I am again, despite prodigious efforts to watch 'My Fair Lady' infinite times, eventually able to decipher the jest. The discount stores which once lined the streets are gone the way of Walmart and Amazon; many replaced by governmental or quasi-governmental entities which charge to process 'free' government services; including not being overly scrutinizing in processing drivers' licenses. The open bus depot is still in the middle and those waiting for one are still pissed." Bad memories imposed and my mind wandered in a manner which seemed quite coherent to me. "Stupid, f***ing professor only gave me a s***ty C+. I suspect that he thought he was being insulting. How could he know that my motive was just to get the magical piece of paper; sufficient to get away from the greasy griddle, in order to be allowed the honor of paying more for the tiny veggie portions? Yes, to my unseen and unwanted audience; you've correctly gleaned that I'm lazy. However, for those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, you may not have gleaned that I often consider that my proudest accomplishment. I digress. I do apologize for the momentary lack of concentration. One should always first do their job and to satisfy the bosses, while making it appear as if it were one's fondest ambition. But coming back here has sparked some old memories and ......... never mind. Allow me to step out of this phony trap. This whole day is not about me. It's about this jackass, writer guy, who is hopefully waiting inside in a booth. Yes, a booth. Unless they've re-decorated, 'The Griddle' fills their unheated, dark space with relatively small tables, surrounded by these 'plushy' seats which afford no discernable separation between the one to your left or right. I always sought an end seat in order to cut my chances of rubbing elbows with an asshole by 50%; the results debatable. In a frosted nutsack, it was an acquired taste of sorts, eventually made tolerable primarily through the relative comparison with the potentially cutting, hard swatches of leatherette or something which emanates from the dried out naugahyde or something cushions. Sorry. This day is supposed to be reserved for chronicling Leyner's whine. Allow me to finish with an apology-excuse-reason-apology. I hope not 'whine.' I will merely note that I didn't ask to be here. I didn't like it when I was. If I could make it different I would have gladly done so. But, it's no my job. .................. Well, yeah, I admitted worshipping laziness, but that's really a bit of an apples and oranges thing with interchanging skins, and the hybrids ....... Ah, f*** me. It's time to pretend to be enthralled by the 'star' with the big deal 7,000 sales."

I simultaneously hated an unidentifiable something in myself which was capable of thinking that ........... for the eternity which approximated two palsied clicks of a digital clock. If it was easily discernable as jealousy, that would also make it easy to deal with. Basic stuff; only question; likely irrelevant or at least moot; whether natural or an acquired taste. I was reasonably certain that it was something else. In 'evidence,' there have been many long forgotten moments exploring the possibility that I was particularly cursed for not only not knowing the answer, but not even recognizing the question. In one form of a merciful diversion my lazy ass body and 'can't-think-and-chew-gum-at-the-same-time' mind focused in the now. "F***, man; like I got a choice here. It's like either pay attention or try to stick your head through the smudged, fortified glass on the door right in your face. Nuff said, I think," I thought. "This is getting absurdly meta." As I pushed on the horizontal handle, I touched the metal replete with the bar's decorated-with-Homeland-Security-quality fingerprints, trying not to be repulsed by the lucrative farce, or a possibly imagined manual, reflective transparency married to a clandestine ooze, which came to light under my otherwise, previously free hand. Perhaps aroused by the foreplay, on the third push the door creaked open, drawing no scrutiny from those already entombed.

Footnote: For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, it is the repulsion which is imaginary; the possible product of stupidly paying attention to and putting undeserved credence in foreign points of view. It quickly becomes quite pleasurable, making one reluctant to go all the way in, necessitating the letting go of the handle. As I have already stated; it's not my fault as I didn't design this, didn't ask to be here ...... or something like that which at one time prompted my mother to say; "I hope that someday you get a kid just like you." That may have been my first encounter with an ambiguity of substance. It seems safe to say that it would be somewhat of an improvement if the metal did not produce imperfect, waggish reflections.

I was in. The cashier was to my right, head down in the register, lazily attempting to check out some slicked back neanderthal with wifey in tow at his rear. The small "n" is late, but not coincidental, as he archaically used cash rather than a credit card, slowing down the line of one; out-voting multiples apparently a product of the eyes-to-the-floor, cashier's, low and thereby pragmatic point of view, as she likely pretended to be inconvenienced while she fumbled in the open drawers of the register. F*** the long ass s***; black bitch was playing; playing real for those who have been around the block. I wished that she took her eyes off the cash drawers and looked to me. But, the sight of her wheel-enhanced, seated, hiked-up, pantiless sincerity reminded me of the good old hirsute part of the bad old times. I was compelled to say: "Hey, babe," and she was compelled to ignore that. Old times; yeah; we think we know. Back to some semblance of contemporary reality, I was somewhere along the line to have been unfairly condemned to be reluctantly aware that Leyner said that he had publicly changed his costume more times than I had; no great feat by any measure I could understand, other than a possible attempt at a possible throw-back to one of their ignorances of Fellini's well known fifties grotesques; that seemingly accurate idea and resultant biased phrasing, in and of itself, consistent with a poor cover attempt at obscuration, likely to be taken as merely indicative of the writer's personal predilection by the learned, in other words those closest to the writer alone; who thereby stupidly, comically, and tragically pursue some kind of acceptance, never to come; not knowing when it is time to quit and thereby be released. Key word back a block; in this case being "said." Leyner was sufficiently brain dead to think that he had invented his own lonesome form of personal perception; totally unaware or fearfully crying while hidden that his ancestral brothers and sisters had long ago written that story; without copyrighting it, hoping that future men, as unobstructed as is legally permitted, in his perceived as increased level of understanding would someday soon be able to change it. Leyner was fixated only on the copywriting aspect and whether or not his mommy liked him. Cut him some slack; he's only sixty. Modest as his goal was, he proved to be burdened with expectations he couldn't come close to meeting. He uncontrollably cried when he thought that he had let them down. He then chastised them for asking much too much of him. He was kinged in overwhelming absentia. He was dethroned; often fantasizing the guillotine which apparently went out of fashion in eighteenth century France.

Was that me (Will) or Mark? .......... Who knows and who cares?

On the Square called Journal, I was once again in "The Griddle," this time different in that I was now job compelled to find and talk to this asshole writer, rather than being allowed to do previous, pre-Paree strut. Who is "he" again immediately became the readers' question. Their unstated answer was that "sloppy writing accidentally created an unnecessary issue," prior to their chucking the book onto the griddle, or the e-version into the hellaciousness of cyber deletion.

Orders are indeed orders. I tried to get someone's attention; inadequately and in hidden redundancy mentally improvising what I would say in the unlikely event that I did. Those operating the grill to my left were occupied with their dead flesh burning endeavors, drawing falsely considered meta inspiration from the blackening edges of "Et Tu Babe," in a way complementing the efforts at the check-out line. What was probably a smiling rookie in a nondescript, one-size-fits-all, red cap, with the stretchy thing just above the back of the neck, balancing a half-eaten hamburger tray, the hamburger that is, to the naked eye, precariously over her head offered her assistance to my blank look; saying; "Can I get you a seat?" "Yes, please, maybe," I replied trying to induce a laugh somewhere prior to step three. Unsure, I added; "Is there a Mark Leyner person here? He is expecting me." For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar with the dominant protocol, half disregard this as another example of a required, platitudinal deference to a mutually required, "politically correct," perhaps conveniently unaware of the "in" part deference to that which deserves no particular deference and asks none in return; that reserved for old glass, she asked or said; "That skinny old guy nursing in booth four?"

"The nursing part seems consistent."

"Huh?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I guess. Go have a seat."

I approached booth four, suddenly and in logical, irrational feeling intimidated by the stature of a very dim star, long ago burned out if ever lit, yet still confounding in its cold light, to those desperately addicted to the measuring instruments with "visions existent" in our best of scopes, black holes somewhat of a perplexing caveat. Simplicity stepped in through the two foot tall, red number 4; which magically appeared to magically hover above the booth. Only a godless sinner would mention that it was a crinkled piece of paper, presently the beneficiary of glue and a wall. ................. Ah, leave it. At least the handless clock wasn't mentioned.

As I reluctantly ambled over the characterless linoleum which purportedly once had a color, I did my best not to slide on the current, greased manifestation of what was doing its utmost to impose itself on the soles of my shoes.

As I had previously been blessed with meeting as well as having seen reasonably current photos of the "funny" US almost-star, I recognized the puckered man seated in the booth sucking on the fat straw, despite his most recent change of appearance from a bearded-receding-greased-back to a clean-shaven-more receding-flyaway; the sucking aspect the telltale giveaway.

"Mr. Leyner?" I said in a manner I intended to be taken as merely businesslike, not necessarily regulatory, nor overly solicitous, nor distastefully bored, nor ...... . Through my recent excursions into the depths of Goodreads on-line, minorly tolerant pronouncements, well supported by calculated, emotional, "cutting edge" ventures into proper feeling or more likely, the lack thereof, I had learned to pragmatically consider any overt statement to be the "unwise" and silly manifestation of that which is considered irrefutable Prince "Pop Life," unfortunately or not, devoid of his beat. Still, farce that it was, it was kind of fun to do what the paltry income habitues could not while they tried to hide their lust for it.

"Mr. Penny?"

"Yes. Will, please."

"Certainly. A hoss is a hoss, of course, of course, unless that hoss is the famous Mr. Will, a gifted, mercurial, oddly unpredictable and somewhat childlike man who is not 'a good captain, which a great writer must be' but might one day rise to the occasion if he had 'the right material.'"

"Somehow I knew you'd say that, since I hadn't heard it since sixth grade."

"You're just saying that in 20-20 hindsight."

"May I sit, Mark?"

"Please."

I sat at the end of the booth, the point most distant from Mark and tried to sound enthused when I said "Thank you," not very different from the most perfunctory of requisite "good" manners. It wasn't for my usually panned lack of perceived effort. It was for a negative inspiration reading on some yet-to-be-invented hi-tech product. Eyeing Mark's quarter eaten burger, I seized the opportunity to divert the brainless one from his "amusing" assessments by saying; "I see you have gotten a head start."

"The waitress will soon come."

Within what seemed a second, this desirably hefty, black chick was leaning over, her cleavage my pleasant, unrequested, current focal point, saying what sounded like; "HiIyourwaitressmayleewelcumtothegriddle;" as she dropped the !2X12 plasticized card in front of me. My nostrils seemed to pick up the glorious, yet somehow sad scent of a fading Morningstar, a precious flower with colors exceeding that of the rainbow; also known as Sirius in the night sky; either that or an XM radio station put on some maps by Howard Stern. Somehow undefinably lost somewhere in the canyon, I smiled in a self-consciously obligatory fashion and without an intent to do so, was effective in pronouncing the safe sort of banality she had heard a hundred times daily and said; "I need a few minutes."

She said; "It's all hamburger, baby. It just comes down to a matter of the lettuce, tomatoes, and ketchup."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. I kind of see that after you said it. Bring me a big one with everything you got on it."

"Anything to drink?"

"Sure. How about this large sized lemonade without the ice cubes?"

"Ummm. Yeah. Not supposed to say, but between us and the stop sign now out front, probably not a great idea, as two-thirds of it is the ice."

"I don't know. You tell me. If I let it sit long enough the ice melts; so either way is fine with me; just a matter of the immediacy of the potency of the golden."

"You talkin' dirty to me? I like my tips, but there's a point at which .................. "

"Hey, hey. Don't get yourself all worked up. Just want a hamburger and an un-diluted lemonade. What's all the s*** about?"

The person attached to the little "Lettie" placard, which was pinned on the thick polyester which three quarters covered her tits looked to Mark and asked if he was fine with his drink. For him this seemed a difficult question; he eventually ending the pregnant pause with a nod which could have been taken either way, which Lettie chose to interpret as a "Yes," which freed her to relay my order to the cook and service other tables.

Out of her earshot, I said; "Jersey f***in' City."

"I was born here."

"Me too. Five miles away, and uh ....................... "

"Left, like everybody else."

"I guess. I never kept tabs on the others. Everybody said they were leaving at age 16, but sayin' ain't doin', you know."

"All the way to Gay Paree, I take it."

"Yeah, kind of. Words change their meanings regularly. Often, the crux depends on what year is one's frame of reference. And I ain't here to give out history lessons."

"So what are you here for?"

"Gotta be a trick somewhere. But, I'll pretend not to notice it and reply; 'To interview big name, star writer Mark Leyner.'"

" ....................... "

"Hey, nothing personal, Mark. I thought you opened some kind of door solicitous of not unreasonable compliments."

"I don't understand. Was that possibly the result of a mediocre French translation?"

"Testimony might suggest something in excess of mediocre; but to 'impress' you is probably the lowest priority on my personal list. See, as far as you're concerned, in expectation of me playing the rational game, is the way it works is that you impress a deaf me and get a published interview which makes you sound interesting and worthy of seven or eight bucks, not considering the 'come on' gift card. What else is going on which I've missed or am pretending to have missed?"

"Unanswerable as structured. Try the gypsy mannequin, mind reader, if really interested. .................. Here comes Lettie. If you stuff your face with food, maybe something useful will go on here."

Lettie dropped it in front of me and the other within arm's length of Mark. As was her standard, phony curtain, she said; "Eat up; it's all good."

Just to be a prick with a lead-in, I said; "Yeah, yeah, okay. I kind of see that after it already happened. Bring me a big one with everything you got on it."

"Anything to drink?"

"Sure. How about this large sized lemonade without the ice cubes?"

"Ummm. Yeah. Not supposed to say, but between us and the stop sign now out front, probably not a great idea, as two-thirds of it is the ice."

"I don't know. You tell me. If I let it sit long enough the ice melts; so either way is fine with me; just a matter of the immediacy of the potency of the golden."

"You talkin' dirty to me? I like my tips, but there's a point at which .................. "

"Hey, hey. Don't get yourself all worked up. Just want a hamburger and an un-diluted lemonade. What's all the s*** about?"

The person attached to the little "Lettie" placard, which was pinned on the thick polyester which three quarters covered her tits looked to Mark and asked if he was fine with his drink. For him this seemed a difficult question; he eventually ending the pregnant pause with a nod which could have been taken either way, which Lettie chose to interpret as a "Yes," which freed her to relay my order to the cook and service other tables.

Out of her earshot, I said; "Jersey f***in' City."

"I was born here."

"Me too. Five miles away, and uh ................. So, I've kinda been there .......... or here ......... or whatever."

"Know the feeling. Know the game."

" ******** "

" ******** "

" ******** "

" ******** "

"Whose turn is it?"

Tray overhead in an apparent play for the audience, Lettie came back to our table and said; "One with all the trimmings and half a glass for the gentleman."

I said the expected; "Thank you."

"And a refresh for the captain?"

"Yes, I'm almost dry."

Lettie nodded and jiggled away as someone's quarter activated Bachman-Turner Overdrive doing "Takin' Care of Business," making her ass move more than usual. When she was out of sight, I said; "Okay, if I take this thing off?"

"Yeah; whatever. I've heard it before. Catchy tune; wouldn't you say?"

I pushed the button, succeeding in muting the sound at our booth; still mildly annoyed to be cognizant of the faint reverberations emanating from undisclosed spaces on all sides.

"Why do I detect a note of dissatisfaction?"

"Tuned to the wrong channel? Faulty ears? Absurd value judgements? The possibilities may be endless. You might do well to broach the subject the next time you're in front of your, well used, full length mirror. In addition to having a natural aversion to the teaching profession, I also tend to ignore the headlines of 'Psychology Today.' Sorry. ......... Not really."

With her big ass irrationally in someone's tow, Lettie snuck up on us, or we. I was not quite sure, simultaneously viewing that irrelevant consideration as just another manifestation of the played out genre, marching in the seemingly endless procession of totally unnecessary, Nyquil-effecting attempts at distraction; their numbers the only possible reason for any possible scientifically inclined consideration. She leaned over the table and put another glass of something tan colored in front of Mark; her nameplate as such minimally prominent, and in its eminent domain, brushing by my face on its or their way.

"Thank you."

"Thank you."

"Enlighten me."

"About anything in particular? I could answer that in a few ways. For now, suffice to say that you apparently copy DFW short stuff reasonably well. Obvious trick for you is to stay short. You can't take him long. He'll beat you short, too, but it's not his home field, so he might be checking out the boundaries at first."

"Tell me about it."

"Saw the original Rose tape."

"A fan I presume."

"Of?"

"Thoughts."

"The expected wipeout. Frankly it was kind of funny. When you start talking about your po-mo theories it belies the stuff in your books."

"Ever hear of un-reliable narrator?"

"Hasn't everyone? Good excuse for bad writing. Got some news for you. Po-mo merely means after modern. It's a time measure; not a definition of or dissertation upon any particular type of style."

"Thanks for the information. Been interviewed on many TV shows?"

"Not yet."

"Look, I did my homework and read some of your interviews. You're just a counter intuitive, contrarian with an over-weighted penchant to lean on nineteenth century naturalism, while conversely denying the detachment and scientific outlook. If I say apple you say orange and vice-versa. Real difficult stuff. Tactically, all I have to do is say the opposite of what I want and you take my side."

" ...................... "

"Well, what do you say to that?"

"Orange and vice-versa? ...... I'm waiting for the criticism part."

" .............. "

"Left out the outdated existentialist inconsistency."

"I try so hard to be nice."

"You also could have done a 180 on what is said of you, and charge me with being able to make people cry, but not being able to make them laugh, thereby displaying your fantastic grasp of the immediately obvious, conveniently ignoring the nuance of the long story you just are too dumb to get."

"Have fun arguing with what you say I said and didn't. I don't bring out the big guns when playing with Little Leaguers."

"Forgive me for not recognizing the Hudson County version of noblesse oblige. You might recall that I said I left here twenty years ago."

"Left or was thrown out?"

"Duh. Doesn't matter to an existentialist."

"Just another discredited construct to hide behind."

"For the benefit of those who haven't touched them, the 'grand' obstacles are made of easily permeable, still wet, papier mache."

"Frenchie."

"By choice. Unlike you, I was never saddled with any restrictions regarding my place of birth. I'm not here to be a teacher. F*** that. The bottom line is that I really don't have any interest in reaching tiresome, predictable, and burdensome morons. ........ Look, this is getting as tedious as Lettie. I'm working for this French outfit which wants a few interviews with Americans. For some reason your name popped up; likely because you got some publicity from DFW essentially calling you an asshole. No, that's too complimentary; a half asshole at best. So, I'm here to facilitate that. That's f***ing all. You're here because you think some media coverage will help you sell that dragging mommy regurgitation. That's f***ing all. So, why don't we just go through the motions and I'll get the f*** out of here as soon as I can, printing something about your stupid po-mo 'ideas.' The tape is on. You often say that your work is contemporary, but you choose not to make an issue of the rapidly changing technology. Given your astute observations of other issues, there must be a good reason. Would you care to share that with our readers?"

"Technology is just a tool like any of the others. You can use it to more easily put in screws or you can use it to make a hole in your head. For me, it's as interesting as writing about a hammer. I reluctantly did it in one of them, hoping not to sound like the clergy represented by Peter, Paul, and Mary; and if so, as a joke. Technology exists; always has; each generation thinking theirs the ultimate; the next to worship their own concoction. Kind of trite to detail in pedantics."

"Screwdriver."

"Essentially, the only question is the target; and that's so easily interchangeable, I'd rather not specify just one, though it might be viewed by many in that manner."

"What current authors do you admire?"

"Chris Rock. The nigger who apologized for not knowing that Obama wasn't a nigger. ........ Going back a bit, Vonnegut and Bukowski. If the time were different, so would the answer follow suit."

Feeling this was so far much too flat to be of any interest, excepting the gratuitous use of the faux inflammatory word 'nigger,' still effective in petit bourgeois US circles; in the interest of the ostensible article I had been assigned to produce, I took a cue from the well-established tradition of risk avoidance. I feigned smiley interest and linguistically led Mark into the vague bulls*** he had directly and indirectly, claimed to revel in in other perfunctory interviews; a good bet for another publishable, perfunctory interview; business as usual; no more, no less; slippery puke on every subway staircase; avoided by the ones able to see the floor. For a second, I thought that he had to indeed avoid regurgitating the thought that the likely ploy seemed too well-played and detectable; but at the core the initial fake came conclusively back in the form of the realization that Mark was too much into himself to notice anything else; and the audience all too soon found it preferable to skim, even those not so naturally inclined, thereby unsuccessfully trying to miss any possible nuance or detail the page might have tried to dangerously convey; hoping not to necessitate a need for self-protection; the invariable result a pillow which requires frequent changing. The reader, trying to appear content to partially see and facially mock only that which she sees as a form of self-survival, that which was written in the big letters under the cheery picture, smiles for her audience of one; who returns the favor in a desperate and detected lie; unrevealed in words. Vaguery enhanced with now acceptable f***ery and unheralded bizanthropy mix with dictionary words as the post-Joycean routine. Professionally forgetting my complete disrespect for and disinterest in this man, I perfunctorily intoned; "The Mark Leyner character in this book, for the benefit of those of our readers not yet familiar, is a reference to yet another Mark Leyner named character, as is apparently now an automatic admission into the post-modern hall of unclear, imperfectly reflective infamy gleaned from the shaving mirror, and this one is said to be much more reflective, sensitive, and forthright than the Leyner displayed in his early 'Et Tu, Babe' and the up-until-now, midway offering of 'The Tetherballs of Bougainville,' which are sometimes regarded unjustly. Not to cop out to the commonly utilized straw man of easy retort, I must say that personally, I think of them as well-loved exercises in an exuberant youthful irony. I suspect that your now October dated clock sufficiently makes its presence known, invariably inducing a reflection or three. Your newest effort evokes Vonnegut in its 'humorous' depiction of a writer who virtually no one is interested in; in this case that one person his mother; as in Kurt's 'God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.' You have called this book autobiographical. Regarding or disregarding that, do you have the hope that 'Gone with the Mind' has a retroactive effect on the popular view of the Leyner of the earlier books?"

"I guess so, fabulist as I am. One of the things I especially like about this book and talking about it is that now, it seems as if it forces the readers to ask about the process of writing it and the 'real' Mark. It seems to be an efficient manner in which to surreptitiously suggest that there's no such thing as a real me or a real you. We're all engaged in manufacturing and selling an ongoing fabrication of ourselves, making or not making audiences out of one another; the subsequent derivations, at their best that which makes money for some producer and his underlying investors. In that context this 'new' book is just a rumination on what could possibly be going on below, seemingly 'deconstructed' for readers by a foreigner capitalizing on an old theory, now called a po-mo exercise. I suppose it was silly of me to expect that someone else would realize this, but when I wrote 'Et Tu, Babe,' I thought the persona was so obvious. The character in that book is a kind of antipodal representation of myself. It's so hyperbolic as to be the inverse of me in every way; so honestly the opposite of who I am; and for that reason I felt that there was no irony to it. I even thought, at the time, that I was being so completely vivisected with candor about it. So to hear that this is some kind of postmodern irony, to me it was like Robert Lowell or Sylvia Plath telling you; 'Really, everything?' In the days of grand book tours, people would see me and invariably I could see them, sigh, and shrink in disappointment. I was this small, nice guy, and they were like; 'Oh, that's it?'"

"Is that indeed it or is 'Gone With the Mind' some sort of clarification, as you have sometimes said?"

"I saw 'Et Tu, Babe' as the most unsparing portrayal of someone little and insecure, of the little kid in Jersey City looking across the river at Manhattan and thinking; 'I'm going to live and die here, and perhaps never make it.' That author is a complete fantasy of the child from that socioeconomic milieu thinking; 'That can never be me.' Coming at it from that angle, it was strange when someone would see me on the PATH train and this happened a number of times. 'You take the PATH?' Like, you're not choppered in or shot through a pneumatic tube or something? ...... Hmnnn. So that's a beautifully empathic, insightful thing to ask me about. Will 'Gone with the Mind' have a retroactive effect? Yes, I hope. I think of it whenever I'm appearing somewhere to read from this book or that for these few people in the audience, think it good. They'll all go back to the previous personae and see that there's more, actually, to them. They'll maybe be aware of the deep, mystical constant between us which will only be fully revealed when the messiah comes. Ever since I was a little boy, I've been trying to reconcile constructivist aesthetics and fascist metaphysics; lucidity and violence; and the endless implications of that dichotomy."

The rambling, indirect, self-congratulatory message induced a laughter in me not professionally contained; but perhaps as a deference to some obscure concept of clarity, not totally realized. Mark eyed me as he used the opportunity to chomp on his decorated, dead meat. Again fully contained, I said; "Three years ago you said you wanted to write about fascism; about the very real conception of Mussolini, if that is in its very parlance not a violation of po-mo rules; especially in consideration that Mussolini's worldwide time prominence pre-dated what is the consensus beginning of po-mo. It is that essentially same consensus which suggests that plenty of fascism seeped into this hinted-at-to-be a final book, but it's there obliquely. Is that a question?"

"I have a very longstanding fascination with fascism, with despots and demagogues. What is it like, I wonder, maneuvering each day and not trusting anyone? But I shudder when Trump is metaphorically compared to Mussolini. I feel bad on Mussolini's behalf. Mussolini was an enormous intellectual, and spoke several languages. He wrote many, many, many, many things throughout his life, and had relationships with D'Annunzio and Marinetti. And then, come on, we're talking about Trump?"

With some of his first still remaining, Mark's unordered, next meal arrived and was presented to him by Lettie. It featured a hamburger with all and another hamburger which has to be comparatively described as one without the trimmings, accompanied by a tall glass containing a yellow liquid with some ice. It half approximated my last order; Mark not making any concurrently. Despite that, Mark smiled and said; "Thank you so much, that looks beautiful. What nice, neat looking things."

My mind wandered back to Leyner's disparagement of Trump. It seemed that his rhetoric made less of Trump's lack of a philosophical viewpoint, while not recognizing that his own books are as much guilty of the charge. The attempted clown was criticizing someone else for sharing his traits. In the interest of conducting business, I professionally ignored his peeves and said; "You've set the book in a shopping mall, almost too memory-heavy a place for people my age, who grew up as malls were first showing signs of becoming a downtown with escalators and parked cars. Many of my formative experiences are knit up in these aspects of a runaway, efficient consumerism that, in an intellectual way, we're supposed to revile in a perhaps contrarian sense. But there's an emotion there, too. I have these immensely pleasurable memories of drowning myself in an upscale consumer culture at malls, and then a few years later they were filled with low end gift shops or were empty space; almost as empty as the cyber which replaced them. 'Burnin' Down the House I was Brought Up In' or some such old song."

"I have the same memories on a large scale, but over a longer period of time. When I was in high school, malls were relatively new. There were two pretty big ones near where I lived in New Jersey. At the time, they seemed to be thriving, if you can imagine this word being applicable, because malls are such moribund things now, symbols of American death culture; but then they seemed very futuristic. Like something out of _The Jetsons_. They brought all the stores into this one incredible space station, like a colony on an asteroid, and everything was filled with wonder. The ambient noise of the fountains, the smell of Mrs. What's-her-name's cookies wafting. There was a chain bookstore called Brentano's, long folded, and there was one really nice one in this mall. My friend and I would get a ride from someone's mom, and they'd drop us off at this Brentano's and come back and pick us up, like, seven hours later. We would stay there, split up, and just look at books. For seven hours. And so, oddly, one of my enduring, abiding associations with malls is books. The mall is supposed to represent the citadel of totalitarian consumerism, and yet there I'd be, reading some Yeats. That was something that interested me. The main valence of the mall is this moribund quality, and I used that in this book. It's the site of my own constant reappraising of what I've made of myself in life. And what better place to reappraise than a completely empty, dying mall?"

"Yes, I was always astonished at how the upscale glitz coincided with the mystical Indian jewelry until in later years I attended a Buddhist meeting at the home of multi-millionaires; which brought the ersatz dichotomy to a personal level rather than a corporate one. I suppose that to think that anything salable is not sold and absorbed by the marketplace, is indicative of a fundamental misunderstanding of DFW; common sense; or even Marx for that matter. Groucho. The novel opens with a forty page introduction from your mother, Muriel, ostensibly the coordinating director of the 'Nonfiction at the Food Court Reading Series.' Much later, we learn that her remarks are drawn ......... I'm sorry. I feel entirely ridiculous talking to you about things which are condemned to sound pretentiously high-brow coming from one with absurd titles and concepts inclusive of nutsacks and the implications of cunt aroma. Pardon me. We already have enough on tape for me to make an article which sounds sufficiently serious. Let's just cut it as I'm finding it increasingly amusing in an annoying way to be talking to an author who speaks of concepts never directly broached in a bunch of self-centered books which were generally received at best as less than middle brow from all levels, despite the play for sad-ass nostalgia."

"The part in my voice is painstakingly created to seem extemporaneous. Sometimes I'm giving clear signals that it's not, because I'm using a certain kind of big word; say indexicality. I would pretend to search for that; the uh ...... uh ..... um ......... indexicality. I sat and thought, maybe I need another uh in there. It's so easy to vitiate the effect of extemporaneousness. The tiniest thing can f*** it up and disrupt it, where then it seems very contrived in a way I didn't want; and then at other times I did want to open the door a little on the contrivance. It was very tricky, doing everything I wanted in that register. I write sentence by sentence. I'll write a sentence and then ....... "

I shut off the tape machine and said; "Mark, Mark, Mark. I'm really beyond my bulls*** limit. Indexicality, my ass. That's not even a word. I've had quite enough of this pretentiously whiney, mommy and daddy stuff. I've heard about all I can tolerate. There's enough here already for me to turn out a good interview; after I fix up some of your misconceptions and contradictions. You keep talking about current literary theory and then supplement that with books with ninth grade jokes in them; maybe fifth. 'The maestro says it's Mozart, but it sounds like bubble gum.'"

"Leonard Cohen's next line was; 'And me, I'm up here waiting for the miracle to come.' You know we're both sitting here on the same seat and we both put on our pants the same way."

"You're sitting in the safe middle and I'm on this precarious edge. Allows me get out quicker. And regarding those pants of yours; do you put them on left foot first, right foot first, or both at the same time? Do you do it standing, sitting, or otherwise? ............... No. Don't tell me. I don't really want to know."

" ........... "

"Well?"

"You said you didn't want to know."

"Oh, so you admit that you follow my directives."

"When convenient to me. And by the way; I can safely get out of here anytime I want using the exit you're not blocking. Middle is as valid a safe choice as the edge, as no one knows where it is. Ever see any Lynch?"

"Yeah, and after a brief dalliance with money making, over-the-top, garishness for the US market, he settled into making things for French TV. So here again, Leyner tries to have it both ways. I don't want to bust your Jersey City bubble, but for your own good, realize that even Franzen beat you there as well with the 'regionalization' concept and actually sold some books in the process."

"Franzen's not funny."

"And you are? I seek the rebellion. Maybe when I get to your age I'll settle for the lies."

"I was doing this when I was younger than you."

"My condolences."

" ******** "

"Worse, the 'real' Mark Leyner? Who really gives a s*** who that is or isn't? All this about you. One doesn't multiply. It takes two. Even two negative numbers produce a positive one."

"That always made no sense whatsoever to me."

I snickered while I said; "Honestly, me either. It's just one of those things all the teachers say, and I find it useful to regurgitate once in a while."

"Yeah, and that's the crux of one of the perennial writer's problems, you know. They ask you if you write what you want to or if you write what you think your audience wants to read. If you say that you write what you want it can be interpreted as not considering your audience at all. And if you say that you try to write what they want to see, the critics, as well as many readers, consider it drivel. The truth is somewhere in-between and probably changes from page to page, so I try to say that in the length required by the asshole unpublished interviewer using the big words they so love. Everybody must get stoned. One time I told some magazine guy the truth and said I was just trying to write a stand-up comedy routine. The lousy on-line rag, which by the way got the interview for free, included two very negative reviews in the same issue which carried the interview. Not one, but two."

"Oh. So there's a practical reason for saying one thing to one and another thing to the other."

"That tape is off. Right?"

"Yeah."

"I really didn't think that I had to tell you this. You intimated that you understand both sides of the coin, and sometimes you do. But, damn. Didn't you figure out by like age five, that you phrase it one way to your father, and another way to your mother?"

"I don't remember. But, it doesn't sound very likely."

" ..................... "

"You really like these dried out hamburgers?"

"No! 'The Griddle' is just a traditional thing around here; so nobody dares to knock it."

"Got an idea. Why don't we split, take the PATH into Manhattan, and eat at that five starred French place that's been around a while, receiving almost unanimous rave reviews."

"It'll cost a week's income. ..... Each."

"No sweat. I wangled an unlimited expense account from my boss for taking this distasteful job."

"F***er."

"Playin' both sides; that's all."

"Okay, I got some tokens."

"Good. And just to be clear and straight, you understand that I don't think you're all that funny. Cool?"

"Cool. And you understand that I don't think you're all that smart. Cool?"

"Cool. You know, I heard that Michael Pietsch goes to this place regularly. It'd be really funny if we got him talkin' about how he f***ed up DFW's books on tape."

"Man; you always lookin' for trouble."

"I don't know. Important thing is that my wife thinks it finds me; so she always gotta protect me. Nowhumsayin, bro?"

"Hehehe. Gotta ask?"

Just a bit later the PATH train carrying Will and Mark to Manhattan made its regular stop at Pavonia.

Mark said; "Gotta switch here. Come on before the doors close."

I took his word and followed him out, but said; "What?"

"Like I said, gotta switch here. The route to Manhattan ain't direct."

"Oh, I get it. You're metaphorically telling me that if and when we meet Pietsch I play your role and you play mine, out of the necessity of you, being traditionally published, not wanting to jeopardize your business situation, while for me being un-published have no downside if he gets insulted, because he doesn't want to take a chance on offending 'The Paris Review,' and ........................ "

"What the f*** you talkin' about? Pavonia is just the place where you physically have to change trains if you don't wanna get to the dead end of the line in Hoboken."

"I can't help reading more into that. What is Pavonia anyway?"

"How many times do I have to tell ya. It's the place where you switch trains, that's all. I don't know. A long time ago some architect must have f***ed up the plans and shoved this thing here as some kind of adjustment. I mean, there are not even any stairs to take you to the street; and frankly I don't even know what's up there and don't give a flyin'."

"You keep saying things which make me think you're intimating something else. Surely, you realize that."

"Yeah. I'm just f***in' with ya on one level, but not the other. What I said about physical Pavonia was no lie. Here comes our train. Just get on the f***in' thing. ...... You know, you serious dickheads can be quite funny."

We got on and stood holding onto the overhead straps, though we didn't have to. Ninety percent of the car was empty. I said; "Hey Mark. I think you've been straight with me; and I'm feelin' kind of guilty about one thing. You know, when I said that I didn't know by age five to talk differently to my mother and father I was just taking advantage of the way you phrased it. I don't think I knew at age five; maybe did; but am not sure until a little later. I was kind of figuring that to be an easy way to end our argument."

"No problem. I figured that possibility."

"Like hell you did."

"You can never be sure."

"Nor can you. But look. Here's my thing. You got an AAA level agent and publisher. Pretty good; not quite major league. And it really ain't the biggest s*** in the world to me; but it's currently more than what I got. I mean like my life is spent going to ugly places to interview dick-heads or dick-asses. No offense intended; present company excepted; and all that required sweetie cute s***. So, could you use your 'influence' to get them to take a look at my book. Won't cost ya nuthin'. It's about this imperfect existentialist guy reconciling his beliefs with the beliefs of this imperfect meta chick .................... "

"Awesome."

"F*** you Mark. Just plain f*** you right up the ass."

"Like I said, you serious dick-heads often strike me as really quite funny. Makes me think you might be surreptitiously seeking the laughs."

Mark paid no attention to my following protestations as he approached a seated woman who didn't seem to know or care where her tight skirt ended. Despite possible misinterpretations, sometimes I do know when to shut the f*** up.

I looked up at the ads posted over my head. The curvature where wall met the ceiling made the distinction between it and the wall indistinct. I read one which said;

"The Ten Commandments of Bizzaro"

1) No speak of Bizarro.

2) No edit Bizarro.

3) No straight face Bizarro.

4) No make fun Fats Melnick.

5) No delete or burn Bizarro.

6) No covet neighbor or his wife. F***ing neither, either or both is OK.

7) No write that Bizarro books suck big blue dicks.

8) No read non-Bizarro blasphemy.

9) No rate any Bizarro book less than four star and click every "like" button available.

10) No mention that Bizarro Planet is square; despite contrary photo evidence.

The above message has been written and paid for by "Penniless Predatory Palestinian Portland Perverts, PLC," and is subject to change without notice. Copyright © 1998.

We were in Manhattan! Mark shook off a "No" at each of the stops at Ninth, Fourteenth, and Twenty-third Streets. He either wanted to get as far uptown as possible or maximize his time with the tight skirt chick. Like a parochial school Catholic, I spent my time trying to memorize the commandments.

"Thirty-third Street; last stop," was called out through the scratchy screech of the intercom; mimicking the train's brakes. We walked off, climbed the stairs and found ourselves on Broadway. The shopping area often improperly called "Herald Square" had street vendors with tables set up near the curbs selling everything cheaply, from obscure books to t-shirts to electronic gadgets that didn't work. The sidewalks were as wide as the front of many suburban houses, and the people made use of every foot. There were no idlers. Everything moved or risked being trampled. The "legitimate" stores on the inside held all the wonders of the world for those with serious plastic; all the treasures one could want and carry out; delivery negotiable, highlighted by Macy's flagship store, less than a block away. The bustling people were of every possible color, most speaking in their native tongues. What they had in common was that they all searched for bargains; and imparted "secret" information to those near concerning that.

After the distracting street level sights were checked out, we felt the cooling canyon effect of the skyscrapers. The sun had passed into the western sky, providing indirect light to some spots and not others. The double parked, eight lane, one-way road did better than the sidewalks in that respect.

Mark said; "Want to see the Empire State Building? It's just a block away."

I answered; "My folks took me there a few times when I was little. Besides; if I look up I can see it from right here. If you want to see it; it's okay with me."

Mark said; "Just checking."

Perhaps re-calling my time in New York and nearby New Jersey, I forced a tight lipped facsimile sham smile.

We were technically still on the fringe of Greely Square. The popular confusion stems from the common reference to the triangular park between West Thirty-Second and West Thirty-Third Streets being the Greely bounds. The small park contains trees, shrubbery, and iron fencing. It is used as a rest area for the tons of shoppers, a lunchroom for midtown office workers, and an occasional background for a film. Herald Square is north of that and between West Thirty-fourth and West Thirty-Fifth Streets. Its primary focal point is the huge clock with Minerva, the Goddess of Wisdom in Rome, with her owls; and Stuff and Guff. To further confuse things, this entire area and more is often referred to as the "Garment Center."

We walked uptown. We stood side by side as much as possible; the human traffic periodically dictating a single file; their position the determinant of who got behind. Mixed in with the street merchants on Thirty-Eighth and Broadway was a thin, energetic or nervous, black man fumbling with three cards. He had an audience of five; two prominently holding onto their bent and crumpled Jacksons. The dealer and the shills kept calling out short, substantially indecipherable verses likely calculated to draw in players.

It was "Three Card Monty." The game is simple. In full view, the dealer moves around three face down cards on the table. Two are black and one is red. When he's through the player puts his twenty or twenties on the one he thinks is red. If right the dealer pays him even money; if wrong the dealer adds to his stash. The dealer shows where the red one is after every shuffle; so the possibility of fraud seems less than that with a US presidential candidate; though paying even money on a one in three chance bodes well for long term considerations of the dealer. So the questions boil down to; "Do you think your eyes are quicker than his hands?" and "How greedy are you?"

We slowed down, our eyes apparently on the prize.

Mark said; "Ever play this before?"

Will answered; "No. Only watched. You?"

"Same here."

"Let's watch a while."

" ........... "

Probably like all Three Card Monty watchers, we followed the dealer's hands until they stopped; then mentally picked the card we thought red; sometimes uncertain and abstaining. It was actually disconcerting to us to sometimes be so sure; only to see that the red card was in a different location. Yet, we considered it an advantage to only play when sure; while the dealer had no choice but to be in for every hand.

Mark said; "Getting 'em right?"

"Not too often."

"Me, too. Sometimes I could swear that I picked the right one, and then he shows it elsewhere."

I said; "You referring to your agent?"

"That's agents with an 's' and yes."

Human traffic thinned out, and we turned right (east) on Thirty-Ninth Street. Mark led the way saying; "Let's avoid Disneyland," referring to renovated Times Square. "Where is this restaurant anyway?"

"I've got it written down. 60 East 65th Street, at the corner of Park. It's called 'Daniel' and has been rated number one for about twenty years."

"How about a cab?"

"No. I'd rather walk it. Might never be back again. Okay with you?"

"Yeah."

"We can work up a big appetite for those fruits, vegetables, truffles, omelets, and soft, soft lamb. And you can tell me more about what it's like to be a big name writer."

"You starting again?"

"No, not at all. I just like to find out what it's going to be like for me someday."

"What's it like to be a writer? Hmmnnn. ...... It's a bit difficult for me to answer, primarily because I've never done anything else. I suspect it's not very different from other jobs in many respects. You put in your time; the boss makes derogatory comments about it; and you don't get enough money."

"Then why bother?"

"That's what I say. I think that some of us are just cursed."

"Oh, come on. You're just being fashionably despairing."

"Well, a bit. But if the income from writing books was so great, I wouldn't have stopped doing it to write for Hollywood."

" ........ "

"There are fun parts. When they send you out to do the book signings, you always get a few of these. 'Hi, I'm Karen. But could you address it to my nerdy nephew, Roger? I don't like your stuff at all, but I've gotta get the little nerd a birthday present. ........ I mean I don't know if he likes you any better, but the thing is on sale.' I really don't mind and some of the commentaries provide me with material I can use. But, I was in a silly mood one time and I made it out to 'Nerdy Nephew Roger.' The woman saw it, and said; 'You can't write that,' and I said; 'That's what you told me to do.'"

I laughed and said; "I think that someday I'm going to steal that one."

"Might as well. Wallace already took plenty."

"Wallace? Steal from you? Woo hoo. Let's pretend we're on earth for a while. Okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"I beat him to this absurdist thing. He was still in school when I broke the ground with 'Et tu, Babe,' doing the professor's idea of po-mo. He later admitted being embarrassed by 'The Broom of the System.' When he did 'Infinite Jest' I got stuck being on TV with him and Franzen. He kept trying to start up with me by following me, very cutely saying; 'I agree with Mark, ...... fifty percent. Ha ha ha. And he did it three times."

"Mark, I saw that interview a few times. It's now been cut up. But, I once saw the original. DFW got right in your face and you lost. Period. End of conversation."

"I was too quiet. In retrospect, I should have engaged more. Up until then 'literary' talk shows were not places for contentious rhetoric. In fact that approach was considered a confession of being insufficiently erudite to handle things with subtle humorous wit ......."

"Well, you didn't do that either. Jeez, ever see Nabakov?"

Mark put one open palm into my face and pushed. I took two unplanned steps to the side; remaining on my feet. I lowered my shoulder and charged back; Mark sidestepping and administering a one armed headlock. I made a fist and punched at Mark's balls; but missed. Mark let go of my head and said; "Whoa, whoa, whoa. You wanna get us f***in' arrested?"

I looked around to see that we were getting an inordinate share of sidewalk attention; some appearing as if they wanted to see some action and some appearing horrified by its hint. I quickly reassessed and said; "Me? You started it." I chuckled out; "This must look amusing. Two literary lightweights coming on like Mike Tyson."

"Speak for yourself."

"Don't push your luck, granpa."

"Thank you. I had 'Et Tu, Babe' out for a year before he even started 'Infinite Jest.'"

"Ah, I think we made a circle here somewhere, and I don't feel like going around twice."

"Left on Fifth?"

"Yeah; more people than Park. Cut there at the last minute."

It did prove to be more population sparse on Fifth Avenue than Broadway; the body count affording the average group ten feet of space between them and the next group. Specialty retail stores dominated the structures to their sides. Their glass windows each depicted a warped image of the passers-by. With a high degree of accuracy one could differentiate the habitués from the visitors by noting the fascination displayed over the fun house mirrors. An even more accurate method was just to see who was in the stores which sold designer labels on shoddy merchandise.

The lead member of a group of three boys about sixteen, with loud Jersey accents and de riguer punk attire; leather jackets, chains, and hair-at-all-angles cut in front of us. He pointed at Mark and said; "You Mok Liner?" apparently not realizing that this was the last person you'd like to hear answer that question.

Being accustomed to these brash intrusions and not wanting to blurt out excerpts from his next book, Mark nodded, smiled and said; "Yes. Are you one of my fans?"

The kid looked back at his two friends and said; "See, I told yuz." He then asked me; "You ennybody?"

I said; "No," and made two sidesteps to get out of the direct line of fire.

The kid shook Mark's hand in some weird way which seemed to approximate an effort to break a wrist. He said; "'Gone wit duh Mind!' Gone wit duh mind? Gone wit duh f***ing mind."

Mark said; "Ed du, babe."

Though it seemed a bit forced, the kid slapped his thighs and started laughing. He said; "You're all right, man." He gave Mark another wrist-breaker, and turned to his friends saying; "Let's go."

Mark called out; "Like it?"

The kid said; "Didn't read it."

I rejoined Mark and said; "Remind me not to become a celebrity."

Mark said; "You're handling that pretty well on your own. ...... That was an easy one. It's when they start crying that it becomes difficult to deal with."

We approached the 42nd Street renovation. Mickey Mouse greeted us with a mechanical wave from ten stories above. Pedestrian traffic intensified.

I said; "Crowds have one good point. You can get lost in them."

"Do I detect a note of misanthropy?"

"Hell no. I love people. I just have a bit of philosophical difficulty in reconciling that with the fact that I feel so much better when none are around."

"Bukowski said something like that and proceeded to contradict himself by going to bars."

"Yes, precisely. You'd do well to take note of the word 'bars.' It's plural. It seems reasonable to say that when he was at one sufficient time for the denizens to start getting overly familiar, he switched to another. Sounds like a confusion- contusion thing."

Mark's eyes lit up when he spied a remnant of the old Times Square. He said; "Hey, they still have the sword and machete place."

"Don't tell me that they let Akira remain."

"Grandfather laws, you know."

"Got a machete? They have numerous uses."

"Three; all gifts from admirers."

Near the corner of 44th we saw the old time replica signs in the windows of "Nathan's Famous," including a barber pole which ostensibly must have had some significance in the sense of scalping; as there were none present in the establishment who currently offered traditional tonsorial services.

I said; "I ate here a few times when I worked in the area. No exaggeration; they had the worst hot dogs I've ever had. There was like a quarter inch of hard crust on the exterior and an interior core which seemed un-cooked. They were topped with a string of semi-solid mustard which required a few seconds of saliva before swallowing. The 'bun' was something akin to re-heated toast and I got to enjoy the delicacy standing next to a clumsy old fart who had not changed his clothes for at least a week."

"Shows you the value of branding."

"The cattle do seem to universally partake. ............ Omigod, watch out! It's a huge wave of people!"

Mark calmly said; "Just keep walking with your head down. The groundswell shall part."

Somewhat uncomfortably, I took Mark's advice and indeed, the next thing I knew was that we had passed through the throng and again were relatively free in a sparse 45th Street crowd.

I must have appeared incredulous, which prompted Mark to laugh and say; "When they think you're not looking they get out of your way."

"That's faith."

"Clear sailing now."

We continued uptown encountering "Scribner's" midway between 47th and 48th Streets. I said; "Years ago I worked in this area. I spent some lunch hours in the back room where they kept the obscure books. Sometimes I talked with Patti Smith, who used to work here before she became Patti Smith."

"Omigod, we're in for it. Wish it was Patti. Zadie Smith is headed our way and is looking right at us."

"Where?"

Mark said; "I don't want to point. The one in the black do-rag with the oversized earrings. Probably pissed that nobody likes 'Swing Time.'"

"Oh boy! Hope she doesn't remember that I interviewed her when 'White Teeth' was released."

Zadie stopped in front of us and said; "Mr. Mark Leyner, if my memory serves. ......... And the interviewer. What brings you boys into the Big Apple?"

Mark said; "Just the hope of seeing you, Zadie. And my prayers have been answered. And my friend's name is Will."

I genuflected and said; "The correct term is literary critic, Ms. Smith."

Zadie said; "Duly noted. Write or read any good books lately?"

Mark said; "As a matter of fact, yes. 'Swing Time' was quite impressive as it almost showed emotion."

I said; "Pity, the reception. People just expect so much from their brightest lights."

Zadie said; "Mark and I do have something in common after all."

Looking for trouble, I said; "What you do not have in common is that Mark actually met and went toe to toe with David Foster Wallace."

Mark said; "Dammit, Will. Now she's really going to get started. You just hafta .................. "

Predictably Zadie went up a few octaves saying; "What exactly are you saying?"

I said; "I've seen you go absolutely ballistic on TV claiming some special knowledge of DFW, while people who actually knew him were the other guests. I mean, are you clairvoyant or do you just want readers to think that you have some of his abilities?"

Mark hung his head, exhaled noticeably and said; "Zadie, my sincere apologies. Will thinks he's being funny when ........ "

Zadie said; "Shut the f*** up, Mark. The fundamental concepts of great fiction do not change. Myopic technicians record the different garb and letters, without a clue to the Bronte on Austen take of real versus true. The artists merely depict with unfamiliar colors administered through new technologies. Wallace's syntactically difficult sentences and invented words command your attention at a distracted time, in an attempt to break the rhythm which excludes thinking. Perhaps something like James a century prior, but the DFW age segued into a time in which everyone began to think that they knew everything. After all they would soon have the net to answer any question they might have in a matter of nanoseconds, and in a number of flavors. His biggest problem was how to then both recognize that for its 'gains' and then jokingly disparage it; much like the excesses of academe."

I said; "What?"

Zadie chose to ignore the question. She went on saying; "'NW,' too, was about how to break the rhythm. You can easily see how this approach would be unpleasantly jarring to many readers; hence the polarized opinions. I've memorized the opening. 'The fat sun stalls by the phone masts. Anti-climb paint turns sulphurous on school gates and lampposts. In Willisden people go barefoot, the streets turn European, there is mania for eating outside. She keeps to the shade. Redheaded. On the radio: I am the sole author of the dictionary that defines me. A good line ....... write it out on the back of a magazine. In a hammock, in the garden of a basement flat. Fenced in, on all sides.' 'Swing Time' is a more everyday depiction of this process told through the eyes of friends on different paths. Where both books break from Wallace is essentially my insistence upon self-definition rather than putting any credence in the point of view emanating from outside myself. It's really a kind of obligatory and necessary 'f*** you' to other considerations; though that thought is customarily couched in layers of contradictory and confusing rhetoric. ........... Thought you were going to flip me out I'll bet. Don't believe everything you see on TV once."

I said; "As much as I like that opening, you gotta admit that it owes something to 'The Pale King,' and DFW."

Zadie said; "Yeah, sure. Variance previously noted. If you have a debt, is there anyone better to be beholden to?"

I said; "No. Just a weird sense of humor on my part. Actually, I like what I've seen of your stuff. But, as you've said, it's not a duplication of Wallace; though there is an overlap. Just thought I might be able to get a rant going."

Zadie said; "I expected that. It's easy for me to detect that now, as that is what many do after that one televised blow-up. Actually, a thoughtful disparaging comment helps me much more than a mindless accolade. Hear that, Mark?"

Mark was silent, perhaps because a response would require him to step outside himself.

Zadie got her feet moving and said; "Ciao, guys. Write me a good review, Will. You got enough. Cool?"

I said; "You got my word that I'll try. Boss is on this American fixation. Cool, baby. Ciao."

Mark said; "What the f***?"

I said; "I don't know. You saw and heard it."

Mark said; " ........ "

I said; "Just keep walking. I'm getting very, very hungry."

We passed in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, situated between 50th and 51st Streets. The gothic revival structure which was finished in 1878 once was the tallest building in the immediate vicinity. Now larger, more modern structures abound in all directions; Rockefeller Plaza and its skating rink right across the street. Except in the mind of another failed Le Corbusier, none of them could compete with St. Patrick's beautiful detailing. Upon crossing 53rd traffic dropped to a trickle. Low volume, expensive specialty boutiques occupied the street level, with residential condos above. The other businesses in the area preferred to keep a low profile. There was a certain logic to that as the businesses were literary agencies, agents, advertising agencies and an errata of other clandestine quacks.

I said; "I've rarely gotten this far uptown. Just 59th one time and only because Roberta insisted."

"Hehe. Big fat Roberta?"

"Ummnn, yeah. Couldn't be the same one, could it? And isn't there some sort of socially acceptable euphemism for that?"

"I don't know. The lady does get around some, re-living her West side youth. I like her. She just never met the right one, I guess. And, of course there's a socially acceptable euphemism for everything now. This one's BBW, big beautiful woman. Writers have to keep up on these matters of parlance. One slip can lose 75% of your buyers. I find it amusing that when you say big beautiful woman everybody thinks fat girl."

"Yeah. Time for a Bierce update to stem the confusion. I just don't get it. Too much a coincidence. In an area of 7,000,000 people we know the same Roberta? Just can't be."

Mark shrugged and said; "I don't know. Does it matter?"

"I assume you're speaking of Roberta and not making a general observation."

"No. ............. Yes. ............ Maybe. .......... I'll figure it out tomorrow, right after I find out who I am."

"No, you won't."

"I was joking, but that's impertinent."

"No, it's the heavy duty odds. You've been trying to figure out who you are for a couple of decades. The possibility of that happening tomorrow is like one in a trillion trillion billion."

"Your concept of tomorrow is solely calendar based, I see."

"Oh, no. Don't get all poetic with me. You can't have it both ways."

"Sure I can. There are certain advantages to not knowing who you are or claiming such."

The concentration required of both parties attendant to this deep conversation rendered us oblivious to surrounding scenery. Most significantly, we missed "Tiffany's" at the corner of 57th. We veered away from the island pedestrian hangout where the road widened on 59th, and walked up the side street toward the river, someone inventively named the East River.

A mild zephyr had infiltrated the side street with a fragrance not easy to describe. Away from the majority of the fuming traffic-based distractions, a scent which seemed both rich and earthy, combined with a perhaps paradoxical inorganic property to pleasantly permeate the pathway. It had at least one further feature, which feasibly approximated the finesse of a fragile manifestation. While whatever is not a well-known whiff in most federations; it sort of becomes that when one is blessed with the experience. We remained silent, apparently overwhelmed. Nothing else had yet made us shut up for more than five seconds.

We turned left on the misnomer of Park. The return to the proximity of a highly travelled eight lane road, and the safety glass which stretched the length of the block broke the bouquet and the ambience. The Mercedes dealership exhibited various advertising pitches. Those banners at the northern end stressed the attendant status and/or exclusivity of the product being hawked; while those at the southern end said things like; "Lease for just $199 per month." Those in-between were likely first domiciled on the Tower of Babel; and really weren't worth looking at.

At the corner of 60th Mark said; "Where did you say this place was?"

I said; "I don't know. We're off the trail of it now. ....... Oh, oh, oh. You mean the restaurant. 60 East 65th Street, at the corner of Park. It's called 'Daniel.'"

"You gonna be all right?"

"No, I'm not GONNA be all right. I'm already all right. What the hell you talkin' about?"

Mark held his hands like a stop sign and said; "Nuthin'."

"You are so f***ing weird sometimes."

"You're making a big s*** over one word."

"No, it's a whole attitude."

"You spend much time at the happy farm?"

"Just do me a favor. Don't tell me about it. Just put some U's on my report card like my fourth grade teacher used to do. Nobody gives a s***; not even my mother."

Mark said; "All right, all right. Didn't mean to touch a raw nerve."

I said; "Okay, I'm going to be intelligent for once in my life." I pointed toward the river and in an urgent voice said; "Omigod, look at that monster."

When Mark looked away, I slapped him in the back of his head and ran down the street.

Mark was frowning and looking at the concrete sidewalk when he purposefully walked toward a now stationary me. He said; "I haven't seen s*** like that since 9th grade; and even then it was done by a retard."

I puckered my lips and made an exaggerated fart noise. It was not a previously unheard sound. It was just a matter of finding a sufficiently huge ass coupled with a mineable supply of gas. For some unknown and thereby anonymous reason the word "marriage" came to mind; likely as a counterpointing jest. I got a kick from the sound and kept doing it until I went dry.

Mark said; "In one sense I don't mind. But in another, will you please be appropriately considerate as to refrain from embarrassing me? There are people in this area who know my face."

"Big, big deal. Are we not? The overabundance of fans hang at the ledges to get a glimpse of their star. Scuse em wah. I didn't realize that I was in the company of Kanye West. Tell me Kanye. Do you employ the same dermatologist Michael did?"

"Just plain f*** you. All right? That's not a question. Ever since temper-tantrum-Zadie pretended to be friendly to you, you're on this whole condensed Beatles trip. Get real, man. You ain't them."

"Aren't you the least bit familiar with the concepts supposedly introduced to the post-industrial world through Borges, Derrida, and the many others of their ilk? That's superimposing on me your own limitation, which is primarily based on a false construct currently convenient to YOU as a place to safely hide? The furtherance of any potential discussion requires a definition of terms, at the very least. And that is a kind statement as your indicated values are totally f***ed up."

"You made more sense while doing the fart noise."

"Exactly, compadre. We are essentially the same; with a penchant to attempt humor through appearing contrary."

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm the star here."

"In relative simplicity I am compelled to suspect the possibility of the safe introduction of a sarcastic viewpoint."

"Where does that leave us?"

"Depends where you are in the multiverse. Otherwise it obliges the mindset limited to unicycles; which is only permitted to be delicately said; leading directly to farce and boring accusations of being anti-social."

"You're combatting me by taking my point of view."

"So? All's fair? No?"

"Morally or in practice?"

"Both, but I guess you don't get the first aspect."

"Is that intended as an insult?"

"Sometimes you can bore as well as a real estate agent or DFW. Look. I ain't Cain and neither are you. The re-run channel ain't yet picked up the option. And I hope the f*** that neither of us are Abel. You certainly don't give off any such signs."

In a display of either disgust, capitulation or both, Mark looked away from me and glowered at the dark canyon crafted by the gray, upscale skyscrapers; at the same time aware that they scraped nothing which had yet required the assistance of even the miniscule band aid designed for paper cuts. All they really did was block out the preponderance of the light.

We were all talked out and just walked side by side, oblivious to all but the green and red corner lights. The uniformity of the sidewalk and its resident, immobile, tall structures provided nothing which could grasp our attention. At the near corner of 65th a disheveled man was accommodated on a folded, blue blanket, playing jazz saxophone. Mark and I looked at each other and simultaneously said; "Giant Steps." We each put a buck into the upturned hat and the seated man nodded in a brief, obligatory fashion; apparently more interested in the sax and whatever was behind his glazed eyes.

Mark said; "You like Coltrane?"

I said; "Not as much as Parker."

Mark said; "I knew that." We approached my chosen dining establishment, and Mark added; "If Pietsch is in there are you going to give him any crap?"

"Nah. It's been a long day and I'm starting to feel tired."

"Good."

The overhang extended to the street, with the name "Daniel" simply stated. The faded, capitalized red letters sat in a row of grayish-white blocks, horizontally on the extension's side, presumably both of them. The letters filled six of the eleven available spaces. The absence of natural light made it difficult to read from a distance in excess of twenty feet. Perhaps an after dark source of ersatz luminous radiance was provided for the benefit of newcomers. The absence of other noticeable advertising clandestinely suggested that either residential condos or a morgue occupied the abundant floors above Daniel; the distinction not sufficiently compelling for me or Mark to further inquire. The pristine neo-classical design subtly made itself known to those familiar with fashionably passé architectural styles. The boxwood bushes which lined the Daniel length at both sides of the footway were of an almost identical five and one half foot height, excepting two shorter arrivistes. Their seven inches of errant leaves in all directions indicated some sort of petty rebellion or an under-the-weather "landscaper," the net effect typically French in American eyes.

Mark and I entered the single white front door, to be greeted by the chef, temporarily out of place. While his voice seemed a tad agitated he graciously led us to an open table and advised that our waitress would soon be with us. A contrast to the neo-classical exterior was too obvious to not note. The interior was rather nondescript. While most would have graciously called it modern or popular, light contemporary, those not so inclined may have used the words "Ikea affordable." Our small square table was topped by an off-white embroidered, lace doily which had not been changed since the last pottage misfortune. The soiled treasure sat between two chairs reminiscent of the traditional, unstained Bentwood style, perhaps a modern deference to the Native Americans who cleaned up after closing. It was customary and thereby perfectly comfortable to the ass. A demure young woman, who spoke like an American college student brought the menus. Shortly after came the amuse bouche bite sized appetizers. I had the turkey and stuffing while Mark went for the venison, of course accompanied by wine; gauchely red. Refills dulled our palettes sufficiently to make the custard tart and chiboust éclair most enjoyable to the sense of texture.

Mouths remained occupied with the culinary necessities. Finally, refilled, refreshed, and precariously holding my fourth or fifth glass, I said; "You don't see Pietsch, do you?"

"No; and I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"I won't even say what you should know I think of that."

"Can't f***ing behave at all, can you?"

"Nope."

"You know, you don't upset people like Pietsch. They just go back to their high income places and get their asses kissed. You're just a stupid, inconsequential, jealous jackass to them."

"That's where you're wrong, Mark. That's exactly what they pretend to think and much too obviously go out of their way trying to show it. Deep down they know they're pieces of clever s***, and it bothers them that someone doesn't worship them. How many Greek and Roman potentates declared themselves a god?"

"So, you're here to put them in their place?"

"When in proximity and when the mood strikes."

"So, what does that change?"

"Probably nothing."

"Then why?"

"Cause it's fun. You of all people gotta ask that?"

"Guess you didn't see the part after Goliath was slain. His bigger brother took over. The kingdom of David is a fantasy."

"Christ. There are so many ways to answer that I'm not even going to bother. You titled something; 'Gone With the Mind?' You must have been joking."

"I was and got some money for it."

"Pietsch got more for doing nothing."

"He does do something. He worries his ulcers into a frazzle over whether Amazon is going to put him out of a job."

"Ha ha. Maybe I oughta give Pietsch a break here. Lessers of evil and all of that. Hey, you know; I'm feeling rejuvenated. How about you?"

"I'm fine."

"We're like two blocks away from the hottest new club in Manhattan. Let's check it out."

We walked east on 65th toward the river, again picking up that pleasant scent. The basement store fronts of the three storied brownstones had their lights on just a bit ahead of the impending loss of the natural pale. Most were food stores there to accommodate the nearby residents; their wares ranging from organic, through ethnic specialties.

We turned the corner of Second Avenue and there it was. The purple lettered sign on the white background said that we had reached; "THE PROMISED LAND." Mark and I approached the main door which was straddled by two burly sentries. Their 250 pound plus frames bedecked with leather and brushed denim silently indicated that they weren't people who it would be wise to cross.

In a voice which indicated a Bronx origin or pretense, the one which was ostensibly male politely said; "Would you mind waiting here one second?" the question mark absent. He huddled with his female partner; the two producing mumbles, evaluative backward frowns, a shrug and a nod.

He returned to Mark and me and said; "You're Mark Leyner, aren't you?"

Mark grimaced and nodded in the affirmative. The sentry kind of asked me; "And you are?"

Perfectly stationary and absent of any inflection which might indicate an emotion; I stared at him and said; "Nobody."

The sentry kept staring a few seconds and I returned the favor. The doorman was apparently not used to dealing with anyone who did not attempt to spout their many "credentials" in an effort to satisfy an un-credentialed functionary. He finally said; "You can go in," indicating Mark; "But, you can't" indicating me.

Mark said; "Hey, I'm not going in without my buddy. He's a ............. "

I cut him off saying; "Mark, Mark, Mark. Listen. Don't play this asshole's game. It only makes the little s*** happy and he's just going to keep repeating 'No' anyway."

"But, .............. "

"I again interrupted and said; "F*** but." I looked at my watch and added; "I'd only be able to stay a few minutes anyhow. I got a plane to catch and I'm going to have to get to the PATH and back to Newark Airport." I embraced Mark, patted him on the back, and said; "Go get 'em f***er," and then I started my return journey.

Mark hesitated and watched me, calling out a tentative "Bye."

I kept moving and waved. I refrained from words, fearing that my voice would break.

The Flood A/K/A The Big Flush

God said; "Goldfarb; I need you again."

Last time God called him, Goldfarb wound up in a heap of mind-bending trouble, so he pretended not to hear. He hoped that it was an acid induced flashback to that multi-directioned bulls*** all over Highway 61.

For a second time God said; "Goldfarb; I need you again."

Goldfarb knew he was in for it. Because of his last "I need you" calling, he knew that behind his back his neighbors already called him "Goofball Goldfarb." The gossip is absolute, treacherous and un-relentlessly hellacious in these Toll Brothers developments. He didn't need any more God-induced shenanigans to add to the time when he quit his $200,000 a year, easy, artificial intelligence gig to get into all that guns, telephones, and bleachers flop down on the highway.

Admittedly, it probably did not help matters much when he bragged to everybody about how rich he was going to get from growing shrimp indoors; and then having his roof collapse from the humidity. Bad as that was for him; it was worse for the young shrimp; who were sent flopping all over the debris ridden floor without any source of water. Nevertheless, economic necessities precluded Goldfarb from thinking much about the flopping shrimp. And now, he figured that if he f***ed up his Dollar Stores guard gig; a sit-on-your-ass-all-day thing, the next stop was Newark. He said; "Go away. I converted to atheism."

"Then, who do you think you're talking to." God proceeded to add on a great DeNiro imitation with; "You talkin' to me?"

Goldfarb said; "Come on. I've been puttin' in OT all week. This is my day off, and I just want to chill out with this smoke."

"It is Saturday, stupid. Rest comes on Sunday. This is important. Okay, I admit that I wasn't exactly perfect with that guns, telephones, and bleachers brainstorm. But, this is it. Can't fail this time. I'm making a flood."

Goldfarb chuckled. "A flood, huh? So, like you want me to let the toilet run all day or piss on something?"

"No; this doesn't involve your perverse inclinations. I mean a real flood; and not one of those Lodi three foot jobs."

"Oh, s***. More like that levee bursting crap in New Orleans?"

"No, much better. A flood like that which has never been seen before. I don't know how to describe it. ................. The entire earth is going to be covered by water over the peaks of Everest. Everybody's gonna die."

"Ummnnnnn. Well, I guess it's your call. So, I guess I ought to build a little dinghy."

"Size is a relative concept, but you got the idea. I want you to build a boat, large enough to hold two of every animal in the world; male and female of each species. Damn; after all that LGB&T stuff, these days you have to specify."

"Yeah, sure; no problem, dude. I'll get the lumber yard to front me around eight million cords of the pine that ain't all bendy; and then I'll walk over to Africa and convince a couple of giraffes, lions, rhinos and the like to follow me back here, and get on the boat that I don't know how to build. Ne sweat, chief. I'm right on it. And by the way, technically a 'boat' of that size is called a 'ship.'"

"That's what I like about you Goldfarb. You're the only man who's honest with me; a bit too pedantic, but generally tolerable. The other guys get on their knees every Sunday at various commercial institutions, and kiss my ass, in the fear that on the small chance I exist, I might smite them otherwise. Truth is that I might smite them if I gave them any more thought than I do those jackass Bizarro books; but who the f*** needs that to ruin your day. I will say that in addition your way of phrasing might well stand some more English courses and your attitude ain't exactly a product of charm school; but you're my main man 'cause you have a good heart. All the others are dead."

"I suppose that I'm now supposed to say something all conciliatory because you say that you love me so much. Well, to tell you the truth; if your loving me causes me to lose a $200,000 per annum walkthrough and become the source of suburban giggles; I'd be better off being like the other guys, who get on their knees every Sunday at various commercial institutions, and kiss your ass."

"If that's your wish, suit yourself. Be advised that I don't even have an ass. That's kind of why I'm talking to you. ......... God, I'm picking up your manner of phrasing. No offense dude; and no offense God. ......... This is getting confusing and it is entirely your fault."

"I didn't ask to be born."

"Oh, come on. That is so trite. You know damn well that that's the kind of crap a teenager gives their parents when they're otherwise tapped out."

" ........ "

"Earthly parents."

"Just bustin'. I'm getting' real tired of sittin' on my ass all day at the Dollar anyway ............... You did say that; 'Everybody's gonna die.' That includes my giggling neighbors. Right?"

"Of course."

"Cool. ....... Hehehe. Sorry, didn't mean exactly that. Just checkin' the details. You know; where the devil hides. Hehehe."

"Hmmphhh."

"Okay. Like I was sayin', I'm getting' real tired of sittin' on my ass all day at the Dollar. You can turn the other cheek just so long, and then it hurts whichever one you put your weight on."

"No sweat. We ain't up to The New Testament yet."

"I just got a tiny problem with the wood supply, the tools, the know-how, the animals, and probably some more surprises I'll discover on the way. Little stuff like that. I'll need some assurances ....... "

"Gotcha covered. I'm sending you three of my best angels. Anderson is strong, okay with his tools, and is a good worker; so he'll do whatever need be done. Polock Vinny is heavy, aces on tools, and has some difficulties if he has to move around too much; so it's best to give him something to do which can be accomplished while sitting in the defecatory position. Mark is on the small side, but he's got lots of ambition and stamina. Keep him occupied. You just can't let him be idle. If you do he then gets all kinds of 'into his head,' and starts wondering about who he is and what kind of parents he had. And he will proceed to tell you about it in agonizing detail. It can get ugly and once it sets in; it's hard as f*** to break him out of it. Anderson has an unlimited Bitcoin card he can use at Home Depot to get the lumber and the tools. And nobody has to trek to Africa to round up the animals, silly. You can get them from the local zoos. Mark is probably good for that one. It'll keep him busy, and when he gets them back here, cleaning up the elephant doody alone will keep him busy for a couple of hours every day."

"The 'Politically Corrects" say it's not right to say stuff like 'POLOCK Vinny. Can't you just say Vinny."

"Well, I guess I could. It's just an attempt at clarity. There are scores of Vinnys around, and the rest are of the WOP persuasion."

"Just a few more details, if you will. Regarding that "everybody's going to die" bit. How about my three boys; Andre, Burk, and Pierce; and my wife Kirsten?"

"Of course not. I thought that was understood. Your family is mine."

"Good, good. I don't know exactly how to say this. But, I've got three BOYS. So, if everyone else is dead; where are the boys going to find ............ romance?

"That's a good question. You know, I never said that I was perfect. It's you guys who put those words in my mouth. I don't know. I mean everybody's been okay with that LGB&T stuff for a while now."

"Incest on top of it?"

"Phhh. You're again hitting on the difficult stuff. You know; sometimes you just have to give it your best shot, and hope that DFW takes care of what you can't."

"I didn't want to bring it up last time. But, I was under the impression that you were God?"

"I am. And I'm also imperfect. It would take an eternity to try and explain it. So look; I give you my word that I'll make best efforts to come up with some females for your boys. I think that if I mold some curvaceous clay and plug it into an electrical box ........ Never mind; best efforts and 90% sure."

"I'm 600 years old. Most people retire at 62."

"You got three boys. What the hell else have they got to do, but last minute fornication?"

"They're more than 100!"

"Whew. ....... All right. These goddam sales jobs are overcoming objections. So, let me go in a different direction. One way or another, the fact is I'm making a super duper flood. Everything not in this boat is going to be dead. That includes you and your family. Kapish? ...... No boat, no Goldfarb, no Andre, no Burk, no Pierce, no Kirsten."

"Well, first of all, I have no assurances that you can make this 'great' flood. You never did it before; and chances are you'll run into some technicalities you have not anticipated. You did stress your imperfection. Second of all, I don't have to build a humongous boat for every living thing. I can hedge with a boat big enough for five; or I can even just pick up some flotation devices at Walmart."

"You are trying my patience, Goldfarb. Look, I'm gonna make you a deal you can't refuse. Observe that light shunning Blatodea in your pubic hair. It will now die."

The bug dropped to the ground, resting on its back. It squiggled its six tiny legs.

God continued; "I have vast experience with death, and can do that to one of your sons if you don't build the boat. Christ, gotta do a re-run already?"

"Before you get all kinds of braggy; thing's still squiggling. ............ Oooops. Okay. You gotta do what you gotta do. Could you do me one small favor? Take Andre. That boy just don't look like me. Y'nahmsayin?"

"And you're the best one on earth? Jeez. That confirms the validity of my decision. Goldfarb; you're beginning to get on my nerves. You're f***ing up the whole, intended scheme of things."

"This nonsense has been PLANNED?"

"More or less. Christ; everybody's a reader-writer-critic (RWC) these days. So, okay man. Use your free will and I'll use mine. To tell you the truth, I don't really care much beyond wiping out those asshole RWC's. And if there's a little collateral damage; hey; what do expect in a war? Bouquets of purple lilacs? ....... Tell me quick man; I got to run."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Just trying to get the best deal. Can you blame me for that? I'll build the f***ing boat. Just tell me that I ain't gonna get repossessed or starve to death while I'm doing it?"

"You gotta get those animals too."

"Okay, I'll get the f***ing animals."

"You have my word that you and your family will be kept whole. I'm outta here. Johnny Thunder's comin' on any second; and I gotta get juiced."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. ............. Ah, s***. Just like a salesman. Shuts up and leaves after you say yes. At least you could have told me where Thunders is playing. .......... S***. ...... What the f***? Are you an angel or something?"

"F*** do I know? Name's Polock Vinny, and my agent said there was some kind of gig here. Ain't there any seats? I'll settle for a bench. I can play a mean sax flat on my back. Y'nahmsayin?"

"Yeah. I got a heads up on your skills. ...... You know if Anderson is on the way?"

"I am not my brother's keeper. Just kidding. Didn't go for that one, huh? Ah, old joke. Mumble, mumble something head. Andy's gonna be a few. He has to find someplace which rents super trucks which make Robby Gordon's s*** look like your bathtub rubber ducky; and then he's got to find a well-stocked Home Depot which accepts Bitcoin cards."

"God just told me he had the card?"

"Well, you know God means well; but he's always gotta make tough decisions; and sometimes he's a little light on the minutiae. Andy has the card, but I'm not sure Home depot accepts them."

"Damn. Wish I could recall the precise wording. When the hell are they going to invent instant replay anyhow? ........ And Mark?"

"Should have got it in writing, jerk. Regarding Mark ........ Ah, you don't want to know. He's probably in that f***ing mirror as usual. Must think his name is Alice Cooper. You must be Goldberg."

"Goldfarb."

"Close enough? Jew?"

"Watch it buster. You're about an eighth of an inch from officially recognized hate speech. At this point in time, one is either a Jew or a barbarian heathen."

"Not quite. That's a long story about cherubim, seraphim, and a whole lotta other s***. But, hey, hey. No offense intended, dude. Just a shorthand to my curiosity about whether or not you're one of the Bizarros."

"What?"

" ................... Um, okay. I guess you ain't been around here all that long."

"I beg your pardon. I'll have you know that I've been here six hundred years; give or take."

"Ummnnn, yeah. Like I said ............. Listen, you sure you don't have a bench somewhere around here?"

A rumbling was felt in the earth, and Goldfarb reacted with a scrunching duck and closed lids.

Polock Vinny stood firm and amused, saying; "No sweat. Less than a 2.8 on the Richter. ................ Hey, look at this! Anderson's got one of those BelAZ 75710 jobs. Shee-it. Those Belarusians are somethin' else; MoFo's declared independence as early as 1990. Hope the damn thing doesn't start smokin'. Could stink the hell out of the joint."

Time followed its predictable habit of elapsing quickly. In seconds the gas guzzler was parked, more or substantially less in the driveway, right next to Goldfarb and Polock Vinny.

Polock Vinny said; "Hey, Andy. Got 'em to go for the bitcoin, huh?"

Andy said; "Wasn't my doin'. Mark and me got all this s*** on two mothers of a gurney. Took like three hours. Those Home Depot sales people are no help whatsoever. Cashier originally said no. But, while I was trying to convince her that it was okay; even asked the ugly bitch for a date; Mark here got spaced and bored, and started to rattle on about his daddy; this time picturing him under Damocles' sword. Man was moving, but so was the f***in' sword; and bugs were eating away at the string, and .........."

Polock Vinny interrupted to say; "Yeah, yeah. I got stuck sittin' through that one a couple of times."

Andy said; "My sincere sympathies. Bible ain't got no mention of hell, 'cause the early writers never met Mark. But, anyway, after a few minutes of that I was ready to just leave all the crap there, walk the f*** out, and tell DFW that I did my best; but that it wasn't really my fault, as his f***in' card wasn't any good. Well, the cashier bitch couldn't stand Mark's whine anymore and said; 'Look, I'll check you out, if you just get him out of here. I don't give a s*** if they fire me.' So, I immediately escorted Mark outside; where they got all that unsalable, out of season, junk 'on sale' and he started giving all his story to this smelly, homeless bum, who had apparently finished his garbage can inspection routine, and was so gone on meth that he thought Mark's story was far out. .......... Yeah, he was pretty old. Bitch checked me out; we loaded the stuff into the truck; and here we are."

Polock Vinny said; "Gonna meet up with the bitch?"

Andy shrugged and said; "Yeah, I guess so. If I get horny. Right now, I'm just exhausted and need some rest. She's one of those with the remnants of terminal teenage acne on her face and tools around on short bottle legs. Probably learned how to suck cock real good."

Mark came out of his high truck perch, seemingly in the middle of a sentence; " ......... in utilizing the almost necessary meta aspect of post-modern fragmentation and paradox as can be seen in the much earlier 'Tristram Shandy.' The irrationality of something deemed to be invented fifty years prior having clear antecedents to something 200 years of age both establishes its validity and simultaneously negates it; proving the completeness of the theory. In that context, the actions and sayings of my father; who lived ........... "

Andy said; "Hey, hey Mark, Mark, Mark. Back here, man. Look at me. You know, we really love hearing all that stuff; but right now we got to get this truck unloaded, or we're gonna get stuck for another day's rental charge. Priorities. Priorities. Inglais? Maybe someday you can put it on paper."

Mark sighed and started pulling off all the wood he could reach at three foot four. Under his breath he kept saying something about 1400 years, confusing his invisible audience with just as many references to 1500; as well as something about a misunderstood animal or reflection of it named Pomo; which did not wear off until the advent of the Bizarro Monster in approximately BB1; 1996; the flexibility afforded an unstable narrator; and the folly of the view that a multiverse could be contained within a universe.

Andy looked at Goldfarb, and said; "Same old. I guess you're Goldberg."

Goldfarb said; "Close enough. Goldfarb. Listen; I don't mean to rush you or anything; but how long do you think it will be before you get that monster out of here?"

Andy said; "I don't know. It's not getting fed much and should start to wither any day. Oh, you mean Mark. Take it just a little light, padrone. Mark's got this mirror thing, but he's the best friend anyone ever had if you got a set of earplugs."

Goldfarb said; "I was referring to the truck. It's a violation of certain clauses of the local homeowner's association agreement; as well as town ordinances. I don't give a f*** about the cops as they're usually pretty reasonable ......... Well, unless you get one of the new ones with something to prove ....... Never mind; very off topic. I'd just rather not have any of these 'Goofball Goldfarb' comedians over here getting cutesy sarcastic with me."

Andy said; "That's why I quit living in developments after the first house. Good question. But, it's not like I can just choose to move it. F***er ran out of gas and the temperature went into the red zone about a mile from here. Felt lucky to make it this far. You got a gas station that takes a Bitcoin card nearby? Got about a million gas cans Mark can carry over? Know a mechanic familiar with a BelAZ 75710. These foreign sports jobs look good; but break down all the goddam time; especially this Russian stuff."

Goldfarb said; "F***in' goddammit!"

Andy said; "Hey, you mad at me?"

Goldfarb said; "Of course not. I'm mad at DFW. This is the second time he split and left me holdin' the bag."

Polock Vinny said; "Don't tell me he got you on that guns, telephones, and bleachers flop down on the highway thing too?"

Goldfarb said; "Yeah, lost a great job over it too. I get so damn Pollyanna sometimes. It's really the boredom, you know. Sometimes it gets like; 'Whatever. Can't be any worse. Where the hell is f***ing Marconi anyway?'"

Polock Vinny said; "Ah, it really doesn't matter; as then you'll be praying to Caselli, an old WOP, begging for the pictures; and the initial high will fade to an addiction maintenance thing. Yadda, yadda. You oughta check out some Skinner on that. Regarding the DFW scam; if it's any consolation; DFW got millions of people screwed on that one. Sometimes he gets this ego problem, you know. He was trying to outdo Dylan at his ironic best; and it didn't work out. He ain't perfect, you know. Wound up causin' this Bizarro s***, he now has a bug up his ass to end it. Hates having the reminder of his failure right on his ass."

Goldfarb said; "He told me he doesn't have an ass."

Polock Vinny said; "Ever see him?"

Goldfarb said; "Well, not exactly."

Polock Vinny said; "Gotta watch him. He can be tricky with words. I mean he could have been referring to a burro when he said that."

Goldfarb said; "That would have been way out of context as we were talking about kissing ass."

Polock Vinny shrugged.

Andy said; "You guys weren't talking about sex; were ya? I thought he was Catholic."

Goldfarb said; "I thought he was Jewish. ............ And 'no,' we weren't talking about sex. ......... Ah, it would take forever to explain. Forget it." He saw his next door neighbor, Bruce Middleton, ambling over in that slow, precious, I-can't risk-tripping, standardized suburban shuffle.

When Bruce had gotten ten feet away he said; "Morning, Goldfarb. I see you've acquired a third vehicle. Congratulations. Hehehe." Bruce pursued a dalliance with stand down comedy early on; ostensibly retaining fond memories of closing curtains.

Goldfarb made the obligatory, painful smile, and said; "Morning, Middleton. She's a beauty; isn't she?"

Middleton said; "Certainly is. Most certainly. Big and beautiful, so they say. I was wondering when you might be running maneuvers; or whatever they call such things in Eastern Europe. Hehehe."

Goldfarb turned to Andy and Polock Vinny and said; "Did I mention our neighborhood wit? Forgive my rudeness; Andy please meet Bruce Middleton."

Bruce refused the offered handshake, and feigning amusement said; "My compliments on your sense of humor."

Goldfarb retorted with; "Truly, it seems a tad less than congenial to ignore my friend."

Bruce's eyes fluttered like the legs of an overturned Blatodea and he appeared to be somewhat wary.

Goldfarb said; "Oh, no. I got it. I f***ing got it. Bruce can't see or hear you guys. Thanks a f***ing lot for telling me. S***. Nobody gives you the rules around here; and I get stuck in .............. "

Andy and Polock Vinny were high fiving each other, jumping around and laughing. Andy said; "You gotta admit that was a good one. But, hey, not to worry. The asshole will soon have a terminal case of pulmonary edema."

Between laughs Polock Vinny blurted out; "These earthlings are so f***ing stupid. They can't figure out anything until it walks up to them and smacks them in the face." The two kept mixing snorts with guffaws.

Goldfarb said; "I'm so f***ing stupid that I'm your boss."

Andy said; "That's not what I was told."

Mark came over and said; "I need a break. This reminds me of the dilemma about suicide in the quantum mechanical sense. The trick is to keep track of the differing points of view from alternative realities; and when one point of view is blind to another point of view, it opens up another infinite amount of possibilities. ......... Or, does it close off all possibilities?"

Bruce rudely said; "Shut the f*** up." He was talking to Goldfarb, but in his confused state of mind, Mark thought it was directed at him. Dejected, Mark walked away saying; "I guess I ought to go back to pushing the wood."

Bruce continued angrily; "I don't know what kind of nonsense you're attempting to perpetrate here, Goofy Goldfarb. But, that truck is 100 feet onto my property. If it is not removed in five minutes, you will be hosting the police and that thing will be towed." He turned and left in double slow, careful time; which is akin to the speed of a jaunt to the podium made by a college professor who had just won some dubious award no one else ever heard of; unless they had been sufficiently cursed to have been placed within earshot of the pontiff."

Goldfarb said; "I'll have you know, that's GoofBALL Goldfarb. And I'd appreciate the tow. Where did you say you guys rented it? Hehehe. Go f*** yourself, Middleton."

The cops came blaring in the appointed five minutes time; three squad cars and a white medical emergency van. A portly cop jumped out and said; "Hands out of pockets!" He was apparently the group spokesman for the contingent of six.

Goldfarb removed his hands from his pockets.

The lead cop repeated; "Hands out of pockets!"

Goldfarb held them in front of his face and said; "Look; they're out of my pockets;" at which point the lead cop frisked him.

The lead cop said; "What have we got here?"

Goldfarb said; "A truck?"

The lead cop said; "I know that. You can't park it here."

Goldfarb said; "I didn't."

The lead cop said; "Is this vee-hick-el yours?"

Goldfarb said; "No, sir."

The lead cop said; "Do you know who left it here?"

Goldfarb said; "Andy."

The lead cop said; "Andy?"

Goldfarb said; "Well, that's what he said his name was. ........ Anderson to be precise."

The lead cop said; "This Anderson a friend of yours?"

Goldfarb said; "No."

Andy said; "Oh, man. You really know how to hurt a guy; don't you?" Polock Vinny chuckled and Mark sweated the lumber. Goldfarb now knew not to react in the presence of company.

The lead cop said to cop #2; "Run a check on the plates."

Goldfarb said; "Isn't there some local ordinance against vehicles this size on town roads?"

The lead cop said; "Yes. Somebody missed this one."

Goldfarb said; "Jeez. How can you miss it? It's bigger than a house, makes a racket like a slapped newborn, and stinks like a sludge farm."

The lead cop said; "I can't comment on a matter under investigation."

Cop #2 briskly approached and said; "The vee-hick-el is the property of DFW Leasing Services here in town; foreign registration and plates as current as anything in Hokey-dokeyville."

Polock Vinny said; "That's discrimination."

Andy said; "Not for 2000 years."

Polock Vinny said; "Oh. It's a bitch to be so ahead of your time."

Goldfarb chuckled.

The lead cop said; "There's nothing amusing here. Somebody's got to get this thing out of here."

Goldfarb said; "From your mouth to God's ears. I got no way to move it."

The lead cop dialed his cell phone and said; "DFW Leasing?"

" .......... "

The lead cop said; "This is the police. Who am I speaking to?"

" ........ "

The lead cop said; "No. I really am the police."

" ........ "

The lead cop said; "You can either talk to me, or I can arrange to shut down your business for an indeterminate time."

" ........ "

The lead cop said; "Well, it really doesn't matter whether or not you care. I can immediately impound this vee-hick-el."

" .......... "

"Are you the owner, sir?"

" ........ "

"May I speak with the owner?"

" .......... "

"He's where?"

" ........ "

"Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?"

The lead cop said; "Get on over to DFW Leasing and slap that yellow crime scene tape all over the place. We'll see how smart they are with a closed business."

Goldfarb said; "You talkin' to me?"

The lead cop said; "No, no. You don't even have any of that yellow tape. ......... Do ya?"

Goldfarb said; "No."

The lead cop said; "Good, good. Real super s***. Takes forever to get off the residue. Look, man. We're out of here. There's nothing more to be done. Thank you for your co-operation. See if you can get somethin' to move this thing."

Goldfarb said; "I'll make my best efforts."

The quadra-entourage left, and Bruce came bolting over, doing a record breaking Toll Brothers fifty yarder. He said; "What happened? Why wasn't I informed?"

Goldfarb said; "Cop said that you're well known to them as a pesty asshole nitpicker; and that you should go f*** yourself."

Bruce sputtered, eventually stuttering; "W-w-w-w-well, we-we-we'll just see ab-b-bout that. I n-n-n-know the ch-chief." He stormed back toward his house at a pace just a tad short of his previously established, top Olympic form.

Goldfarb said; "Hey guys. Maybe now we can put a big dent in that wood unload."

Polock Vinny said; "I don't think so, dude. Look." He nodded toward the street where Kirsten had just parked her cream, recent model Mitsubishi."

Kirsten came running over and said; "What the hell is going on here? I can't leave you alone for a second."

Goldfarb said; "You really don't want to know. It's a long story. ................................. Okay; DFW showed up again and he wants me to build a big boat .......... "

Kirsten said; "Oh, no. Not another one of those shrimp collapsed roof deals!"

Goldfarb said; "No, not at all. DFW had nothing to do with that one."

Kirsten said; "And precisely speaking, a 'big boat' is a ship."

Goldfarb said; "Ship, you're probably right. Everybody around here seems to know more about what's going on than I do. But God, is that ever nitpicky?"

Kirsten said; "No."

Goldfarb said; "That wasn't really a question. And, if it was, who made you a god."

Kirsten said; "Goddess. Well, just get this thing out of the driveway. I've got a s***load of groceries to bring in. What's this lumberyard s*** all over the place?"

Goldfarb said; "I really shouldn't move the thing. I can't anyway; and the cops are working on it. ................. "

Kirsten said; "The cops?"

Goldfarb said; "Yeah. It's a long story."

Kirsten said; "I swear to god. If you wind up in County Jail again, I'm not going to bail you out this time."

Goldfarb said; "If I don't get to work, you'll be bailing some kind of s*** over your head."

Kirsten said; "Stop right there. Nobody ever knows what the f*** you're talking about." She purposefully took a few steps toward the car; stopping halfway, as Andre, Burk, and Pierce ambled over, grinning like they just got off the bong. She temporarily concluded with; "And what about all this f****** lumber?"

Goldfarb said; "It's for the damn boat ....... ship, whatever. Think you build them out of grass?"

Andre said; "Hey, pops. Makin' us a million again?"

Burk said; "Super cool truck. Probably a bit of a parking challenge though."

Pierce said; "Can I take it for a little spin?"

Goldfarb said; "Pierce, you were never the least bit funny. And yes, you can take it for a spin as soon as you get off the cover and we get all the lumber off."

Pierce said; "Maybe we could put a bit of a hold on that."

Andre said; "Let me put a bit of a hold on that other one too. Grand Theft Auto XXVIII is anxiously waiting."

Goldfarb said; "If you muscled up some you might get some pussy once in a while."

Burk and Pierce mockingly clapped and said; "Whooo-hooo-hoo. Mean ass DADDY. Right for the throat. ....... S***."

Andre said; "What the f*** you laughin' at. You ain't getting' none either. .......... And you too, DADDY. You ain't had even a whiff since the shrimp stunk out the place."

Goldfarb said; "Don't matter. After 520 things change; yanowhumsayin? They ain't invented no Viagra kind of s*** to date. When I was 100 gotdamn. This DFW god hadn't yet f***ed me up; and I'll tell you that those fine, fine ladies down in the old neighborhood really appreciate a guy who respects them. Hehe. ......... Hey, hey. Your mom's comin' back. Like I was sayin', I'd appreciate your help in getting this stuff unloaded and out of here."

On her way back with two brown bags in hand, Kirsten said; "I can't leave you alone for a second! What's being unloaded?"

Goldfarb said; "The wood babe. Just more of the wood."

Kirsten said; "Lots of wood. You damn well know that since you got that guard job we don't have a lot of extra cash around. What did it cost?"

Goldfarb said; "I didn't have to pay for it."

Kirsten said; "Yeah, right. God did."

Goldfarb said; "Well, actually yes, as a matter of fact. ......... More or less. ........ Well, okay, it wasn't actually him who effected the purchase. One of his angels; I think Andy, used his god issued, unlimited Bitcoin card at Home Depot to pay for it."

Kirsten said; "All right; I'll play stupid. Home depot doesn't take Bitcoin cards."

Goldfarb said; "Ummnnnn, right. ............... generally speaking. But, you see this time the thing is that Andy had Mark with him. While he was discussing matters with the checkout girl; Mark had nothing to do and got into his head again and started spouting that stuff .................. and the s*** got checked out. It's a long story, which would take a lot of pre-history to make any sense of."

Kirsten said; "When you have it distilled to a sentence, I'd like to hear it. Just let me be clear on one thing. We will not have to pay for all this crap?

Goldfarb said; "No!! ......... Well, not unless the issuer of the card has a problem at their end. But, even if they do, it was accepted at the store and legally that ......... "

Kirsten interjected; "I'll be monitoring the online account listing. What's the number?"

Goldfarb said; "I don't know. I never saw the card. Maybe Andy here will show it to you. Besides it's not the transactions that appear on that account which matter to us. It's those which are posted to our card which do."

Kirsten screamed; "We do not have a Bitcoin card."

Goldfarb said; "Well, right. ...... I don't know. This is getting confused. In this context it doesn't matter whether or not we have a Bitcoin card as ......... "

Kirsten said; "Just shut up. In the meantime, I could use some help with the groceries. There are about 20 trips from the curb thanks to Brain Damage here; and I'd like some help. And if you think that this truck is going to get you out of mowing the lawn this weekend, you've got another thought coming."

Goldfarb said; "Doin' my best for ya babe. We'll soon be in an island paradise."

Kirsten said; "Probably f***ing Haiti." She trudged back to the car along with sixteen other more or less able arms and legs. The procession of groceries presented to the refrigerator was accomplished as solemnly silent as the Eucharistic adoration of the faithful.

As soon as the groceries were tucked away, a few gray clouds blew in from the north; and a light drizzle began.

Goldfarb said; "Damn. Hold your drawers on! Ain't even got one chimp yet. Thunders must have been too f***ed up to perform again. Huh?"

DFW said; "All right! All right! I'm good and juiced; and totally pissed that Thunders did another no show. Couldn't hold it."

Goldfarb said; "You keep pissin' on me and callin' it rain."

DFW said; "You from the islands?"

Goldfarb said; "Like 'This island Earth?' I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. I don't know what you're talking about."

DFW said; "Crabs in the bucket consider the lobster."

Goldfarb said; "Crabs on my f***in' schwantz, man. What the f***?"

DFW said; "Ah, s*** on it. Wife says no one ever knows what I'm talking about anyway."

Goldfarb said; "They all say that."

DFW said; "Whooooh. Just made it. Look. You got until sundown."

Andy said; "Give us a break. It's not Sunday until midnight; and we got a lot to do."

DFW said; "Okay. I just hate to cut it that close. Hear me. At midnight you will see and feel the power of one hundred billion toilet bowl flushes, no matter what."

Goldfarb said; "Got some TidyBowl handy? ........... Seriously, we need a clarification. Who's in charge here? There are differing opinions and nobody has it in writing. .......... Damn. Gone again. You know, you got the really easy job, dickhead."

Polock Vinny said; "Gotta get moving. Cummere Mark."

Mark walked over and said; "The rain keeps falling on my head. It's as if there was some sort of message being sent specially to me in the rhythm; like a primordial drum which .........."

Polock Vinny said: "Mark, Mark. Back here man. Listen. The rain has stopped."

Goldfarb said; "That wasn't rain. That was piss."

Mark said; "Piss?"

Polock Vinny said; "Goldfarb gets bogged down in irrelevant details. Listen. I need you to break from this wood job. You gotta do something more important. I want you to go to every zoo within fifty miles, and bring back a couple of every animal species."

Goldfarb said; "You gotta specify male-female, male-male, female-female, pre-op tranny-male-male, post-op tranny male-female or whatever else is added to the LGB&T list nowadays. The possibilities seem infinite."

Polock Vinny said; "Good point. Mark, you gotta get male-female couples. No offense intended to anyone, but this time around we gotta consider procreation of the species the highest priority. Later on the next generations can get into freely fulfilling themselves or whatever term they deem appropriate. Just hope they aren't inclined to lecture on the subject."

Mark said; "How can I tell which is which and who is who? I don't understand."

Polock Vinny grabbed Mark's balls and squeezed hard. He said; "It's pretty simple. Boys have these things, and girls don't. Get one of each."

Goldfarb said; "It's necessary to consider the possibility of a ball-less one being a eunuch or gelding, however."

Polock Vinny said; "Just shut the f*** up. Okay Goldfarb? Right now, we gotta roll. ........... Jeez. No wonder that DFW didn't leave you in charge."

Goldfarb said; "He did too!"

Polock Vinny said; "That's not what I heard. Got that in writing?"

Goldfarb said; "Under the law, a verbal contract is as valid as a written one."

Polock Vinny turned toward Goldfarb and said; "Take it to court." He then re-engaged Mark and said; "Don't pay any attention to him. He's a very confused man."

Goldfarb said; "I insist that I'm right."

Polock Vinny said; "You wanna get pissed on again?"

Goldfarb said; "Matters private to Kirsten and me are not ......"

Polock Vinny said; "See what I mean Mark? Okay. Can you rustle up those animals for me?"

With noticeable trepidation Mark said; "Lions and tigers and bears?"

Goldfarb said; "Oh my?"

Polock Vinny said; "Don't encourage him! Come on, Mark. Get moving. And Goldfarb, get on that truck and push up the stuff from the back."

Goldfarb said; "I don't do servile labor."

Polock Vinny said; "Goldfarb!"

Goldfarb said; "God said I was boss. I have no objection to briefly doing blue collar labor; but I will not be ordered around. I find your tone extremely distasteful. In addition, God told me that I'm the boss here."

Polock Vinny said; "That was probably DFW."

Goldfarb said; "Same thing."

Polock Vinny said; "Au contraire, my defaulting merchant of Venice."

Goldfarb said; "This is beginning to bore the s***balls off my hairy ass. I'll advance to the rear because I want to; not because you said so."

Polock Vinny said; "You been talking to Mark when I ain't around?"

Within miraculous hours the deeds were done. Goldfarb's place was stinkin' with animals. Kirsten bitched a few seconds, but when she saw the wooden conglomeration which made the Queen Mary look like Conrad's Kurtz seeking missile, she went all giggly on a per square foot basis. Andre and Burke both thought it was the height of hilarity to be tangential commentators in a landlocked boat-ship scene; Pierce the only one who had streamed "Aguirre; The Wrath of God," on his little, battery operated tablet. Anderson and Polock Vinny went off looking for DFW hoping he lived up to his promised level of pay for the short gig; with Mark in tow, looking for someone to define his existence. Every once in a while Goldfarb thought he heard Polock Vinny say; "Just shut up. At this point it's just about the money, but that's not exactly the case as .......... Just f*** it. Your disease is highly communicable. S***. ............... No, piss. ............ Ah, hell, unowhumsyin?"

Anyway, it all worked out, more or less. At midnight the big flush wiped out all Goldfarb's neighbors; unfortunately rather painlessly. And the rest is history you can re-read in your nearest septic tank.

Oh, yeah. There was one little problem most have not cared to hear. Goldfarb figured that if the dinosaurs congregated on one side of the ship, they'd capsize it. He asked God's help but got the silent treatment. Having to rely on his own lack of nautical acumen, instead of the big guys and gals he took their eggs. But, he could find no ass big enough to sit on them.

Some evangelists will say that the dinos never existed because they are not mentioned in the Bible. But, take my word on this one. They existed all right. It just wasn't until the days of Paul in skirts, that they could find the needed biggest, bizarre asshole. And like most stories, the discovery was alas, much too late in coming to be of any practical help. However it is likely to have been instrumental in leading to the un-copyrightable, inspirational hymn, called; "Just Go Sit On It, Pudgy Pauly." It is sung to the publicly domained tune of "(Let's) Go Tell It on the Mountain." While the infectiously catchy jingle has been generally accepted by all of the Bizarro milieu; it has taken on special significance with the fringe Flagellant Sect.

While the concept might suck; you have to admit that it has a good beat and that Bizarros can dance to it. Dick Clark's minions would have at least given it a consensus 8.

After the Flood A/K/A The Drain Field Works!

The waters eventually withdrew, and for the first time since the unfortunate shrimp incident Kirsten was tight with Goldfarb. God's plan about the curvy clay and electrical plug worked, and the three kids had rollicking good times with Athena, Gina, Alyssa, and Spike. It's okay. She was weirdly romantic and provided that special kick here and there.

DFW promised Goldfarb, Andre, Burk, Pierce, and Kirsten that he would never again flush his toilet. All is good, and quicker than you can get a free ARC (advance review copy) from a Bizarro writer there were people all over the place.

This portion of "The Official Bizarro Bible" has been omitted because all that was going on was a lot of you-know-what.

But, lo and behold. That DFW was quite the wordsmith, and it is essential to understand the attributes and limitations in his precise wording. Though he didn't flush, he had other tricks tucked away in his fat book and an irrationally random behavior pattern. When he saw that mankind was co-operatively building a skyscraper in Babel, he got all kinds of weirded out. Go figure. Right? It was about 1/3 the size of the original Trump Tower, and was dwarfed by most of the world's true skyscrapers, some even in third world countries. It provided much needed housing for the growing population. Bizarro boys had not yet learned how cool it was to work at Allsup's Convenience Store and live with their parents at age 45.

But DFW again punished humanity for their alleged crimes by creating many languages and its consequent confusion. Some of this was accomplished by merely converting nouns into adjectives not previously used, and then having his flunky Merriam include it in his book. But of more significance, he did something which caused them to not understand each other at all. ......... If mankind could take any solace from this at all; it was in the fact that they didn't understand each other all that well to begin with.

Apparently unsatisfied, DFW continued his bizarre behavior. He instructed Abram to leave his home in plushy Carmel; with an ocean view and right next door to Scarlett Johansson, mind you; and trek over to Portland. "Gag me with a spoon," was the much too trite and obvious remark made by Abram. But, he went quietly, figuring that this would just be another temporary thing; and not listing the Carmel property with any of the local, piranha realtors.

There, DFW made what he referred to as a "covenant" with Abram. Now Abram didn't get to Carmel by being anybody's fool and he had read of the "deal" that Goldfarb had gotten.

Abram said; "Trick word, that covenant. It has ten different meanings according to my dictionary. The first is "an agreement, usually formal, between two or more persons to do or not do something specified. May I safely assume that you didn't mean that one?"

DFW said; "Well, more or less. It falls a bit short, insofar as the definition, as you stated it, and I take your word on that, conveys a general connotation of agreement between two parties and some sort of referenced action to either take place or not; that to be specified in the particular agreement in question. But for the purposes of our arrangement here, it should generally suffice."

Abram nodded in a manner only a clairvoyant could conclude as sarcastic or not, then said; "Aha. Aha. So, let me go in another direction, and ask if this "covenant" will be in writing."

DFW said; "That truly hurts me, Abram. Don't you trust me?"

Abram said; "Oh, give me a break. That's the line the realtor piranhas give me."

DFW said; "Formal agreements beget amendments, which in turn get codicils, which in turn can be used to challenge the validity of the agreement on the grounds of mental incapacity at numerous signing dates. Ever read 'Bleak House?'"

Abram said; "As a matter of fact, I have not. But, I do find it interesting that you focussed on that mental incapacity aspect; considering your recent behavior."

DFW said; "Are you a licensed psychiatrist?"

Abram said; "No. But, I have had a subscription to 'Psychology Today' since its inception."

DFW said; "I rest my case."

Abram said; "Court adjourned?"

DFW said; "Yes. ....... I mean no. What were we talking about anyway? Sometimes I get a little confused."

Abram said; "I presume that you have been hiding in Babel."

DFW said; "What? That's not even a question. I don't have to answer."

Abram said; "Court has been adjourned."

DFW said; "Oh. Forgot." He pointed to the sky, and said; "I've been hiding up there, if you call that hiding."

Abram said; "Aha. Aha. I'm getting a good idea of how enforceable this contract is going to be."

DFW said; "Is this a Monty Python re-run?"

Abram said; "No. Monty Python had good writers. Ah, you know; that Brit humor doesn't always convert well to US. Certain words have different meanings and then that goddam foreign accent."

DFW said; "Convert. Accent. Convert. Accent. Convert. Accent. Convent accident? No. Not yet. I've got it! Sounds like covenant. Oh, that's what I'm here for. Thank you, God."

Abram said; "Did I mention the quality of the writers recently?"

DFW said; "This is my covenant with you. Your descendants will be as numerous as the stars, but the people will be oppressed in foreign territory for 400 years."

Abram said; "If you're looking for my agreement, I have to say that off the top this deal seems to have a few drawbacks."

DFW said; "Such as?"

Abram said; "Come on. Don't play stupid with me. My family gets to proliferate up to the level of stars in the sky, for which my people spend 400 years in oppression in a foreign land. Jeez, some deal. First of all, I don't need any special concessions to allow the number in my family to exceed the twenty stars in the sky."

DFW said; "When they invent telescopes you'll see that there are many, many more stars than that."

Abram said; "Well, run this s*** by me again when they do. In the meantime I'd rather my people not be oppressed. And, I'd rather see them tucked safely away in their homes."

DFW said; "I might point out that I don't really need your approval to do this."

Abram said; "Well then, why tell me about it. If you so bad just bring it, m***** f*****. Sheeeit."

And so; something was done; the analysis of which indicated a debatable level of covenant compliance.

DFW must have been on some kind of bender, as he then resolved to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah for their unspecified sins. After having had suffered his wife's constant complaints over "leaving Carmel for a hovel" Abraham (as arbitrarily re-named by DFW) put his foot down and told DFW to cut it and check into the Detox Mansion in Oakland.

DFW cut it all right. Then he told Abraham that if he could find ten righteous men in Sodom and Gomorrah he would spare them for their yet-to-be-named sins. Abraham had just about had his fill of this nonsense. He could have pursued DFW's definition of righteous, he could have asked for more time, and he could have pursued any of a number of other venues. Instead, he did nothing, as he decided that there was no way to reason with a mad man. When DFW blasted the "wicked" places; good old Mark popped up and saved Abraham's nephew Lot) and his family, but f***ed up on his wife. There is more disjointed, random, and un-entertaining crap to come before Genesis concludes. But how many stupid f***s would pay anything to be burdened by a poorly written, irrational extravaganza; while pressured to feign amusement over s*** Howard Hawks much more competently dabbled in on his off days.

Enmity in its Eighth Ugly Incarnation; Prior or Pryor Shorthand Skills A Course or Coarse Requisite

God (sometimes referred to as DFW for those memory challenged readers, writers, and sundry leeches of the industry) thundered; "Hear ye; all you writers of books. Shut up and listen up for a change. I have made changes in the standard agreement, and because of the full-disclosure-assholes on the Supreme Court, I am required to advise you, knowing you will not read it. Because of your greed and transgressions I will put abject nonsense into the system. You will know that your work is the primary spark, yet you will be slaves to the agents, publishers, and sellers of various useless services; and accordingly you will be disrespected by the majority. The only alternative you will have is to not care; which has various and sundry ramifications initially unseen. You will be tortured in the knowledge that every semblance of rationality suggests that you should get any other job in the world; including assistant fries man at McShaytan's Burghers. But your greed will always hold out the .00000000001% possibility that you will become rich and famous; the latter negotiable in a relative sense. To put that .00000000001% in some manner potentially appreciated by a non-mathematician; it corresponds to your chances of getting hit by lightning three times in a ten minute period while indoors at the North Pole. You will continually agonize over the perversity of the system which does not allow any agent or publisher to merely read the first few pages. You will be required to submit to them a query letter of greater length which mentions things they deem more important than your asshole book, such as your asshole attendance at the Iowa Writer's Workshop, and your having taken some asshole "Creative Writing" course given by the three-years-into-early-Alzheimer's Cory Doctorow asshole; who showed up to one class to drool all over his non related 'E.L. Doctorow' tee-shirt, intermittently spouting some bulls*** about digital rights management and the desirability of the freedom of information; ostensibly confusing it with the US act of the same name; which actually refers only to political doings; with an increasing number of exceptions. If you do not like the length of that sentence, take up a petition. It is also decreed that you will disdain, at the risk of morning, noon, and evening sickness, finding out what kind of workshops, conventions, or book fairs the addressed agent has attended; and say that you were there, and that you're sending them this query because of how greatly impressed you were when you met them there and that on top of that some living author suggested it. Do not check death dates on Wiki; their information is suspect and irrelevantly in public domain. The big s*** addressee, who is likely an agent because of an ADD induced inability to write an actual book, couldn't possibly remember how many ass-kissers they met at the conference; but may be readers of death notices in order to maintain the accuracy of their cold calling application. Your possible 'mistake' may be their temporary, joyous 'resurrection.' Now, be cursed in knowing that you have been rejected because of an inadequacy in your query, which took the agent more time to decipher than their common sense dictated, alternative option of reading three pages of your book. Ha ha. Rail all you want; you are relegated to rejected querydom. For the ultimate in admonishments, understand that your sins and faults indicate that you are not a child of DFW."

Oh, the agony. But, hear ye, hear ye. For all those who have ears to hear; in the days of yore, Prophet Schultzy contented and amused his many syndicated followers with an annual replay of the kickoff of a new football season. Yeah, there were differing nuances each time, largely based on references to the past. But, if you want to get down to the essentials; it was just that Charlie Brown wanted to kick the football; Lucy said she would hold it; and Charlie wound up on his ass when she pulled it away. ...... Genius. Right?

Well, by the time of the Bizarro people such things were considered quaint and cute. The sophisticates of the immortal STD had various sub-genres, and sub-sub-genres and sub-sub-sub genres in their heads which they kindly posted in cyberspace; with an attendant "funny" lecture, for want of a traditional, money-paying publisher. It was the work of Satan him or her-self; probably both.

The story was told and re-told, from the "sacred scriptures" to the tabloids; each in a progressively diminished pigeon hole. First came Saint David Foster Wallace's Charlie. ....... Okay. Joyce was there first; but that gets all sorts of confusing on a chronological basis; and nobody understands what Joyce was trying to say anyway; including Joyce. The game had been going on for some years before DFW got there. So he went to school and learned of the precedents. As a result, he was bright enough to know that Lucy had pulled the ball away ten out of ten times; and being an honors student, concluded that she probably would do the same thing on number eleven. He did have the advantage of having had a brief, personally disdained dalliance with math, as seen in memory-dependent, imperfect retrospect; during which time he wrote the first of his books about infinity. He saw Charlie and Lucy's football problem as a judgmentally induced and perceived dynamic which emanated both from within and without themselves. Consequently he wrote in excruciating detail of their appearances, as well as that of their surroundings, including psychological profiles; something akin to the length of the Sunday New York Times; replete with super-duper puzzle. On a more concrete level, when he had concluded that this matter was one to be approached with trepidation; he fortified himself with some un-prescribed pills; and sat down two feet out of the gate; feeling pretty damn good; and not particularly mindful of Lucy on the football with diamonds.

Midwestern Franzen Charlie got a lot of attention when he bloated a book with rudimentary and long-drawn-out, poetic fillers; winning some sort of award no one noticed, for putting good old Charlie and Lucy in a family context. No, not the mob; like mother, father, brothers, sisters, pets; and sundry crap like that. Anyway MF Charlie was repulsed by Lucy. I don't know. Maybe she didn't douse herself with FDS on kickoff day; but I guess that's easy to say for one visually oriented with absolutely no sense of smell. No, that's not completely true, but this overly long excursion into "Alphabet Soup," is that a brand name? is not about me. .......... I don't know. If you care go ask Godard before he croaks. Back on topic; more or less; MF ain't getting' off the line and welcomes a "witty" and writerly talk with broke-ass DeLillo, anxious for any gig on prime time. Lucy's left holding the ball.

Then there is Wannabee Cocteau Charlie. WCC finds something wrong with the whole scene. The f***ing ball is a drab brown, with a straight white line circling both sides, and a Hobby Lobby, color co-ordinated thread in the middle; which seems to anyone reasonably fluent in the arts to be either hopelessly garish or a Jon Waters skit without the Divine. So he paints the ball lavender, and tries to convince Linus to hold the ball for him. Lucy is amused but, if she had her druthers, still would like to follow Petula downtown.

Pet Charlie is all hung up on the approach aspect. She knows that it takes a running start to make much of a kick; but seems reticent to get a move on. She pulls up on her first few approaches; finally going into a diatribe about why individual field goal kicking was fascist, Hitler, Mussolini, and Trump; and how simultaneous democratic punting was preferable. It played well on old liberal media, but ultimately resulted in Pet's departure, in search of a second ball; after the plastic one failed.

Unknown Meta Charlie incorrectly changed his name to Pomo Charlie. He brought his nondescript carcass to the now blurred line, holding a motion picture camera. He ignored Lucy and ripped the ball into forty pieces, then openly complained of Lucy's unfair share of power in her ostensible possession of the ball which now resembled something unwrapped from the butcher shop. PC yelled to the now angry crowd often seeking to be impressive through the use of foreign words like Derrida and Borges incorrectly. It was likely a wasted effort in the US as the peaceful crowd thought he was saying something lewd about their butts and f***ing them. Nonetheless, the crowd hopped the gates with no difficulty, as the gates were merely an idea hiding behind an illusory construction. PC turned on his camera and filmed the crowd which took possession of the now forty part ball. They threw it around as much as one can throw ripped pieces of dried pigskin while Lucy cried. PC ran out of film in two hours. He momentarily gave thought to the notion of getting another camera and having an audience member film him while he was pretending to film the crowd; and then to screen his momentary stardom while he filmed the watchers reactions to it. He decided that this process could go on forever, and that it was best to cut it somewhere; the present the only time. He turned the footage he had into a 75 minute art house bomb. The only spectators to see it were the people on the film. Inevitably they said the depiction was not of them. PC should have known that one. Due to their "inaccurate" and detrimental depiction, the audience filed a class action suit for libel. But I guess that PC had the last laugh after all, as before he could be served with papers he disappeared.

Garth Charlie made Lucy a deal she could not refuse. If she would just go back in time, it would be okay with him, whatever she chose to do with the football. Yeah, he's a college professor. So, the thing went big pro, got the green, and wound up on his ass. No problem, as the pile came upfront and the dilettante reviews caused no financial problems, with the exception of the high bidding publisher. ...... Who cares? Serves the Luddites right. Wouldn't you say? Go ask Lucy for confirmation.

Steely Dan Charlie got Virginia Slims lyrical, forgot about their old school, and got out in front or back, whatever, singing; "Katy lies. You can see it in her eyes."

The obese, bald man from the planet of Bizarro took his chances. As if his fat head needed any help, he made ugly faces at the non-existent camera. His Pauly Palsey companion lifted his skirts to reveal the minor amputation, and mugged for the same camera. "Oh, that's so hilariously meta," he said and the duo proceeded to laugh as it was so, so funny. Fat head sat down and continued writing his 658th book in the last five years. He figured that if he kept going at this pace, the law of averages would kick in and one would aggregate sales in excess of 100. Pauly Palsey sat on the ground next to Mr. Prolific. When Lucy saw that this was a day too hot for underwear she took the ball and went home.

Then omigod; Deflategate Brady Charlie showed up with his doctored, allegedly flaccid ball. DGBC figured no one would notice. But with instant replay and Antonioni's Blow-Up in his face, what's a middling, over-rated jock to do? Look wholesome on camera; and espouse a lot of platitudes, wave old glory, and pretend to have always been a worshipper of God and America, I guess. It's proven to be a pretty good percentage play. Please note the unintended alliteration which focuses on P. Nabakov might approve.

And finally, in the last act, My Charlie stood at the gate. MC was nervous, and had a bit of a bout with Mom's spaghetti. He had no idea whether or not Lucy viewed his prior competition as stiff; enhanced films an enemy. He coupled that thought with his penchant to go slowly; resulting in a diatribe which sought to effectively parody his predecessors. Okay, some was an out and out insult, but he knew that if the parody was good enough no one would be able to be sure of anything. Lucy gave him mixed signals. She chastised him for being unduly caustic; but interspersed the chastisements with what seemed to be genuine, uncontrollable laughter. After some foreplay she said; "Quit effing around and just bring it." Now MC would like to have believed that. He really would have. But, he knew that she had a chronic habit of lying; some necessary, but still a consideration. So, as MC started his approach he called out; "Hey, look at that. Johnny Depp is in the stands!" With Lucy's attention diverted, he double timed his approach and kicked the ball an un-measured distance.

This event would in tomorrow's paper, in the sports section. They estimated the distance and different mathematicians came up with very divergent results. But, seemingly worse for PC, in the eyes of the public, the moralists took all sorts of confusing and generally derogatory angles on MC's pre-kick maneuvers; the vast majority finding it out and out reprehensible.

Following the advice of his money grubbing agent, MC acknowledged them all and hanged his head appropriately. He never said that in his heart he thought that the whole commentary was kind of retarded; and that he is kind of simple, didn't want to get into the conversation; yet wanted to appear to be somewhat social as his agent said it was good for business, and felt no guilt for his little game as Lucy was no worse for it, neither was he, and the new season had been kicked off. WTF? While he pretended to listen to the spectator's diatribes; in his head he was hearing Big Pun do "That Nigga S***." Hehehe.

Next year presented a different situation to be later addressed. Lucy figured that the crowd might now think that she likes holding the kicked football which she does, but had sought to hide. MC knows this and his top priority is to protect his well-loved Lucy from the loneliness of the crowd and its potential harm. So, simple old MC had a brainstorm. He thought that he had found the ultimate answer to life, as he had noted that last year's process of "bore, divert, and kick it," shortened to the required current acronym necessity of BDK, one letter and one space off the minor edit in both the former and the latter; as divined by some analogy oriented reflection; in which he noticed that the strategy worked pretty well in all situations. So next year he planned to basically .......... BDK all over the joint. ........... It seemed the right and simplest thing to do; and even old Occam raised no objections.

Job A/K/A Arthur Loses It

Ain't it just like the night ........ You know, just when you think you got it down some monkey-ass comes along to screw up the system. This malcontent just has to find a fault with everything. Worse, he has to tell everyone about it. No, it's not your "artistic" brother-in-law. It's this wizened, little, sallow-faced bastard with a thingy, that at full mast, appears to have been subjected to water induced "shrinkage."

Job-Arthur and DFW are working the system as best it can be worked; insofar as their imperfect minds can as yet determine. J-A loves the garden and DFW loves that Job loves the garden. Voyeurism is not yet any sort of crime. But, regardless of that and your particular predilection; you can easily infer that the meta; incorrectly called Po-mo aspects of the whole thing can be hacked. Yeah, if the designer paid more for Apple's OS16, rather than taking the $300 Windows based system manufactured in Korea, this problem would not have surfaced. But what it is is what it is; so all we can do is try to deal with it.

To cut to the chase, Sallow hacked and typed some s*** into the system which reversed DFW's contentment. It would seem that DFW should have been more secure after his many great accomplishments; but you know, if you want to go there, it's better to talk to his psychiatrist. Sallow wrote; "Sure, J-A loves you or says he does. He's getting' pussy like a mother f***in' bunny on GoDaddy. Would he still love you if he got ED or some s*** like that?"

If DFW's got one major fault, it is that he isn't easily able to dismiss the most jackass of ideas. He's been a college professor, and to take the problem to the third power, so were both his parents. Cut him some slack here. He has been virtually programmed to consider every possibility; no matter the chromosome level. So, since he had already made a major sized Magilla of a flood, and had promised not to do that again; and because castration seemed a rather severe form of experiment, like any good college researching professor would do, he devised a test which would absolve him from any possible guilt, yet produced the same result for the subject. If that doesn't make sense, ask a rat to explain it.

DFW sent one of his parasites, this one called Saunders, to go down on J-A's cock. Meta considerations in and of themselves a subject for a top level, if there is any such concept in feigned egalitarian Bizarro aside; suffice to say that Saunders bit off an eighth of an inch with each daily blow job, and in a month's time J-A's banana looked more like a peeled grape; fruity considerations merely one of pedantic genre interest; and ultimately an irrelevant technicality to everyone else. Rocky said; "So call it a f***ing vegetable. I don't give the smallest balls of a s***. ........... Cut me open. ............. Adrian!!!!!!!"

A digression. The writer's purposeful, necessary digression in hopes of buying time to find some idea which can pass for stupid and funny. The unsatisfactory results conclude this chapter. Hey, what do you expect? It's an asshole Bizarro derivative; by definition inferior to the first. If you think that it's easy to do you haven't tried it.

J-A wondered if he should thank DFW for sending one month's worth of Saunders' short blow jobs; or to curse him for the long term effects. He took his well-practiced route and aimed for the middle. For only $89.99 he ordered a month's supply of Fabrican's Neosize XL Willy Wonders with New Improved Moxitroxin Penis Enlargement Pills. J-A was no-one's fool. He ignored the shoddy documentation found on-line, this one with three reporting participants who just happened to be Fabrican shareholders, which indicated an average annual growth rate of 30%, exceeding that of its pill genre competitors by 50%. He ignored the six five star ratings because he figured; "What kind of idiot would really go on line to advertise that his schwantz was still on the petite side?" But, being a touchy-feely type of guy he was impressed by a few personal testimonials; one of which follows.

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No one is certain of J-A's results as it seems that he went into hiding during his medication period. He obtained refill after refill, all the time praying to DFW. He tried to make it sound like a sincere "I love you" thing, but he was concerned that DFW might be able to read his mind. It was a moot point. J-A spent a lot of time on his knees and since he never paid attention in math class, he didn't know that 30% of nothing was still nothing.

Psalms

We are in a clear, nebulous space. Two entities who vaguely appear to be or relatively recently have been what we refer to as "human" are conversing. We didn't ask to be here. Deceptive instincts suggest that it feels as if we've again been subjected to some sort of recurrent banal dream. We think that we'd rather be most anywhere else; even in front of the latest prime time sit-com. That thought is entirely irrelevant in the moment, as we seem not to have much of a choice in the matter. Our little group is chained together at the ankle, and any attempts to move negate each other; as whenever the urge comes on, each attempt to step in a different direction. That hurts. That's stupid. At least this grouping is bright enough to know that much. Issues of medieval flagellants or masochism are dismissed as a manifestation of an ancient solipsism; of interest to historians. Under the circumstances it is almost tolerable to be there until we again hear the Eagles do "Hotel California." To drown that out we focus on the words in progress.

"My mother was a Quebecois separatist who lived in 'Alphaville.'"

"I suppose that now I am required to ponder what you mean."

"If you'd like."

"No. It's not about what I'd like. It's about what you've brought up."

" .................................. "

"Once you throw something like that out it has a way of remaining in the air."

"Okay. She wasn't exactly that. She was Zadie Smith living in Renoir's 'Grand Illusion.'"

Laughs briefly though not politely. "I think you should have stuck with the first one."

"You complained."

"Now you're just being Jonathan Franzen in Saunders' 'Winky.'"

"That's really mean. It wasn't previously personal."

*****************************

"This can go on to infinity."

"Like hell."

"If one is sufficiently refined to appreciate the minutiae."

" .............................. "

"You're not saying anything."

"Because you know that I'm almost right. It's a close call and I really rather not quibble about it."

****************************

"Did you see that book I picked up for a nickel?"

"Yeah; a little dog eared, but okay for a nickel."

"It had its moments; I think."

"Goodreads in drag costume."

"You're such a bitch."

"Okay. It was a playful, inventive and hilarious romp through the margins of cutting edge thought."

"1987 'Broom of the System.' But you're just jealous that it was liked."

"Yeah. But now who is being the bitch?"

"That's an acceptable characterization."

"At least he got away from that puke inducing flouncing stuff."

"Ah, another rose has wilted. So sad in a way. But, not completely."

****************************

Dear K; in a short sentence you have demonstrated the drawbacks of the "stream of consciousness" style. To the point, your windows are perfectly clear, and I'd guess that your mirrors are not plagued by Windex. I did say "modified stream of consciousness," but that modification is rather case specific, and could go on until death do us part.

I feel kind of stupid and slow in taking 24 hours to possibly get some insight. It's actually a pleasant feeling I'm somewhat accustomed to. Acquired tastes are fine and often difficult to differentiate from natural ones.

In temporary closing, I might just point out that slow is considered preferable in certain circles. Perhaps needless to say my windows are somewhat smudged; but at least they're not a DFW opaque job. My mirrors? That's uncomfortable and a long boring story. Suffice to say that I generally don't monkey with my antiques.

Who in hell said this is about money? Most of the time it's just good fun.

****************************

Yay, bro; busted the pen.

Arright.

Dis here's for my peoples on de Read Road.

Luv me like my moms.

Y'nahwatameen; droppin' them bombs.

Just to be heard.

Like flippin' that bird.

And Brutha G is the word.

Fuglas Douglas bam bam.

Dude's platinum or it's a scam.

Manny's the man.

Whut yu think they call him that fo; damn.

Luv that evil s***.

Luv that banned s***.

Luv that goof s***.

Luv that "Whut he say" s***.

Luv all that s***.

Yu no ma true luv?

It's dat Read-Read s***.

Dat Read-Read s***.- No luv fo the cops.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Goin' clear at the tops.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Getting' stoned with my twinz.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Three weeks in the penz.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Getting' stoned again.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Beatin' on my dumbass frenz.

Dat Read-Read s***.- F***in' with that yellow tape.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Whoopin' ass while suckas gape.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Iverson crossover.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Cheese doodles and cream soda.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Wanna bitch whut knows about down.

Dat Read-Read s***.- Gotta dig the clown.

Whut- whut- whut- whut- whut

Whut- whut- whut- whut- whut

Is dat da cop arready?

Ah, man!

Proverbs

"If you can't do it, review it."

"There is no doubt in my mind concerning mankind's greatest invention. We'd have killed each other off long ago if not for the relief provided by laxatives. ........ On second thought, maybe laxatives are the epitome of evil."

"Writing in the same genre over and over is like continually building the same model airplane as an excuse to sniff the glue; and slightly less fun."

"People who live in glass houses should erect a tall, sturdy fence, while they seriously consider re-modeling with tinted safety glass."

"Fall seven times and stand up eight is obviously nonsense. On the seventh fall stay down for the count and take the low end money."

"Don't be sad that it's over. Be sad that it ever started."

"We didn't start the fire. We just do fanned friction. Really. It can be quite lucrative."

"Speech is free here. ......... If you will be so kind as to agree with me."

"The lady hath not protested much since 1972. But she does have 'issues,' and if you stand still too long you will hear them."

"The fabrication of a sense of propriety is nothing more than a corruption of a sense of the proprietary."

"It is no accident that God made love and sex two different things. If love was required for procreation the species would have gone the way of the dinosaurs."

"What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Merriam-Webster calls David Foster Wallace and engages him to re-define the terms."

"Fifty acres and a musket."

"Many people find Pynchon and Wallace similar. Yes, I agree that they are both excellent twenty-first century writers; one of whom is a prisoner of length and the other one an occasional jail visitor; both difficult for many readers. One uses up-to-date, bizarre symbolism in a covert attempt to disparage it; this, inexorably a surreptitious ploy for a return to the traditions of the Mayflower; presented in a Chaplin-esque motif. The other uses up-to-date, bizarre mixed with traditional symbolism, in an overt attempt to suggest the inevitability and infinite feasibility of change; presented in a Hicks-like motif. In an age submerged in and fascinated with deception, it is obvious which one receives the "highest honors," as they are bestowed by those well advanced in age; if little else.

"To be able to put down words, the single most important thing a writer who believes that they have something important to say is to forget that absurd notion."

"The best writing is that which communicates on at least five levels; mine and uh .................."

"Any personalized search for 'completeness' is an obvious, though not overt, testimony to the searcher's luxury of free time and a grand self-image. At any given point, a person is a manifestation of a few of the many shifting attributes or personae, sometimes called nafs, which they have continually adopted at will; while they have simultaneously discarded others. It seems so simple; 'One cannot have their cake and eat it too.' For others, it is best to avoid the ones who will never be satisfied."

"Those who say 'go for it' haven't the slightest idea what 'it' is."

"Those who say Magical Realism is wonderful because it has no limits have a high tolerance for abject stupidity and incompetence."

"When a 'reviewer' says that a book is too long to review, they are confusing the word 'review' with the word 'synopsis' or just don't have a clue."

"When a commentator says that to write a 'long book' is masturbatory, they may not realize that the author considers masturbation infinitely more preferable to sex with the jackass commentator."

"In the year of 2016, and, on behalf of all officially recognized minorities and those yet to be recognized, I would like to thank the many literary mavens who strongly chastise those who make politically incorrect characterizations or otherwise delineate dim-witted hatred of them. As we all well know the situation is not tolerable until everyone uses the appropriate words which will indicate that everyone loves each other. The minorities defended appreciate your noblesse oblige in granting them equal status a half century after everyone else did. I'm sure that the gratitude of blacks, women, LBG&T devotees, and members of other minority groups is directly proportional to your eternal vigilance. Thank you so much."

"If someone likes or agrees with everything you say they are either not paying any attention, angling for something, or too stupid to bother speaking with."

"In order to have any chance of being implemented the best long term solution must also be made to appear to be the best short term one. If that is accomplished the next hurdle to be surmounted is the inevitable defectors; all well-armed with tons of their heart breaking good reasons and clarifications."

"You say that I am angry. For the last time, I'd like to assure you that I am not. See Sartre, de Beauvoir, Camus and derivatives for an exhaustive explanation or Franzen for one more concise. I fear that if you persist in your inaccurate judgements, that I will quickly become really angry and kill you."

"Autism is a natural defense mechanism existent in people cursed with high levels of déjà vu. It is a crime for psychologists to idiotically attempt to provide an 'antidote,' but they will persist as that is one of the requisites of their failed 'profession.'"

"Sometimes a Mark Twain witticism is just a Mark Twain witticism."

"If you think that you have something important to say; understand that you will be merely displaying your ignorance in so doing; as it has already been said thousands of times we know of and likely millions of which we are unaware."

"For every great quotation there are a minimum of three great contradictions."

"Indifference is a much more effective weapon than hatred. Not only is it easier on the nerves; it is much easier to employ."

"Adept prophets communicate wisdom kindly and effectively, until they become confused by their discovery that X=X+1, when written in luxuriant olive. Businessmen and politicians flourish because they stop at the point whereby they know that X=X-1, when written in inflamed ruby."

"To provide free services to an entity like Goodreads was a heart-warming and noble endeavor. To continue to provide free services to an entity like Goodreads after it has been acquired by a profit and world control motivated entity like Amazon, is either sheer stupidity, extreme slavish masochism, or is conclusive proof that a person is looking for an excuse to make complaints, to which all will sympathize on the surface and clandestinely revile. That is an overly kind way of saying it, as it doesn't require a genius IQ to know that every Goodreads which succeeds in becoming valuable through the use of free labor sells out to the Amazons of the world every time. Yes, you read that correctly; every time, every f***ing time. ....... Okay, you choose to not believe that one 100%. So, how much you wanna bet? Name one exception."

"Pantomimic, protracted Pynchonic pontifications presume profundity, yet pitifully proffer a plentitude of poop piles prior to every princely, pithy piece of personally protective praise. ......... Phffft; piss on it."

"Life gives you a billion good reasons to quit. All that is required is to pick the one with which you are most comfortable."

"Let's not and say that we did."

"It is certain that if Obama was a white man he would already be touted as a candidate for one of the worst US presidents of all time. The irony is that if he truly was a black man he probably wouldn't have been so ineffectual."

"In circles which consider themselves part of the intelligencia the un-written, yet operative, definition of 'free speech' is that one can say whatever they choose, no matter how contradictory or baseless, about the US, UK, Israel, Christianity or Judaism. Yet to speak in the same manner regarding Arabia, Africa, Muslims is not permitted. One can only offer one comment and that is just too rude."

"That the minority of Pit Bulls and Dalmatians have attacked humans makes it permissible for people to say and write that those breeds are best avoided. However, if a minority of Muslims have attacked humans it is not permissible for people to say and write that this breed is best avoided. There is something to be said for one's requirement to clean up their own house."

"Unanswerable does not equal indecipherable."

"Murakami equals almost literary musaak. Maybe the 'something lost in translation' stirs idle imaginations into deep, deep thought."

"If anarchy was brought to the Americas it wouldn't last a day before the thugs with the biggest guns took over. Any naïve foreigner would save themselves some embarrassment if they lived here a while; and I don't mean a two week vacation; before they started pontificating about it."

"A genius is one step ahead; an idiot is two. (Possibly sic.)"

"Some things just plain stink, but to say that one is treated worse than the stinker. It's better to stay quiet and hope the wind doesn't kick up."

"Seek and ye'll soon be sorry ye did."

"The black, winter, night sky shines with all the brilliance of stars which died eons ago."

"When utilizing lyricism, symbolism or allegory it is best to surreptitiously hide that behind literal people and objects."

"Writing is easy. The only thing writers have trouble with is learning how to spell T-h-e E-n-d."

"I didn't break it. So, it ain't my job to fix it."

"The price always goes up after you're dead."

"Bulls make money. Bears make money. Hogs don't."

"Remuneration for an endeavor is directly proportional to the degree of distaste required to perform it."

"Do not ever give the impression that you think you are saying something new. Its 99.99% certain that you are not; and if the .01% possibility is the case, everyone will say that they already knew that."

"If destined and cursed to ponder whether one's neighbor is a Dadaist or one with a surplus of chromosomes, save yourself the headache. Just give him a kick in the ass and watch his first three steps."

"Grand plans are concocted by those who have attained the prerequisite of having failed miserably at the small ones."

"Things are as they are because people want them that way. Invariably they bitch about it, prior to rejecting any alternative presented. This dynamic does not even reach the stature of petty rebellion. It's just a cowardly farce ad infinitum."

"It is as equally retarded to be anti-science as it is to worship it."

"In the beginning God created everything. Since then we've been complaining about it, studying it, fixing it and 'improving' it. Observe the groovy 2016 results; a nineteenth century Shelley creation."

"The easiest thing to do when the damn thing stops working is to push the restart button."

"Popular objections to Joyce's 'Ulysses' actually boil down to an objection to art for its own sake. Joyce was so hurt that, while 'Ulysses' provided a framework, his next effort; 'Finnegan's Wake,' would provide none."

"Most modern 'radical' literature is independently provided by bookish kids who utilize their skills in gangsta speech patterns to provide an egalitarian mixture of ghetto and Valley Girl."

"At its root or lack thereof, socialization is a measured response, calculated by one devoid of a measurement instrument."

"A Traveler is one with a black witch's broom placed in the appropriate space. It is fortunate for the others that she has no effect on anyone other than an equivocating Manny."

"One of the amusing things indie reviewers cannot resist is to re-use and re-use admired phrases copied from other indie reviewers. Today, the most popularly duplicated phrase is; 'I liked it for the things it didn't say as much as I did for what it did.' I wonder if the converse is true. Substitute disliked for liked for one possible reversal. The devotees of this view might do well to stare at a blank book. It could be orgasmic."

"There is little doubt that dualities exist in nature. However, the currently popular double and triple binds discussed on 'Bookworm' and the ilk are most often foolish attempts to reconcile two of the infinite supply of imperfectly defined words. Plato's world of forms, anyone? The result is useless sophistry, which only serves as an egoistic or financial benefit for the perpetrator."

"You've got to cross all the eyes and dot all the tease."

"An incorrect response to an incorrect response to an incorrect response to an ....................... produces a correct response at level 10."

"When in danger it is always best to seek the highest ground, unless one is at the base of Everest with no climbing gear."

"There is case law and there is contradicting case law. Idiots kill each other over their 'ideologies.' The higher authorities will always make the final decision as soon as they cease laughing."

"Walls appear to be the best of friends. They have an accommodating habit of showing up whenever you choose to see them."

"One particularly annoying dichotomy is that humans seek information, but also object to being told what to do. This requires the responder to cloak the answer in competent and popular entertainment, if they give a s***."

"The quest for knowledge still culminates in the professor's enlightening innocuous dissertation. Understand that clarity is not an absolute in three dimensions. What is clear to some is unclear to others. Therefore, the pursuit of clarity is a loser's game."

"Education is the bridge between impetuous faith and exasperating reservation; joking Wallace vs. joking Franzen. Yeah, I know that I stole it. But, legally it is not under the "protection" of the copyright laws. Thank you Mark. ...... Er, Sam. .......... Ah, see. F*** it."

"Counter-intuitive becomes a more descriptive assessment when all intuitions are created equal. Until then, "chameleonic" remains a superior imperfection 6X."

"Why is it that the degree to which the ending of 'I don't know' is articulated in the most 'clever' of terminologies and is directly proportional to the degree with which the postulation is jargon laden; with zero standard deviation? Thought I'd grasped an anesthetized number of hypotheses, but must have misplaced them somewhere in tutorial seminar, where they may still reside, hidden under someone's fat ass. Please refresh my memory. Enlighten me. ......... On second thought, never mind. It had to have been just another one of those yin-yang non-resolutions."

"Two tiny banalities poorly executed lead to an infinity of complications wrongly considered momentous. My sincere apologies to William and Virginia. I do appreciate the acknowledgement offered by Bill and Gina stating that it was at least a paraphrase rather than an act of plagiarism.

Distillation: Two banalities poorly executed."

"Censors are the people who tell you whether or not it's all right to read what you have written."
Jeremiah

Diary entry dated 5-12-16

I finally got here to the abandoned cabin in the hills by thumb, feet, and the good graces of the faux jaded, pedophilic, zombies at the wheels. The world was all green yesterday. I'm sure it was. ....... But it no longer is. Maybe it's the colder air up here. I don't know and it doesn't matter. I have to remember that I can't be sure of anything. She changed some of the settings in my head.

Yeah, I let her screw the top off and she did something in there. Stupid, huh? It seemed fun at the time. Now I can say that if I didn't get involved with the weirdest girl in eleventh grade I'd be back home with Mom; safe and warm. Well, safe and warm anyway. Now that Dad's been gone a couple of years, Mom would more likely be out with some gym instructor addicted to penis enlargement pills. Don't ask if him, her, or both.

I had heard that some entrepreneur paid for another McShayton's Birger franchise up here in the hills. In Remoteville, it sounded dumb as all hell with just a few long-haired decrepits living here off season. But it was on the net from a few sources; who curiously had a similar way of phrasing and spelling; though one purported itself to be the "official" McShayton's Birgers website. So f***ing cool to appear stupid, when any other possible choice may not be an option. F*** it, if it makes money, I guess.

Goddammit, there are those pains again. Sharp bastards, right over where both eyes would have been, were one not misplaced somewhere. I meant to check under her bed, but figured I'd get out while the getting was good. Anyway, glad that McShayton's Birgers got a joint only a half mile from here. When the cash runs out, I'll still have the garbage cans. Gotta go.

Diary entry dated 5-15-16

Hey diary; my good friend; it's been a few days now. Sorry. Been busy. It takes a while to settle into a new home. And frankly, I've had some trouble sleeping at night. I keep hearing these loud thumps. Shouldn't be, you know. It sounds like the walls are cracking somewhere. And it never happens during the day. Must be some clumsy, blind drunk bears creeping around at night. Yeah, I know that they say this house was abandoned because of the ghosts, but she told me not to believe any of that kind of stuff. Things don't die; they just morph.

I really ought to tell you more about her. At least as much as I think I know. She said that she was Death, with a capital D. Ummnnn, okay. She and her family had just moved into my town, Sudbury, two months prior. I first saw her on her first day at school when the bitch, home room teacher made her get in front of the whole class and tell everyone who she was. She was obviously shy and would rather have just been allowed to blend in, without calling attention to herself; but Ms. Wright had some other agenda; which to me seemed out and out cruel.

The little lady told us that her name was Maureen and that she had been at many schools. Her father was military intelligence; yeah, I know the joke about that; but it's a useful pigeonhole for cursory, descriptive purposes. Her seeming point was that she was required to relocate every year; sometimes twice. What she did not say out loud, but that which I immediately visualized, was that in every instance, by the time she was settling into her new home and becoming a part of a new group of friends, she was moved elsewhere; to again be the scrutinized outsider.

She fumbled for words; drawing the routine, uneasy laughter of the "in crowd;" who seemed to seek approval in that day's initial entrees into "socially acceptable" humor. Maureen ended her uncomfortable, required performance by saying that she loved books, and hoped to meet other readers.

At the time her hair length was in-between, jet black in color, and somewhat curly. After a few Ms. Wright comments which no longer exist in my head, Maureen walked to the open seat; stoically making no eye contact with anyone. I didn't know if I was merely intrigued or in love. She sat on the open seat, taking no apparent notice of her surroundings, inclusive of me.

Later her jet black hair got much longer and straightened.

Diary entry dated 5-16-16

Hi again, diary. I've not been too bad; it's only been a day or so. I don't know; I've been kind of spacing out, thinking about this Maureen person. She was seated behind me in some classes like reg, and in front of me in others. For Earth Science, she was just not there at all. That's the only course I came close to failing.

And then one day, I got up the courage to say hello. Damn that butt-plugged "in crowd." Never liked me, and I returned the favor. You know what? Not one of the suburban, hipstas could do a thing about it; a sequestered giggle when I passed in the locker lined hall; the closest thing.

You might imagine. You might not. But, for me this girl was already in my head; without having to screw the top off of it.

She said a tenuous "Hi," making me struggle to find sentence number two. As it was kind of spontaneous, I had no plans. We were in the bustling hallway as classes changed, and she saved me from my muteness in blurting out; "My mother was a burn nurse." So many questions invaded my mind, I didn't know which one to address. Here she was. She seemed to like me; and I kind of knew that I liked her.

That's an old story. Hmmnnn, measured in months, rather than days. But, whatever the possibly false memories, today, I am doing whatever I can to hide from her; while she is doing whatever she can to hide from me.

That sounds sick to the majority unfamiliar. Most likely it is sick. I almost understand. But, there are those sounds at night and the sharp pains just above where eyes are customary.

I haven't eaten yet today. Through other "tests" I've happily discovered that the stomach pangs fade, though that same belly-centrist trait is uncannily consistent with the scientifically unproven dynamic which dares to suggest that one's diet is the best indicator of one's determinations.

This is terrible. I'm sorry once again, diary. I can only ask for mercy on the grounds that I am ignorant of the law; a defense long ago disallowed.

And then there was always Maureen, whenever you didn't want to see her.

Diary entry dated 5-20-16

The sun came up this morning. I saw it in the windows facing the East. Almost and maybe did anyway. Hard to make a clear-cut determination.

This diary is supposed to be about my pathetic life. Right? Just ask Leyner. Guess I messed up that one too.

It's weirder for me than any commercial enterprise has yet been able to market it. It's like there's nothing I more want more than to be with Maureen; and then some fearful life preservation instinct takes me the other way; but never fully succeeds.

It's kind of a dream which we know will never come true; yet is impossible to forget.

I told her that fire was my biggest fear; not overly wrong; but not overly right either.

She seemed to hold back a chuckle, when she replied; "It was just something done by the kids."

Diary entry dated 7-15-16

It's now mid-summer. The oaks have gotten enough water to produce sufficient green leaves which overwhelm those tending toward an anemic red-brown. The days are in the mid-eighties; an attestation to warmth rather than a reference to time.

Time passes slowly in the mountains. As far as I know, she hasn't found me. So, I'm still triumphant in my primary goal of staying alive. But, there are those sounds in the night. They sound like a rock is hitting the cabin exterior. Sleep too much comes in the early day. Then there are the beings which talk to me in the night. Well, to be as honest as possible, I don't know if they're talking to me. I can't make out any of their words. It sounds like an indecipherable, muffled drone which is actually very conducive to sleep. It's just jarring when my half closed eye thinks that it has detected something moving across the room. I jump as I rouse, and for some reason see something which sometimes appears ominous and sometimes sits on the window sill; totally disinterested with me inside, focusing on something it sees through the glass outside. Most often in my dark, it seems to be a huge bug; fat body, small head, and many slithering tentacles. It reminds me of Maureen. It is then that I conclude that this thing is not real; just something she put in my head some time ago.

The damn thing is that no matter the logic, mindset, or fantasy, it is there. For a few moments, I clearly see it in the pale moonlight, wriggling obscenely in the shadow created by my hallway night light. Sometimes I lay as still as I can and watch the apparition. When I do that it seems to encourage an infinity in the ominous life of the bug. That's when I want to convince myself that I'm brave, macho, or something similarly ridiculous in a posture, inevitably seen by others as a portrayal of something from a John Wayne western. But now there are no others; just me and the bug. Yeah, I invariably think of Kafka and Burroughs, but find that the joke part.

Diary Entry 10-17-16

It's been a week without food. A McShayton Birgers MBA at corporate calculated that they could increase the net 15% by recycling their garbage as McNougies, and advertise how they were such a good corporate citizen at the same time.

I don't care. After the first three days the hunger subsides and I guess that at some point things will go painlessly and mercifully blank. The others will take the longer route through slow food poisoning and arcane equivocations.

It's really kind of amusing to me. That's neither mean nor conciliatory. They picked it themselves. Oh, f***ing well. I'd just like to get a vision of bitchass Maureen doubled over in pain. Not. She really thought her infantile games fooled someone. She refused me when I was desperate; just as her predictable, predatory plan refused others before me. I logically believed as the alternative was unsatisfactory. I've since learned that unsatisfactory is preferable to her. Go away forever. She is calculated evil.

I am not like her, never wanted to be, did not solicit her and after a brief "Pollyanna" sympathetic interlude, see her withered, yellow skin as it is in the full light.

Ezekiel

"Hello my friends! My name is Bit'aa'ni. I am of The Folder Arms People Clan, born for The Red-Running-Into-Water Clan. The Bitter Water Clan is my maternal grandfather's clan and The Tangle People are my paternal grandfather's clan. .......... You can call me Bitty. I'm Navajo." Bitty mildly laughed. "I am tall and strong and I get my attire at Wal-Mart."

"I hitched over to Tulitown from McKinna, home of my Navajo tribe. I heard that Tuli was a good place to make money, as long as you do not cross with Naashgali Dine'e and his Mescal warriors. My people are desperately poor and the men no longer have any elk to hunt, not even a lowly milk snake. The Tribe Council had told us about how rich we were going to get if they approved Bizarro. They borrowed money from the Hashke who used it to build the sites named; 'Eraserhead,' 'Bizarro Central,' and 'Voodoo Press.' They also supplied the IT, contracted out the printing and my people were in debt to them and had teepees full of s*** books we were supposed to sell somehow. WTF? We could have probably have gotten a better deal from the World Bank. With teepee full, we couldn't keep our children from seeing the abominations. They immediately started to act and speak weird."

"So the Tribe had to make large payments to the Hashke and what they owed kept going up, despite the payments. Many left the reservation, and the ones who stayed started taking white people on hunting and fishing expeditions to pay their tax, eventually depleting the food supply. Sedentary mice flammed the focal entry flap to the place the twelve partitioned proditious enormity resided. In nostalgic desperation, the bio of Metal Man peeped its square face toward the six. Not quite, but a start. No new land provides no new respite for the children of the elk. Nor the children of the corn. Nor the children of the spook. Nor the children. It is complete; save the few. They have taken their silence away. Away at last, the folden arms are left, not out of their unchosen choice, but out of innafs long ago planted in the time of the selective giants. They have painted demonic pictures on the fertile green and have made them abundant in their hiding places. This offering in my hands, my pockets, and my nutbean-mound is not the first; yet it is the last gift from the many-named one. The delta it invokes and at the same time dishonors is a coolybrish negroid meeting of the true Tribes. In the least of winds, the waves come in in bold white caps which kiss the shore, then disappear. How much more will be seen in the great wind to come? Speed. ....... Speed? ....... Einstein for you. ...... Relativity? ......... Fine, insofar as it goes. Relative to what? A constant. A stillness. Something which doesn't evolve. Something which remains the same. Where are such things? For you in the moment. Metaphor intended. Faith leaped. Truth. Biased. Any other kind available for sale? Conveniently answers its own question. Which was? Blue is a color which will always was and always will be. Much like yellow, it is difficult to pinpoint, and therefore even more difficult to draw inferences from. Dangerous. Few are skilled in the proper use of a prism. In the days of Mesa Coyote and his lost tribe, it was the rule that pathos equalled jest. Brisfallus, brisfallus, you see. It was made two. Look! It's obvious. To crave one is to crave death. To have reasoning for one is to crave death. To be deluded by the business of preachership is to crave the flood. To be communal sectares the land. Me and my family can now make the payments required until the debt is gone. Naashgali Dine'e and his Mescal warriors now mistakenly fear us. They know their power comes only from the green. The green comes from the earth, and try as they will, they cannot stop it. They can only blind the already lame. It was forseen by Mor' in' e, in the tradition of her Touch Many Hands tribe that all would reverse. South would become North, just as it was before the first shift at the end of the first age. It is but a matter of a match igniting the ready and dry wood. Until that day we are condemned to the green defiled by the Cyclops. Approach the pure and dense period of alteration. The elders relate their faulty sympathy, yet they are elders. A weathered Dine skin-walker could fix the circle again. Seasons are now backward, yet we still fear a real break. Dine could be mad, and return your nafs to the solid spirit grace, with music from afar. We have tasted the fruit of man and made infinite clones, losing all but Rolex shams, valuing sums to nowhere. The hands meet on top and a moondrop surges. It can elevate us like an Orphic lyre, taking away the plain plane. My dear friends and protectors, ultimately you choose the passageway. End, corner not right; the dammed falls of the river. Broke through just before the false revolutions of the straw, hands extended to the shade of the blue. Circulated around a brief infatuation for the hillside howlers, un-clothed in mornings in which light was denied. Finally relaxing into the time we used to worry, yet sending each of the variations into the damp shadows of ancient Norwegian wood we release the strain and discover the master's name. Downstairs at the wind-up, close to the landing, a river. Seasons uncaringly bypass. Up. Down. It's over. You're un-abridged. The Cyclops Sun speared, my shell convinced, in the eclipse of the older moon, deceivingly replaced by the younger reached through innocent love. Manna from above compounds. I killed my disgust and seized the word in my hand. Remains only you, the calculator's time, the calculator's logic, the motives we don't respect or comprehend. Melancholy resolution took the wounded static. Armored vans took the road by the sea. From the cord, it has been licensed to those with the green. The details we pretend to understand, will be disproved, down at the edge. Cause specific takes away the frightened recall. The journey smiles as if otherwise; after it has once more stopped before going all the way; as if it stupidly thought that it diverged from any reality that you've ever seen and known. Guessing problems only to deceive their mention. Passing paths that climb halfway into the void. As we cross from side to side, we hear the total mass retain. Down at the edge. Seasons will pass you by. I get up, I get down. In her white lace, you could clearly see the lady sadly looking; saying that she'd take the blame for the crucifixion of her own domain. Two million people barely satisfy. Two hundred women watch one woman cry, too late. The eyes of honesty can achieve. She would gladly say it amazement of her story. How many millions do we deceive each day? Asking only interest could be layed upon the children of her domain. I get up, I get down. In charge of who is there in charge of me? She could clearly see the lady sadly looking. Do I look on blindly and say I see the way? Saying that she'd take the blame for the crucifixion of her own domain. The truth is written all along the page. She would gladly say it amazement of her story. How old will I be before I come of age for you? Asking only interest could be laid upon the children of her domain. I get up, I get down. Without compass we have travelled well into the seasons of man. The water fell at the gorge. Space amid the notes linked the colors to the views. Persistent fads of triumphs crazed a man. The space between the focus and the form tease realization of love. As warbling in the winds bring spells, lost social self-control decrees upstairs, rendering to the man who presented his open arms to space; who spun and pointed, baring each tribe. Staring sneered a rumor, grasping none of the site. Standing on the hill we saw the peace of the basin, asked to behold phases simply of the long-ago. We get there through passages betwixt the pronounced quip. It's over and completed, beckoned to the kernel of the sun. Now that you're whole, you get down."

Zepharia, Zephaniah and Obadiah

On his first day out he had named the place "Tranquility," as he chose to put a positive name spin on the dry, barren territory, seemingly abandoned by anything capable of movement. He could see no obstructions ahead. Flat, off-white, sandy terrain extended as far as he could see in front of him. An undulation would have been a visual delicacy and a source of inspiration, but he was satisfied with what he could get. Sporadic big chief cactus was an excellent cup of hallucinatory water for his frequent thirst replenishments and presented no hazard, provided he didn't fall into one while tippling. The light blue open sky stared at him from all directions. He was only aware of it whenever he managed to keep his head off the ground. The stationary sun generated its callous, persistent heat while positioned directly overhead, casting no shadows. He had just arisen and thought it strange that the same surroundings he encountered prior to rest were still those precisely in evidence now. He supposed that would be the most logical scenario, but thought that the desert's quiet stillness and solitude defied reason, its irrationality the object of his desire. This was the third sleep break he had taken, so he presumed he was starting out the third day of his long awaited escape. He picked up his bag of secrets, slung it over his shoulder and walked what he thought was west, though he really had no way of being certain. He was also under the gleeful impression that he was alone until he heard a mildly assertive, female voice not far behind him call out; "Hey, what are you doing here?"

He shuddered and visibly cringed. "Oh no," he murmured as his shoulders dropped in resignation. He had been lucky enough to have three days, or periods between sleeping, to himself and now it was over. "I was looking forward to this all my lousy life, picked the most undesirable place in the world and someone had to follow me here. She probably is pushy and dumb enough to think I owe her something for gracing me with her unwanted presence. Three days. Three good days after a lifetime of boring stupid females asking why. And it's over already. If there's any god he's cursed me, so I return the favor. Do your worst. You pathetic sadist; you already have. Here comes a stupid barrage of; "Why this? Why that? Don't you think that blah, blah, blah and more blah have to be considered when blah, blah and more blah is the case?" He found bleak humor in his last few unplanned words; "Now that some person no one else wants has to park next to me, coincidentally of course she'll say, more blah will certainly be the case."

He heard a louder "Hey," and for the eight millionth time learned that he could not wish away or ignore away unwanted people. He was stupid and desperate enough to be looking for miracles in a very un-miraculous and tedious world. Resigned to the lifelong inevitability of being pestered by stupid boring people, he reluctantly turned back to see a crazy lady, garbed in hobo clothes; a simple button-up, short-sleeved, red shirt, tattered blue jeans and sandals. Her secret bag appeared the same as his, perhaps a rip or two superior. It looked as if she was sleeping in the same clothing for some time. She was attired just as him if they changed shirts, his being a faded dark blue that because of age and use now appeared light. He thought further; "No, that wouldn't work. Then I'd be red and she'd be either dark or light blue." He realized that he had made his first incorrect thought of the day. Despite the stupid misinformation generated, for some unexplainable logic, he continued the process and thought what passed for pragmatism; "Drat, but no drat. I came out here to be alone. I guess that's ruined. I can't believe anyone else would want to come to this bastion of nothingness. The Indians thought that the only true ownership of land was when no one else wanted it and look what happened to them. The best thing to do under the circumstances is to be cordial, but a bit pointed and hope she goes away. The most positive way I can view the intrusion is to be happy that it's not an enterprising guy looking to take over by force or a "friendly" guy looking for company. Small solace though it is; if I've got to get stuck with company best it is that of a crazy lady. They're the most interesting." He unemotionally and without inflection answered; "Hey yourself." Getting no response and suspecting his first offering was too vague, he decided to answer her first question and hope it wasn't the overture to a long shrill opera. He added; "Walking." He extended his arm to the ground, nodded at it, as if to say; "Can't you see?"

Her face softened the slightest bit by the time she caught up with him. She said; "Me, too. Where do you think you're going?"

Another stupid question. He pointed ahead and quizzically said; "There, painfully obviously."

She said; "I know it's obvious, perhaps not of the painful variety, but I know what you mean. What I asked you was a little test. I wanted to see how much bulls*** came with the package." She ran her blue eyes up and down his torso.

He felt violated and that if anyone should be giving a test, it was rightfully him, as his 60 years exceeded her seemingly 55. He said; "If bulls*** gives me a failing grade I'll give you bulls*** if my big penalty is that you will leave. I do mean to sound antagonistic and I'm surprised that a test is required for me to be here, especially since I got here first. Will you be kind enough to tell me the parameters and purpose of your test?"

She decided to reserve commentary regarding longevity, raised her voice, though in a kind way and said; "No, I really can't."

He looked in her eyes, shrugged and dejectedly said; "Typical female. All questions. No answers, not even to the easy stuff. All right. I'll respect that since you can't help it." Fearing an impasse, while suddenly desirous of knowing something of her, after viewing her pleasant face, long wild hair, what was revealed by her shirt's opened buttons and extremely tight pants, he asked; "Can you at least tell me if I passed?"

She bobbed her head up and down and waved her hand as if to say; "Silly boy." She verbalized; "Oh, sure," but didn't disclose that this was the easy part of her test.

He was annoyed with himself as he saw that in the space of two minutes he already had started to care what she thought of him. In an effort not to be obvious about it and probably inducing the opposite effect, with possibly undetected sarcasm he said; "What a relief. You wouldn't want to venture a more precise grade, would you?"

She rattled her throat as a de-fanged one of the species might and laughed; "No .......... Not yet, anyway. Maybe later."

He spit and muttered; "Typical."

Despite his initial reticence he was already getting used to her and he was almost glad to hear that there would be a "later" if he could convince her to stop questioning him. He glanced at her slightly-larger-than-average breasts and was noticed prompting her to adopt an overly erect posture maximizing the twin peaks causing him to look away. He thought that meant, in real terms, he was doing okay, so far. He thought it also had a friendly connotation, so he thought he would say something intended to be friendly, but also right to the point and hope for a not-too-negative response; "Most of the time I haven't got the faintest idea of where I'm going. But I figure that it couldn't possibly be worse than the stuff I'm leaving behind." He pointed back with his thumb, not turning his head.

She smiled and said; "I'm with you."

"I should have asked before, but, have you been through here before?"

She rolled her eyes and mock ominously said; "No. This is our adventure. Who knows, maybe we'll find some witches out here."

"I certainly hope not. I thought that I might have left them back there."

She looked at him as if he had said the wrong thing and was silent. She continued keeping stride with him, but seemed to veer slightly leftward.

He realized that she had already succeeded in getting him to play her word games without even directly asking any stupid questions. He wanted to back off, but her jeans were so form-fitting he re-considered his initial response, intending to find common ground, without refuting his previous response. He glanced sideways at her and made an obvious glance into the three open top buttons of her shirt and said; "Well, I guess it's all right if we meet the ones that are sexual demons."

She snickered and thought; "Typical." She assumed a professorial tone and informed him; "There are all kinds of witches. Your viewpoint is ridiculously simplistic. Everything comes in a package. A sexual demon type of witch, for instance and to use your parlance, will almost invariably be mixed with one of the brooding variety, at the very least."

Pleased with her response, as he never minded being educated, he mimicked his first grade teacher and said; "Of course I was simplistic in the cause of simple conversation. I can kick it up a few notches when you're ready."

She looked at him admiringly, but displayed a discerning face, biting her lower lip and saying nothing.

He was not unaware of the probable meaning, but, to remain safe, he took the conversation in another direction and said; "I haven't been able to see anything ahead, except some lunatic big chief cactus. Have you seen anything?"

She thought; "He's shy. I like that......to a point." She articulated; "Mmmmmmm. I haven't really seen anything in the traditional sense. But, I have some ideas." She knew he would follow her lead.

Without thinking about it, he did and, in a curious tone said; "Like what?" proud to have taken the lead in the stupid question category.

She intended to sound somewhat bored, which he interpreted as complacent and responded; "It's more like what and what and what, on and on. I got a lot from books."

Intending to sound equal, he said; "Oh, I know exactly what you mean. Me, too." Upping the ante, he added; "I'm actually placing the highest probability on it being worse than what we left behind. Not 50%, mind you. The last piece of misery that got laid on me back there topped everything. I never would have imagined anything so diabolical. If he tops that one, I'll have to admit that he is a god."

She smiled, sadly and knowingly and said; "Yeah, tell me about it."

Though he knew that she didn't mean that literally, he proceeded to and said; "We had things going so well that it would take five oddball events to screw it up. It would take like everything to go wrong and..."

She looked at the ground, shook her head in an affirmative fashion and interrupted him to say; "And everything did."

He looked in her eyes and for the first time thought he detected real sadness and thought; "Oh, no. Not you too?", but said; "We ought to form a union. You know, like the labor unions that started in the 20's and 30's. I mean, I understand that human beings need a good kick in the ass, but this is more like; 'You're still kickin' and my ass ain't there anymore. You're hitting bloody bone, bastard.'"

She thought; "No s***. What did you expect?", but said; "Big things always pick on small things."

As she was tiny, he was again saddened. He thought; "Where I grew up it was the exact opposite. But, I don't want to yet say that. It could hurt her in some way." So, he said nothing, his shrug and sigh, indicating pretty much, more or less, no contest and the like. He knew that in the part of the world where he worked and spent his adult life that big things do indeed pick on little things. In business, it seemed the littler the better. What world was she in? She is watching out for witches and warning me about them, so that narrows things down a lot." He looked directly at her and said; "Well, I don't. What's your name, anyway?"

"It's Zepharia. I never liked it."

Mine's Obadiah. Can you believe that a parent would actually do that to a child? The kids used to sing some song, "Obadiah's No Messiah," and walk around like stiff geeks."

She laughed and said; "Okay, I'll call you 'Obie,' as long as you don't tell me any funny jokes about Zepharias of the orient or lilies of the field."

"I think I'd rather stick with 'Obadiah,' if you don't mind. No offense. And, I don't know any funny jokes about Zepharias of the orient or lilies of the field, anyway. Isn't that the horse s*** about neither reaping nor sowing, that god will provide? That's funny enough in and of itself."

She wasn't certain, but considered the possibility that he had just purposely done precisely what she explicitly asked him not to. She mumbled; "Yeah, something like that."

He missed his cue and continued; "I hope the non-reapers and non-sowers are not holding their breath."

Zepharia nodded demurely, shook her head "Yes," and looked at the sun shining off each grain of sand differently. She sternly said; "We may as well get something cleared up right now." He looked at her with apprehension and realized that he should have shut the f*** up entirely about the lilies. She noticed his contriteness, was pleased by it, but in the interest of truth continued and said; "Back a few steps you said that you were here before me. No, you weren't. I had my eye on you as soon as you entered the desert. I just held back to see if you were a homicidal maniac."

"So, you think you got here before me?"

She made a brief smile and said; "It's a close call. Let's be magnanimous and say it was at the same time."

"Fine with me. I don't understand why it's any big deal, though."

She stared at him. She was both incredulous and annoyed. She finally said; "Obadiah. Some people, including you a few minutes ago, try to pull seniority and act like a 'boss' without the credentials and without admitting it." She shook her head, looked away and veered a bit more to the left.

Obadiah was afraid that he had said something to sadden and anger her. He saw the truth of her observation and contritely said; "I promise that I won't do that again. If I mess up you can punish me any way you desire. Let's try to think and act positively for a while."

Still cranky, she said; "I don't think you can get here on that route. What path did you take?" She was sorry as soon as the words exited.

He made a self-effacing grin and head bob. He shrugged his shoulders and softly said; "I don't really know. I think I made a series of at least five major wrong turns and somehow that all added up to a correct destination. How'd you pull it off?"

She smiled and moved closer to him and responded in kind, saying; "I think I only made four wrong turns and then got a map for the rest."

"More pessimistic than me?"

She sighed, not really wanting to respond, but was somehow compelled to and whispered; "Realist, mostly. The back nine are the worst."

He moved in her direction and said; "You have my testimony on that one. In retrospect I should have gotten your map." He paused a moment, as he sensed some kind of contradiction, though he couldn't put his finger on it. Very unsurely he thought out loud and said; "But, I didn't know that a map existed. I found that out from you. So, if I had obtained a map, from someone somewhere, I'd have gotten here years before you and I never would have met the person who told me about the map in the first place. I'm getting confused. Are all the maps the same?"

Zepharia liked his confusion and said; "Of course not. It depends on where you get it, who made it, how much they knew about the territory, whether or not it's a fake. I could go on."

"Where did you get yours?"

"That's hard for me to say. Someone told me to keep a secret."

Obadiah felt the tide turning in his favor and risked being considered too pushy and simply said; "Who?"

Zepharia did think that he was being a bit too pushy, but liked his interest and decided to give him one more response in that direction and said with an air of indignation, in a raised tone; "My mother." She viewed him mock defiantly.

He pushed his luck and offhandedly said; "You always listen to your mother?"

She pushed him, but not too hard and raised her voice to say; "What do you think? Did you always listen to yours?"

He decided he liked the trail and continued honestly, against his better judgment. He said; "I always listened to her. I just usually thought that the opposite of what she said was the right answer."

She saw and appreciated the sincerity. She also detected an opportunity to end this conversation, at least for the time being and sighed; "Case closed." Her eyes panned the outdoor scene and were not fixed on anything, as there was nothing moving, not even a breeze, to command her attention. Big chief cactus, sand, stillness and a huge uniformly light blue sky. She thought; "There must be something alive out there. Maybe not."

He touched the top button of his well-worn Levi's and said; "Well if we're going to walk together, we're going to have to establish some protocols."

She came back to her current reality and with a trace of indignation said; "I beg your pardon."

He understood her attitude, but felt a need to persist. He grimaced and said; "Like where does one go to have bathroom privacy? It's kind of urgent."

She felt like saying; "Believe it or not I've seen a few of those before," but decided against it. Instead she offered; "There's no place to hide, so just turn your back to me."

"I think you're assuming it's a number one."

"I'm not assuming anything. Do whatever you have to do. We have no choice. I'll try not to laugh at the funny part."

Obadiah gave her a dirty look, turned and number one nature took its course. As he re-zipped he thought he detected a giggle. He looked at her and she put her hand over her mouth and said; "Little cough. It's extremely dry. Haargh. Haargh. S***. Do you have any preferences as to how I do it?"

"Not really. I would like to see your face sometimes, though, if that's all right."

"No problem."

They walked side by side and the baking sand gave off images that reminded them of water boiling. It came at them as if they were in an oven, but it was more akin to heat waves. The source was not visible. They didn't notice how weary they were until the steam entered their nostrils. They briefly sat on the torrid sand and were unable to find a comfortable seat, despite numerous position changes. They stood up, faced each other and brushed the sand from their bodies. Obadiah helped out with the sand Zepharia missed and she returned the favor.

She said; "Want to keep traveling?"

Surprised she had to ask, he questioningly said; "Sure," leaving off the "Why wouldn't I?" part. After a few second lull, he added; "And you? Perhaps I should have said that quicker."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Let's find out if there's anything further out."

"Curious?"

"Of course, aren't you?"

"Very."

She sounded a bit more subdued when she said; "I hope the hell it doesn't think it's some kind of god."

"Doesn't really matter what it thinks, if it does at all. We're not obliged to agree. Are we?"

"That's a close call."

He mocked her and said; "Worried about blasphemy? You remember those old horror movies where some religious pretender in a hood and prominently displaying a cross, chases after the good guy, with the whole town watching, yelling 'Blasphemy! Blasphemy! Blasphemy!" I used to crack up." He looked into her eyes and thought he saw unease. It bothered him, so he added; "Well, you know, that kind of stopped when I found out that this wasn't only one demented film maker's fantasy."

Zepharia made a noticeable, bent-at-the-stomach, genuine, uncontrolled laugh. She said; "You know the ones I like even better?" He mildly shook his head "No," happy to hear her response. She said; "The ones with the zombie's walking around the mall."

"Don't you find that pretty close to reality?"

"Of course, idiot. That's what makes it so funny to begin with."

Obadiah saw, enjoyed, valued and appreciated her point, though he didn't yet have complete agreement with it. He questioned; "Think positive, speak positive, act positive, everything positive? Right?"

Zepharia failed to see any contradiction in what she said. She didn't note any meaningful difference from her sense of humor and his. She didn't like his turn to seriousness after initiating the humor. Was he trying to be merely and stupidly judgmental? She refused to get defensive, took the initiative and drolly said; "Why not? You got a better idea?"

Obadiah pointed his right thumb over his shoulder and said; "I don't have any ideas. All I know for sure is that I'm not going back there."

"Then why question me?"

"Just testing to see if you thought it out well?"

"Did I pass?"

"Oh, sorry. Sure. I sometimes forget that when I think something is understood."

"May I know my precise grade, pray tell?"

"Oh, ummmm. I don't know exactly.......I didn't make deductions for anything.......So, I guess you got a perfect score........Mind you. That doesn't equate to 'I agree fully.'"

She eyed him sideways, squinted a bit and said; "I think I understand." With an air of sarcasm and confidence she added; "Thanks. Personally, I didn't think it was that great. I've got better."

"I think that I, too understand and I wouldn't doubt it." He pointed ahead and excitedly said; "Hey. Did you see that?"

"What?"

"I thought I saw lightning."

"Nah, that doesn't happen here."

"I thought you said that this was your first time here......Oh, right, a book told you that."

"As a matter of fact...."

He noticed a quarrelsome tone, cut her off, ostensibly to assuage and said; "I'm not knocking it. I wish I read more myself. Maybe you could recommend one for me."

"Probably could, but it's irrelevant, as there don't seem to be any libraries out here."

He glanced at the sack she carried over her shoulder and said; "Didn't bring any books with you?

"I don't think any of the ones I have are for you."

"I thought you might be holding a little one in your pocket."

She giggled; "No."

"How do you remember stuff, like the maps?"

"It's hard to explain. I kind of memorize the stuff that's essential and forget the rest."

"Essence?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. It makes me laugh when someone writes a long-ass treatise on something. Invariably, they're disagreeing with the learned of twenty years prior. And no doubt twenty years from now there will be another treatise that says this one is horses***. Using expert opinion, you can prove anything you want. They always leave that wiggle room. You would logically think they were written prior to Nostradamus' masking."

"They won't say horses***."

"Small point conceded. But, they'll say the proper equivalent."

Pleased with the direction of things Zepharia again returned to the elemental and said; "Isn't it strange how everything is so still here."

As if he had just become aware, which was not stretching the truth, he said; "Now that you mention it. Yeah. Is it peaceful or ominous?"

"Ultimate question. I'll pass on that one. Is it the quiet desirable peace everyone says they want or is it a portent of an explosion soon to come."

"I used to care about stuff like that back there, but out here I don't give a s***." Obadiah laughed, looked up, extended his arms like a prophet and said; "Do something, f***er. You're supposed to spit out the tepid. Live by your own rules or resign your f***in' job."

"You get a kick out of Blasphemy. Blasphemy. Blasphemy. Don't you?"

Before Obadiah could respond Zepharia snickered and added; "Me, too."

****************************

He opened his eyes, seemingly wider than they had previously been and stared at her looking ahead. He wished that she didn't notice. She gave off every appearance that she didn't. He saw a small face; attractive and pensive, with a peculiar bend in her tiny nose, host to thin and almost undetectable wire-framed glasses. Her lips were left as nature would have them and were together, the lower twin somewhat extended beyond its higher counterpart. Her blue eyes showed nothing, but, oddly didn't blink in the savage, perennial sunlight. Her hair was long, just the way he liked it and was now gray, with tiny traces of the original black. Short bangs reached her eyebrows, testifying to her minimal forehead. He wasn't sure if her overall countenance was one of contentment or despondency. His gaze followed her sloping neck down. Her partially exposed breasts leaned against her red shirt as ice cream rests in its cup. Round was an ample word to describe her hips, tightly caged in her well-worn blue jeans. His eyes rested there for a long, but too short a time. He worked his way to her small feet. He wondered how they were able to fully keep her on firm ground. They were supported only by the briefest of open-top, leather-thonged sandals, below the gently undulating ankles. She was curves, like a gracious Queen Anne piece of furniture. Obadiah's daydream was rudely interrupted, when she looked at him and chuckled as she said; "Like my feet?"

Obadiah was completely off guard and embarrassed. He blurted out; "No....Yes....I mean no....Oh, damn it, I don't know." He saw her chuckle turn to a tight-lipped grin and was compelled to add; "You have nice feet."

Zepharia continued her Joker grin and said; "Are you one of those?"

Still not recovered from his initial trepidation, he supplied a duplicate line of brilliance and said; "No....Yes....Oh, damn it, I don't know."

Zepharia smiled at him, put her left hand on his cheek and said; "I understand."

Relieved, but not the least bit comfortable, Obadiah decided to change the subject and said; "What kind of things did you read back there?"

"Everything. Do you like the rest of me too?" She put one hand over the other at hip level, as a shy school girl, with a pouting face.

"Yes, I like all of you. Like is too neutral a word. I love all of you."

She took four quick steps back, looked at him seriously and as if she were disturbed. "She said; "Don't ever use that word around me."

Now he was confused and disturbed. He thought; "What's wrong with love? Was I too hasty? If so, she didn't have to make a big issue of it. Or, did she have to make a big issue of it for reasons I don't know?" He settled on that thought, but didn't want to see the images it might have implied. He tried to get those out of his head and continued to think. "The best thing to do is respect her wishes. This is the strongest wish I have yet heard. I'm sorry for a number of reasons." He silently approached her, touched her arm and before he could say anything, she said; "David Foster Wallace?"

He squinted, showing surprise and said; "What?"

She calmly answered; "You asked me what I read back there."

"Oh, oh, yeah." He didn't add; "About a million years ago."

Her silence prompted him to say something else, so he asked; "Do you have any of his books in your bag?"

"No. He may have technically been the best writer of all time, but he was for back there."

"One of the real geniuses and he said the hell with the whole place. That's pretty insightful and not very different than us." He stuck out his tongue and added; "Haven't you yet noticed my genius. I have yours."

"He should have tried it out here."

"How do you know that he didn't?" She said nothing and showed a smidgeon of anger on her expressive little face and adjusted the glasses that required none. He knew that he had asked her something unanswerable and that he was also extolling the virtues of someone not ever accused of being one who thought and acted positively.

Obadiah was stupidly drawn to saying the wrong thing and had to go on; "Nobody else could write like that, though. A camera's precision with humor, some of which only he could see. The first time I read him, he found some absurdity in something I have looked at thousands of times, but didn't see it until he pointed it out. Genius."

"No argument. However, at some point it's a matter of taste. He's in great company, with others I like. Most of them are dead, too, but as a result of natural causes."

Obadiah continued to desire to display his "genius," or was too simple to shut up. He said; "Who says that it wasn't a natural cause. Life is no doubt considered natural. Wouldn't the ending of life be the flip side of the same coin? You know; like off and on, like male and female, like black and white, like yin and yang...."

Zepharia interrupted him to say; "Your stated view on male and female is admirable." He stuck out his tongue, as he disdained "admirable" as condescending. She continued; "Of course you've heard of 'Yin, Yang and Young,' the law firm.

He considered a serious answer, but rejected it in the cause of frivolity, too often his weakest point. He said; "What type of law do they specialize in?"

She deadpanned; "The highest; Constitutional." and laughed briefly at her quick comeback. He joined her out of politeness.

Settling down from the day's guffaw, he said; "So, what authors are good for here?"

"I don't know the place well enough to be sure."

"Take a wild guess."

"Probably a few. Depends on my mood."

Uncontrolled, questioning Obadiah wouldn't quit and said; "Like?"

Exasperated Zepharia retorted; "If I say one it will attach too much importance to that one at the expense of all the others." Her temperament improved to mild annoyance. She looked in his sincere face and recalled that guys could often be just plain dumb. She said; "Damn it. I know you're thinking that I'm being evasive. So, one is George Saunders."

"I don't know him. What did Sanders write?"

"S***. I was afraid of that. And his name is Saunders. He wrote 'Pastoralia', for one."

"Well, tell me something about it."

She turned away for a moment, came back with her head spinning and said; "He's crazy."

"Like Wallace?"

"No, in a different way. He doesn't look for answers. He laughs at the lack of them and writes rather childishly."

"Well, if we get a library up there somewhere, I'm going to get one of his books."

"Start with Pastoralia."

"Pastoralia?"

"Trust me."

Obadiah nodded, pointed his patented thumb to the rear and said; "I wonder what the hell they're doing back there now."

"The monkeys are playing with microscopes and calculators."

"At the zoo?"

"Pretty much."

"Did you ever wonder what the zoo animals think when we stare at them?"

"I don't wonder anymore. They told me. They turn their backs and show us their ass, except at feeding time."

Obadiah laughed and said; "That's great. You just pulled a David Foster Wallace on me."

Zepharia shook her head in a disparaging manner and said; "George Saunders." She laughed and continued; "Animals are great. I'm going to miss them."

"Maybe we'll find some up ahead. It's really weird without any birds or insects right here though."

"Maybe they're dead."

"Maybe we are."

She said; "Oooooh," tickled him and he returned the favor.

****************************

She said; "I might have seen that lightning you were talking about."

"See, I am right sometimes."

"Sometimes being the key word."

"Definitely. Don't be too hard on me, though. The job was defaulted to me. Either I had to do it or it wouldn't get done."

"I could take that in at least two directions. I could say; 'Long live anarchy,' or I could say; 'That's not true anymore.'"

"Is that "A" or "B", or can you choose 'All of the above?'"

Zepharia was perplexed. She said; "I'll have to think about that one."

"I'm in the same boat. But, I can tell you this. I'm all in favor of letting the others run things back there. Or even here in this new land. They couldn't possibly make it any worse."

She hesitated, but was compelled to add; "I know them a little better than you and I think making things worse would well be within the realm of possibility."

"Well, now I can give you two answers. One is that I'm willing to take the risk and, two is that we should unionize, overthrow the oppressor and all of that."

"Who's the oppressor?"

"God....Religion...Psychiatry, perhaps that's redundant...The Grand Inquisitor...The Man in Charge."

"How about the Woman in Charge?"

"No such thing. That's the problem."

Zepharia looked at him warmly and said; "You're sweet."

He hoped she didn't see the pink hue he felt on both ears and said; "Thanks, but it's also the truth. Hey, have you yet detected any of those witches that are supposed to be out here?"

"Not a one."

They continued their side by side walk and the temperature seemed about 85 degrees, the cloudless sky remained a uniform light blue and the wind was non-existent. He took her right hand with his left and got no objection. She asked; "Were you married back there?"

"Yes. Blessed by the church and everything, for all the good it did."

"Me, too. But not blessed by the church or state. Didn't seem to make any difference."

Obadiah wasn't surprised to hear that and said; "Thirty years of scorching misery."

"What did you expect?"

"Something other than what it turned out to be......It's hard to explain without telling the story of the two and then putting those two in context of a changing world. It would be like trying to write 'War and Peace.'" He paused, laughed and said; "Maybe I'll try it someday. The second half of the book will be extremely short."

"Because it's hard to write about nothing, or because there was little peace?"

"Kind of the same thought, I guess."

"Yeah, I guess. Same story here. I left one marriage for no real reason. After a while it was like he didn't care one way or the other and neither did I. No animosity. That was the weird part. One day I came home from work early and saw him naked in the bathtub while his mother gave him a bath. A 25 year old man. I said this is just too weird and left. I still wonder what that was all about."

I've got a good guess; "Mommy was washing that dirty girl off her good little boy."

Zepharia wrinkled her brow at Obadiah, but made no response.

He felt a need to explain himself and said; "That was intended to be sarcasm directed at the attitudes of many. Personally, if I was fortunate enough to get a dirty girl all over me, I wouldn't wash for a month."

Zepharia was reticent to make any reply and searched for an alternative avenue of pursuit. Before she could come up with anything, Obadiah ventured; "You're a dirty girl, aren't you?"

She opened her mouth, but produced no words. He grinned at her and waited patiently for a response. He hoped it would not be evasive, but that most likely it would be that or an indignant no. She read his mind and decided to throw the ball back in his court and said; "I haven't bathed yesterday or today. Do you consider that dirty?"

He surprised himself and quickly came up with a retort; "Depends on what you've been doing, I suppose."

Triumphantly, she raised her voice and said; "I've been walking with you, stupid. Can I get dirty doing that?"

He smiled, shook his head and said; "No chance."

Looking to make the game equal and more interesting, she asked; "Are you a dirty boy?"

He thought; "I'm totally unprepared. I've never been asked that before and consequently didn't expect it. Let's see. Boys are supposed to be dirty, aren't they? Snipes and snails and puppy dog tails and all of that. That's really not what she's asking me though and I wouldn't be surprised if this wasn't another test. I definitely want to pass. Even more I'd like to go to the head of the class, so I need a good answer; one that says what she wants to hear. I don't have the slightest idea of what she wants to hear, so forget that.

She said; "Come on, come on. Time is running out."

He decided to wing it and replied; "Boys are expected by boys and girls to be dirty and I'm not rebellious in that regard. I have to add, however, that whatever I do with you is not."

"Didn't you just contradict what you said before?"

"I don't know. Are you writing all this s*** down?"

She said a loud "No," and he feared failure. He said; "This can get complicated. Maybe before I was trying to be humorous."

"I don't recall laughing."

"I could say that you have no sense of humor, but I won't. One time I may have used the word "dirty" in the meaning that I think you ascribe to it. Another time I could use it in the sense that people back there have. Another time I might use it in my own sense......."

She cut him off and said; "Which is?"

He realized that she had gotten him back to square one. He further thought that this must be very important to her. He said; "Nothing is dirty in love."

"I told you not to use that word."

"Well, how can I answer difficult questions if you limit my vocabulary with forbidden words?"

She was as annoyed as him and said; "I give you one rule and you use it as some stupid excuse."

He was very tired of the discussion, so he just said; "Yes. I'm a dirty boy, no matter how anyone defines it. How's that?"

She laughed and said; "Just fine. You had me worried for a while."

"Then I passed the stupid test?"

"Yes."

"What grade?"

"To be finalized on a field trip."

He finally lost his exasperation and smiled back at her.

She looked him over and saw a desperate old man. His face was not flawed in any outrageous way, but it showed that he had been over-tired for some time, the laugh lines more of the grimace variety. His long, messy gray hair was reminiscent of a better time, but also showed how long it had been gone. His thin body was not unpleasing and probably was not very different from its appearance when he was a teenager. She thought; "If only I could cut off that head," as she admired his form fitting jeans. She caught herself and thought that he should have segued long ago into something more appropriate. She quickly recognized that she could well say that to herself. She said; "When was your last bath?"

He utilized the lines on his face to scrunch up his mouth into a genuine, but also posed smile and said; "Just before I met you."

Zepharia looked up at the blue sky and lost interest in talk. He made a thorough investigation of the ground and thought he found its similarity to that above it. Almost imperceptibly, he mumbled, also not much for more conversation.

****************************

Obadiah woke up and he saw Zepharia beside him, with one leg touching his, under the non-existent shade of a big chief cactus. Hallucination? Same sun. Same sky. Same wind; none. He said; "Did we sleep through the night?"

She rolled over, stretched and said; "Maybe. I didn't see it either."

He went into his bag, retrieved a hunting knife and easily removed it from its torn sheath. He plunged it into the cactus center and spread the slow stream onto his face. Zepharia's eyes widened in shock. She stood up, backed away carefully and said; "What the hell is that?"

Obadiah held the knife in front of him and incredulously said; "It's a knife. Haven't you seen one before?"

Zepharia continued to back up and said; "It's a weapon."

He almost laughed, but, as she seemed genuinely upset, he thought it not a good time to appear humorous. He said; "It's no weapon. I use it to extract water and nourishment from the cactuses." He again reached into his bag and she increased the distance between them, while watching him intently. He put the knife on the sand and pulled out a clear flask. He said; "How do you think I've been filling this? He offered it to her.

Her thirst overcame her fear. She took the flask and drank. She said; "Don't scare me like that again. What else do you have in that bag anyway?"

He sighed, turned his head to one side and said; "Secrets. Things I brought from the old world that I thought I might need here."

"Like what?"

"Like secrets. My things." He saw that she was not comfortable with that response, so he added; "What do you have in yours?"

"None of your business."

He laughed and said; "See. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

She couldn't help but make a smile she tried to convert to a grimace and said; "Okay, okay. I get the point."

He said; "Take my word. There's nothing in here that will hurt you. Can you say the same?"

She thought for a while and responded; "Not physically, anyway."

"I stand corrected. I should have made the same distinction. I really don't think there are any mental dangers to you, but I can't be sure."

"I can say the same."

He picked up his bag and said; "How about we just dump everything on the ground and get it over with?"

"I don't think so."

"Glad you said that. I don't think so either."

He picked up his knife and put it back in its sheath, simultaneously saying; "Now, if we ran into some snakes...."

Zepharia just gave him an "Ooooh you" look and returned the flask.

He took a swap and said; "One of the things that used to annoy me back there was when I'd say something to someone and they'd give me a queer look and say; 'It goes without saying.'"

"I hated that, too. It's just a conversation killer."

"It translates to; 'I don't know a damn thing about it and don't want to advertise my deficiencies.' As a kid my room was right near the front door. So, sometimes, when I came home my parents didn't know I was there. One time I heard my mother tell my father; 'When I married you I thought you were the strong silent type. Now I know you're just stupid.'"

"What did he say?"

"He remained the strong silent type or mumbled. I always thought that he was kind of stupid, so I was glad to find out that I wasn't the only one who thought that."

"Still think he was stupid?"

Obadiah thought a bit and replied; "Kind of. Now, I'd probably use the word limited. He seems to have known how to do things, but was totally incapable of explaining what he did."

Zepharia laughed to Obadiah's surprise and said; "I think that's pretty common. My father had a 'military intelligence' job, if that's not an oxymoron and if you asked him to explain it, it would be like talking to Forrest Gump." Upon saying that she realized that she might be missing something, but probably not.

"Is he still alive?"

She shook her head wistfully and said; "No. He died when he was younger than I am now. They flew his body back to the US from Panama when he was 52."

"Mine also died on the young side, but not that bad. Heart attack at 62. It wasn't really a surprise, as he never exercised and smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. He said he picked up the habit under Patton, in Europe during World War Two. The supply lines couldn't keep up with the combat troop's movement, but curiously coffee and cigarettes found their way. So, the commanders used to say; 'Drink 'em and smoke 'em. It'll kill the hunger.'"

"Did it?"

Obadiah shrugged and replied; "He said 'Yeah,' but it killed him too." He paused a while. Zepharia was quiet and stared at the painfully consistent, uniform, light blue sky. He felt a twinge of anger and continued; "You know, everything they tell you back there turns out to be wrong. The experts discover that ten years later and then someone tries to sell you a remedy. And this strong, silent type of god proves useless. The one thing the imperfect religions have in common is that they equate life with suffering...."

Zepharia interrupted him to say; "Well, somebody got something right."

"Yeah, but, why should we accept that pitiful situation? We should form a union and go out on strike. Management unfair to workers."

"It's been done and the results are very questionable."

"No, we need something different. If we are destined to suffer anyway, let's completely stop playing the game, something on the lines of 60's left wing radicalism."

"Another ism."

"Maybe. But, what the hell do we have to lose? Those in charge have already exhausted their arsenal." He put one foot up on his sack, aping George Washington, crossing the Delaware River and laughed to her.

She smiled and thought of him as consciously absurd and unconsciously useless, a combination currently pleasing.

He ponderously pronounced; "There shall be certain inalienable rights. Boss ≠ Master, Boss = Caretaker. Worker ≠ Slave, Worker = Partner. Both Caretaker and Partner shall be beneficiaries of a profit sharing plan." He paused and saw, what he thought was interest in her face and then continued in his mock-authoritarian manner of speech; "Tell that to the mean spirited f***er upstairs."

Zepharia clapped her hands and said; "I will. I will. As long as you do."

Obadiah said; "I think I already did and will continue to, because I don't give a f***. Are you my Partner?"

Zepharia excitedly exclaimed; "Yes..........As long as I can also be co-founder."

Obadiah shrugged, smiled at her and said; "That's the only way it can be." They moved to each other and embraced. He thought; "Celebration. Exhilaration. Hope. Reality. Zepharia."

****************************

Obadiah opened his eyes and felt the grainy, sun-bleached sand beneath him. He fretted when he couldn't see or feel any part of his companion. His slumber produced a dream that was at the very least, unsettling. In it, he knew that Zepharia didn't want to see him. He went to her house on a pleasant fall morning and thought that he'd surprise her waiting at the front door. It wasn't fastened properly and in the space provided by the shoddy workmanship, inattention and overuse, he saw her, already fully dressed, scurrying around the kitchen at breakneck speed. He remembered that she had told him not to come looking for her and tried to think of some excuse to be crouched at her door, of course, coming up with nothing. He scanned the neighborhood and saw that the block consisted of similar houses; two stories with basements, wood frames and pitched roofs forming attics which faced the street, contrary to what aesthetics might demand, but efficient for their use on narrow plots of land. They were probably built when the craftsman style was popular and had been subjected to plebian repairs and additions in subsequent years. Colors were numerous, with most displaying a mixture. Zepharia's was green and cream, with a pink trim and doors. All of the colors were well faded and resulted in a diminishment of the shock produced when the trim and doors were freshly decorated. The street was lined on both sides with mature elm trees, which were still in bloom sufficiently to produce shade from a weak morning sun, off and on obscured by fluffy, white cumulous clouds, which moved slowly across the blue sky, propelled by a gentle breeze, which he also felt on his ground level. He thought that she might exit another door, in which case, he could get behind her, then catch up at some point and say something stupid, like; "Fancy meeting you. I was just out strolling. Do you live here?" and hope she didn't smack him. Fantasy. He watched her through the crack as she continued to move quickly gathering up some things and putting them in a light brown, leather bag strapped over her shoulder. Triumphant classical music with horns on their way to crescendo emanated from somewhere inside and she danced vigorously and sang indecipherable words in a mocking, but cheerful fashion. She glided to the front door, opened it and saw him. She made no reaction, shut the door and bounced down the street. He was saddened at the lack of recognition, but relieved that she didn't scream at him or call a cop. He followed, keeping his distance thirty feet behind. She did not look back. On the third block of her journey she met a female friend, with oddly and shortly cut bleached blond hair, parted in the center. The two stopped for a brief moment, looked back at him, laughed and then went their separate ways. She continued on one more block to a high school where she taught, went in and, again never looked back. He stopped across the street from the three story brick structure, knowing that he couldn't go in, but not knowing what to do next.

Upon awakening he got extremely depressed over her desire not to see him and her ability to be blasé about it. This stayed with him a while, until he re-interpreted the dream from her point of view. She was effervescent and happy. She sang and danced. This is what he most wanted for her and he was content.

But, where was his companion? He got up and canvassed the area. She emerged from the opposite side of a cactus and he called out; "Zepharia, you scared the hell out of me. Don't ever do that again."

She looked at him strangely, furrowing her brows and wrinkling her forehead. He took a few more slow steps in her direction, as she stood still. He said; "Zepharia," in somewhat questioning manner.

She shook her head in apparent disbelief and cagily said; "I'm not Zepharia. My name is Zephaniah."

He wasn't sure if she were playing a trick on him or not. She had not done so, up until now. He wondered if she had consumed too much cactus juice. He wondered if she had totally lost it. He decided to look for physical evidence. She looked a lot like Zepharia, but now that he was scrutinizing, he thought that the person standing in front of him had markedly smaller hips and somewhat larger breasts. She wore similar blue jeans and sandals, but her shirt was a light green button up. Zepharia always preferred red. Her long, gray hair and small, attractive face seemed identical and she wore wire-rimmed glasses.

He wasn't certain if this was Zepharia or not. How did anyone else get here? How could Zepharia disappear on the flat terrain with twenty mile visibility in all directions? He looked back for the first time and saw nothing but sand and cactus. Maybe she was hiding behind one of those. Maybe she went back and died along the way. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. He thought the best approach was to play "Zephaniah's" game. He said; "How did you get there?"

She replied; "I think I made five wrong turns," and giggled.

"All right. Have it your way. I'm Obadiah."

She giggled again, saying; "Like in 'Not a Messiah."

"Like in hermit. You're a real giggler, aren't you?"

"Why not?"

"Why not? Because of all the things we've been speaking of."

"What are you talking about? We've just met, and that's only because you've been following me around."

Obadiah was lost. He shrugged and said; "I'm sorry. You looked like someone I once knew. I must have been mistaken."

Zephaniah silently nodded agreement. She walked away.

Obadiah stood still and said; "Just tell me one thing. Where are you going?"

She pointed at a smokestack that made him think of urban New Jersey. She said; "Back there."

"How could you? Why?"

With her back still to him she answered as if she had just heard the dumbest question of all time, saying; "I've been out here long enough. She kept walking as if she were in basic training on methamphetamine. Obadiah was too weary to keep up if he wanted to; so he sat.

****************************

Obadiah's sleepy eyes opened to be rudely greeted by the undefeatable blare of the persistent sun, seemingly angry in its malevolent desire to shed glorious illumination on everything too dumb to hide. He nervously scanned the ground level and found no sign of Zephaniah. He sighed. He was well practiced at the art. He was disappointed, but far from surprised, as her recent conversations put a direct and indirect emphasis on "social" considerations. That was her merry word, as he would gloomily substitute "Back there s***." There was no way he was going back. It took him 60 years to escape and he felt it only logical that it would require a minimum of 60 years in the wilderness to give it a fair day in court. He realized that he used the words "felt" and "logical" in the same sentence. There had to be something wrong with his train of thought.

With the audacious, nervy, golden orb constantly standing guard he had lost complete track of time. How would he know when he was here 60 years? Maybe he already crossed that threshold and just didn't know. What did it matter anyway? His original goal was to be out here by himself and, at times including now, he was successful. So, why wasn't he in the mood for a celebration? Easy. Obadiah had grown accustomed to the grief poured on him by Zepharia, Zephaniah, or Zephaniah-Zepharia, the spirited and brisk contradiction.

He gazed at the soot belching ugliness of what was now before him and pictured her there. He wasn't sure if he was looking at a new area or if he had circled around the globe and was again near his point of departure. From a distance it looked exactly the same. He wondered if he should turn back and go the other way. He promised himself that he never would, but now he didn't know east from west, anyway. If only the god damned sun did its job and moved, he might get an inkling of where he was and perhaps even be privy to the correct time. He further thought that going back was a poor practical option, as his knife had probably damaged his big chief cactus water supply. He realized he was the last of the great medieval thinkers as he wanted the sun to move, while he remained comfortably ensconced in the world of his earlier choice.

The merciless clarity constantly ensured by his uninvited, now undesirable companion made him have second thoughts. He never anticipated "out there" would be reminiscent of the jeering audience he endured playing baseball. Maybe he had made some core error. Was clarity, of necessity, merciless? But wasn't truth what he thought he was desirous of when he left the belching gray clouds of smoke "back there?" Does "merciless clarity" infer "merciful obscuration?" Does "merciless clarity" need, or love, to risk using a forbidden word, "merciful obscuration?" Semantics? Sophistry? He seemed certain in one observation. The trillions of seeds waiting to bloom below this dry, barren ground are not sun worshippers.

He looked at his bare arms and thought he could see the blood pulsing through the ugly, irregular veins. He wished he had observed Zepharia and Zephaniah this closely. Or perhaps that was exactly what he should not have done. Maybe his incuriosity allowed him to luck out, at least on that one.

He became aware that he was certain of another thing. He didn't know anything more than he did at the outset of his journey. He merely had more questions, on which, the supposedly illuminated one upstairs deigned to shed any of its glorious light.

He defiantly laid on his back in an effort to fully demonstrate his steadfastness to any potential observer. He immediately thought of Zepharia and Zephaniah. He recalled all of his time spent with both of them; the warmth, the worry, the misunderstanding, the talk, the joy, the unbearable sorrow and most of all, the movement of mind and body that now eluded him. He realized that he was wrong on at least one score. He knew he missed her, whatever name she called herself now. He had vowed to never go "Back There" and didn't want to be just another liar. Maybe there was room for maneuvering, as at this point he truly didn't know back from front, or east from west. But, even if he chose to walk forward to the "civilization" ahead of him, how could he be certain that he would be able to again find her? Or, was it she who originally found him? Maybe that was her job. With a weathered, squinting, yet determined face he struggled to look up at his taciturn nemesis and softly, but resolutely said; "I'm not moving until you do." His tears nourished a few waiting, fortunate, dormant seeds as the water cascaded through the miniscule grains of sand below him.

Obadiah lost track of the time he spent there. Shade providing, white, gray and black clouds silently moved in from the east and delivered a warm drizzle. The accompanying breeze brought a long forgotten scent of flowers he could no longer name. The earth moved and his imperfect eyes told him that it was the sun.

The Third Known Premature Attempt at Revelation Inducement; This One Unfortunately Both Resources and Meta Limited

A swarthy man walking on stilts with unruly rags wrapped around his head bellowed; "It is over, wicked people. Your treachery knows no bounds. I command three fire breathing dragons who will lay your cities to waste."

"Vengeance is mine;" sayeth DFW. "And you are ... ?"

"I am Osama Obama, eldest son of the great contractors, who well know the Bush family."

"Er, um ......... Cool about the dragons and all that. But I think you've wandered into the wrong book."

"Heathen. I am not one to be trifled with."

"No. No. I'm sure of that; daddy-o. Just tryin' to help you out some. See, you're in "The Official Bizarro Bible," and I think you're probably looking for "The Koran. If you don't believe me just check out the top of the page."

"Oh. That Bush baby must have given me wrong directions. Damn drunken bum idiot. He's nothing like his father."

"Yeah, well, it's all good. At least you got an early start. It's a bit of a trip, but you can get there from here. Just head down toward the bottom of this page. You'll have to make a bit of a leap right there, but it'll be do-able if you remove those stilts. Then just keep straight until you see the huge pile of Bibles. Make a sharp left at the King James versions and you'll be right there."

As Osama walked away, he mumbled; "F***in' Jews."

DFW heard him and yelled back; "F***in' ingrate."

The Rider

And it came to pass that on the eighth day of his journey, a tired, gray pilgrim on horseback approached the home he had left in search of adventure and knowledge when a teenager. The Rider had unceremoniously travelled for what seemed an overly long lifetime, and only now had any inkling that, as a child, he was ridiculously and overly susceptible to the provocative, cackling, shrill, bugle wails of the disingenuous, painted sirens. The lures had posed on the steep mountainside outside of town, right on the slope where he was now perched, as the cacophonous sentries, positioned at the desired land's gates made a mockery of the fixed, written words of the book he had favored in youth. The Rider pulled back the reins and dismounted his black, white, and gray spotted companion and together they took in the view.

His eyes panned over a setting which seemed to be other than what his half century old memory recalled. Below were the brown and the flimsy, which had callously encroached on the green and the sturdy which were what was in his mind. On the ground near him were the charred stumps and the haphazard, blackened, fallen logs. The visible insects had devoured the majority of the softer brown wood, but seemed to have no interest in the parts which had been scorched. These remnants, which were slowly being absorbed by the earth on which they now rested, sat like an un-excavated burial ground.

His aged and now diminished ears heard nothing, but the sporadic echoing whistle of the earth upsetting wind; making an abundance of short lived dust devils. It howled in gusts in defiance of soothing convention, as it unsuccessfully tried to once again regain the stature deceiving, un-kept promise of its former flamboyant prominence. Yet, he also knew that the insistent wind had its undeniable mellowing place in his realm of otherwise stagnant and mounting heat. It immediately made a liar of him when it blew dust into Spotty's eyes. Without the benefit of hands, she had no way to brush away the rude, petty grains which accumulated to hamper her vision. The shaking of her head alleviated much of the initial intrusions, but was ineffective when the moisture induced widening muddy deposits at the corners. The grounded Rider used his fingers to clear her eyes. As always, she first balked, afraid of injury to the vital, sensitive area. The Rider found the repetition of the old story somewhat silly; but never said so. This was the millionth time he put his hands under her chin and said; "Hey girl; you should know by now that I'd never hurt you." Like always, Spotty sighed and relaxed while the Rider cleared her eyes.

The time-consuming, eight day trip, no doubt clearly foreseeable by the enlightened, had taken him only an un-enlightened and decaying half century. But now, he thought that he was finally home. The thoughts of what might have been if he was brighter and more fortunate were ones he had to forget. The past was gone and now irrelevant. It was simple as that as he had managed to think in his busy rational moments. He had long prior learned how to hold back the publicly embarrassing tears, saving them for his ample idle solitude. The Rider rubbed away his own accumulating corner deposits.

He came to a complete halt on the bounteously recalled, but presently treeless hill. He overlooked the town. He could only now try to fool himself by doubting that it was the place he did once seek to leave. Things had changed. That person was not him; it had to be someone else caught in the inevitably, drowning whirlpool. The harsh realities of what he truly believed, but didn't want to remember, only served as a testimony to his long term and wasting, weak culpability. The thought had to go away, if he had any chance of keeping on, though he knew that his keeping on had no relevance to anyone but to him, Spotty, and possibly his present boss. He recognized this depressed mindset was just another manifestation of self-indulgence; popular with the privileged and their affected mimics, while in reality he knew that it was just another simple display of humanity's will to go on; all too often used for short term personal gain. Still in its grips despite accurate recognition of the enemy, he temporarily considered willing himself to death, but could not sustain the pain-ending thought. The illogical, sorrow generating, yet irrepressible hope of a deep-rooted, childish dream would not let him succumb to the comfortable numbness.

He attempted to get out of his head and into what was around him today; in what apparently passes for someone's version of "reality," their own. In that process the Rider found it easier and truer to substitute his own. He had come to know that his attitude had much in common with what everyone else dealt with daily; and here he was, reflecting on it like another poor imitation of Narcissus. Yet, if he were to insist on only viewing his own perceptions, it would only solidify his isolation. He took a long drink from his brown, fringed, leather canteen; in that process apprehensively noticing that the only remaining water contained in it rested at the bottom. His eyes went to Spotty. At first she was apprehensively looking at him. She then whinnied; low, sad and shyly; shook her head from side to side, though that movement was no longer personally necessary. She looked the other way; not in any sense of defiance; not in any sense of boredom; not in any sense of disgust; not in any sense of ill will; but maybe in a sense of a feeling of inadequacy coupled with the sense of a feeling of; "Get off it. It leads nowhere!" The Rider thought that he might understand and caressed her.

The magnificence of his anciently and possibly mistakenly recalled fertile valley; its compelling view, punitively, pitilessly and perhaps condescendingly, was obvious to him and was right in the face of Spotty and he. His exhausted and partially open eyes looked, though the part of him which insisted on survival recommended that they be closed. He resisted survival compulsions and saw that the steep hillside itself, not only evidenced a consuming inferno; the date anyone's guess; only displayed sawn tree stumps which because of the regularity of the cuts, appear to have been taken down prior to the fire. Now they were apparently resolute in their commemorated mortality; a museum of undesired, immobile tranquility, no longer having any hope of shifting their many lost branches in the fickle breeze. Their un-moving, but making-the-best-of-things remains overlooked the wrinkled, parched, presently desert town, as reluctantly, did the Rider. He thought that he remembered bucolic, green, springtime dalliances, happily extending their bold, newly acquired progressions into a cloudless, blue sky, which seemed well within reach. Though there was no evidence of his memory, he was stubbornly certain that he was right. For a privileged, melancholically, happy and hopeless moment, his possibly objective faulty, primal recollection of what he dreamed of in his youth; as to the beauty which once was on, above, and below the hill, on which he now stood, pounded his brain like exhilaration coupled with an unspoken admonishment. The remnants of the sweet dream were clearly in front of his face. The reality was much as his almost forgotten, foolish, and romantic, once upon a time fantasy. The unattained dream which he now considered to be the innocent delusion of a youthful and erroneously thought to be a never-to-come-again oasis of the sincerely joyful shared the libidinous embodiment of a loving soul which had long prior succumbed to the infectious, prevalent passion, or never really was, outside of his thoughts. It was the substance of fantasy to be enjoyed only when one was alone and ready for sleep. At some compromising point, his prior resistance to the predominant and ever-flowing waves wore out. The comfort of the old innocent songs were overwhelmed by a silent cacophony of guilty, tainted, universally, though not personally produced ugly realities, which were the result of a magnanimous smiling viewpoint which seemed to be clearly right in front of his faulty brain and eyes. While the heart of the saddened one was capable of an extremely limited foray into the life of a hermit monk, his nether regions seemed to have a mind of their own and without any semblance of sociably acceptable constraints, looked elsewhere. Was there any choice? It was a storm of relentless, blinding dust which gratuitously dropped its dominant, physically "real," and un-welcomely imposed obscurations on the desperate, unhappy groupings he sought to elude. Unlike many years prior, he now knew that he rightly belonged with them. He knew and hated that stupidly stubborn aspect of himself, in which he appeared as reticent or shy, but was a truly unwilling and unenthusiastic prognosticator and procrastinator, in fear of the horror he had seen inflicted on the openly vulnerable. There was no way to live with open eyes and simultaneously avoid it. For her and only her, he had frantically prayed to un-listening ears for a cessation of the cruel wind; each entreaty performed with less zeal than the prior failure, until it was gone. He knew that he and she were just more of the condemned, didn't understand why it had to be this way, and yet still desired to attempt a personally judicial, righteous journey home for the others. Maybe his lost, seemingly simple, misremembered dream could be their way, if not his. Besides, he had nothing to gain by denying the others who had done him no harm.

Below him in the valley, though he found the implied idea of his lofty placement personally repugnant, yet egoistically impossible to ignore, he saw the scraps of his failed dream. The barren, desolate appearance of the tangibly inescapable, brutal physical environs of his originally desired home below caused him to chastise himself for long ago having taken a series of wrong turns, simultaneously almost forgiving himself when he realized that the arduous excursion was not what he sought. It was merely what seemed to be there; bearing the testimony of all that went before him and all that he had heard about then. For 'Occam's Razor' aficionados, the simplest and easiest criticism was that it was unforgivably common. The Rider was harder on himself. Despite all the good justifications, he couldn't forgive himself for taking a route which, had he taken the trouble to mindfully scrutinize, was obviously a route to hell. Can a teenager be expected to understand the experienced, unobstructed, regretful viewpoint gained in old age? Perhaps that was so for a few geniuses imprisoned in the company of many timid followers of rules. It seemed a travesty, in any sense of his concept of justice, for his current mindset to be only possible after a youth of regretted, self-indulgence, away from those he loved. There must be another way; a path hidden. ........ He thought that he would not be convicted by a jury of his peers as he had never seen it, and had no practical reason to think that it existed anywhere outside of the pretenses of the holier-than-thou-outdo-doo-dah-daddy positions already claimed by the fame-seeking, mental defectives. Yet, every unexplainable thing in him told him that he should have known and that he was guilty and did not have to wait for the legalities of a sentencing hearing. The punishment was inflicted before charges were filed.

He again wondered if he were yet another person merely consigned to the wrong time and place. He had been so mistakenly sure of the decency of so many other locations that he found the question unanswerable. He had to try to forget the failure of all that was part of the past and hope and believe that he was about to enter something new; as well as something old. A successful life seemed to demand the contradiction. Without the belief in that one in a million, "miraculous," and naïve long shot, he may as well have stayed up on the hill with the butchered, burned and unirrigated tree stumps. If the denizens of the valley city were averse to him, so be it. He could know that only after having tried to befriend them.

He again mounted Spotty and rode his companion of thirty years. The black, white and gray spotted mare now struggled with every step she took on the sloped and treacherous terrain. He held the reins slackly and made no effort to compel her to move with anything other than the speed and course with which she was most secure. As he experienced the careful slow steps she took, he again gazed into their valley destination. It didn't look as if it could have been the likely recipient of the idealized, weathered memories he had of a youth spent in wordless modification of the place, which he had thought was purposely, stupidly and onerously set on thwarting every feeble attempt he made to find any paltry sense of freedom. Now, he was saddened, as it merely appeared dry, forlorn and abandoned.

Despite his undesired, underwhelming feeling that he was likely to be returning to a place which had obviously seen better times, his corrected and egalitarian emotions made him want to enter the town of his birth; strongly and inescapably. He was reticent to appear as someone pompous, patronizing or condescending to the town he loved; but left. He also knew that this perception would inescapably be that of some; he could only hope not many. This was nothing more than a sad joke to him. He had lost the protracted match, time was running out and he wished that he had never left. Yet he knew all too well the authority and prominence of appearances. Despite the length of his trip, his blue denim shirt, pants and open jacket were only lightly soiled and he still had the company and friendship of faithful Spotty. She meandered assuredly through the obstacles, her eyes necessarily fixed in concentration on the confounding stumps and deteriorating logs.

The Rider reluctantly peered toward the river to his left; or what remained of it. The playground of his swimming childhood had become a congregation of clustered dry islands interspersed by small trickles insufficient to provide aquatic cover for a shellfish. For a brief moment he wondered if this was the place he had left. His doubt was extinguished by his sighting of the irrigation ditches, now much too high above the river to be the receptacle of anything other than the hot, dry air.

He momentarily considered going back to the farce with which he was fluent after a lifetime of learning the patois. ....... He couldn't bring himself to and he realistically thought it best to continue on as he hadn't the time to backtrack. Going back was an option open only to the young.

He rode a few more steps, until a bearded man on foot, with glasses in need of recurrent manipulation turned the switchback corner. He had to stop Spotty as the bespectacled man was too busy carrying on a heated conversation with a person whom only he saw to pay any attention to others who might be on the hill. When they got close he could see that the bearded man was young; no more than thirty years of age. The Stranger came to an abrupt, jerking stop and used his quivering fingers to reposition his glasses higher on his nose, poking an eye in the process. Embarrassed, he said; "Why don't you watch where you're going!"

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm standing still. Can't you see?"

".............. Well, good that you think you are." The Stranger inserted two fingers under his glasses, and rubbed a blinking eye. He mumbled; "I do see some movement. Where are you going?"

The Rider extended his right hand, palm up, toward the town, and said; "To the place of my birth. Is it still home to anyone?"

The bearded one again meddled with his glasses, leaving them more misaligned than they had been prior to his alteration. He tugged at his beard and said; "Why must you ask difficult questions?"

".............. Perhaps, I can rephrase it. Does anyone live there?"

"I don't know. No difference to me."

"Have you been down there?"

The Stranger cackled when he replied; "Questions. Questions. Questions. But, this one is finally an indication of lost presumptions. Thank you. No, I have not." He found this uninformed response singularly amusing and added; "I have been well advised to avoid this demise, euphemistically known as Cambio de la Vida. Jesus has said; 'Let the dead stay with the dead.'"

Spotty snorted and looked back toward her mount as if to say; "Both of you have got to be kidding." The Rider said; "No matter what it is now called by the inexperienced young, I will always remember its sweet wonders. When I was born there it was known throughout the country as Propicio; a place of abundance. It matters none to me if it has mockingly become known as Cambio de la Vida, as I will always belong there. It is merely a circling back to an infancy; oblivious to labels." Thinking that he had said something discourse ending, if not particularly dazzling, he smirked as he confidently retrieved a hand rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket and struck a match, lighting it.

The pedestrian Stranger with the vision challenge jumped back and his glazed eyes widened in horror. He said; "This place is so dry, an ember could trigger a raging wildfire. Didn't you see the condition of the river?"

He inhaled deeply and said; "Yeah? ....... Hard to miss. My compliments on your fantastic grasp of the obvious. ....... Now, who's asking the stupid questions?"

The bearded one again frantically tried to straighten his glasses, and quickly circumvented Spotty, in a quick stepping attempt to get away from the flickering flame. He had moved ten feet when he stopped and called back, seeking the last word; "You're crazy! You're absolutely crazy! ......... What do you think is on the other side of the ridge?"

The Rider calmly shrugged and said; "I don't remember. I really don't. ........ Maybe nothin' worth rememberin'. Maybe Paradise. ........ What day is today? I can't remember that either."

The Stranger wasn't asked, but chose to blurt out; "I don't know. I really don't. ....... Whatever its un-name, it's a day to move on."

"Finally, we agree on somethin'"

"There's nuthin' down there."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Look, all you can see is fallen down shacks."

"Can't see over the ridge from here."

"Gotta be the same. I've been in these parts all my life and I never seen a damn thing. 'Sides, there's no water down there. If you make it to the ridge you'll never make it back."

"I don't know. Don't matter. My boss wants me to deliver a book to some lady."

The Stranger couldn't control his laughter. He said; "Hey, jerk. (Giggle.) You can (Snort.) just throw the book away (Mucous wiped on sleeve.) and say that you delivered it."

"I ain't like that. That's why he pays me good."

"Wages! Wages! S***! Can get that anywhere without dying of thirst. Man!! Use your f***in' head."

" .................................... "

"What?"

"I was usin' my f***ing head."

Snort. "Try usin' it the shrewd way. How's he gonna know? This one time won't hurt."

"I don't know how he's gonna know. He's pretty damn smart though."

"Smart compared to you I guess."

"He's got the biggest cattle and horse operation back east. What you got?"

" ................. Probably inherited it."

"Made it all himself. That's what everyone says."

"Dangerous down there."

"Got a gun for the rattlers."

The Rider retrieved a tiny, leather bound, un-titled book from his saddlebag and read aloud. "Just as it is the task of the enlightened beings of numbers to make generous, good use of their numbers to explain things in a two-fold, in sync manner, which the beings of substance can understand; it is also the task of the enlightened beings of substance to make generous, good use of their substance to explain things in a two-fold, in sync manner which the beings of numbers can understand; both parties at once being clearly overt and clearly mysterious. It is at this point that the third riders make themselves known to all. Differing ability levels are recognized and respected. An honest effort is all that is required. But, woe be to those who hold back or deceive. They not only hurt the other, but themselves. Their inaction or falsity condemns all to a tedious, boring lifetime of 'preaching banalities to the choir,' at best. It is at this point that the suicide phantom of Styx makes its presence known and the haunting, black specter has achieved what it and you think to be immortality. But, it is Death."

The Rider dismounted in order to put the book back in his saddlebag.

Spotty became uncomfortable standing unevenly on the slope. She carefully worked her way down to the field and commenced running at full tilt.

The Stranger said; "See Spot run."

"What's a scribe doin' in the wasteland?"

"Lookin' for somethin' worth stealin'. What else?" ....... "What the hell was all that crap supposed to mean?"

The now pedestrian Rider laughingly replied; "You're the smart one. You tell me. F*** do I know? It's just my job to deliver this little book. Figured I'd take a look at it at night. ........ I just gotta keep movin'. Got a great, great horse helpin' me. ....... See ya, ...... maybe."

The Stranger walked west, away from the river, continuing to fidget with his glasses. When he got out of normal hearing range, Spotty started back up the hill to the Rider. She moved more quickly this time, as she had learned the terrain.

The Rider dwelled a bit, smiled, puffed and straddled Spotty, who complied and demonstrated her continuance to show their mutual disdain for paths. They went straight down the hill, more and more certain that they were on their way home. He uttered; 'Head for Siempre Carretera.'

He pulled the reins gently and Spotty slowly loped over the dry shrubs, their disturbed cotton now loose and filling the air near ground level with snow flurries

The Rider was fearful that he was too late, but he and Spotty were aiming to go over that ridge.

Writer's Note: Any Bizarro aspects the reader may have gleaned in this chapter are merely a mistake; or a testimony to the self-centered nature of a Bizarro pervert. The writer has suffered for long hours in making this stupid book about and accessible to people of this ilk; people who prefer books with snappy titles like; "The Baby Jesus Butt Plug." THE WRITER HAS HAD ENOUGH!!!!! Please pardon him for the rant; BUT THESE EFFING PEOPLE HAVE A DISEASE AS INFECTIOUS AND ENTERTAINING AS EBOLA. "Zepharia, Zephaniah, and Obadiah," as well as "The Rider" are returns to a normalized level of misery.

The End

"You only wanted the economic security."

"I needed a maintenance man too."

"Your chosen house which you always soon bitched about, as if it were my fault."

"That's the standard bargain. Isn't it?"

"I guess; for ones much more attractive than you."

" ................... "

"No, I don't feel sorry for having said that. That just plays into your phony 'pity me' game. Or is it possible that you are truly so entirely self-centered?"

"My lawyers can be in touch, if that's the road you choose."

"No. It's not the road I have chosen. I didn't find my road until it was too late for us."

"Boo hoo for you and that bookish girl."

"I'm bookish too. You never cared to notice. ............. She was right, you know."

" ........... "

"The whole system gets ruined when one allows a desire to be kind to take precedence over the reality of the situation."

"From the outset, I knew you were too dumb and weak to understand that. You lost."

"Cancel my subscription to the resurrection."

The Ersatz New Testimenticle; Note Singularity

Epistle to Dippy

Hey, yo. Om emo time ah be on this shizz.

An ah ain't got no use fe no Wiz.

So, kay-em-a. (Rhymes wit hey.)

Me on dis ting today.

And ah ain't Michael Vickin it.

Better chance ahma put my dick in it.

Here's da realest down do.

Quit here iffin dat ain't aright wit you.

Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, my! Can't stan the pain in ma mullet.

Another sensitive indy thinks he went fo the gullet.

His little ass again got pin-pricked.

And he musta thought it be the size of a cathedral's turret.

Da lavender petals decorate ma room.

Idiot wind gonna take it away soon.

Ah think ah jest might last a while.

Dis here Bizarro book mek me smile.

See, ah'm Rappin' Rod Lee and nobody give me no respect.

Think Carol and Aretha do som bad to reject?

Lily, Lily, Lily, Lill-eee.

Thass arright behind these shades.

No big ting. Ah just learn to kick it back in spades.

S*** really don't get to me; thing's jus a diss.

But, it seem to make some cuntholes piss.

Ah'm sad for da babies. Dey try to live in infirm itty.

Ah been blessed wit purple bells and rose tinted glasses.

Da sad young wannabee goons have to wallow.

In the decay of they bold asses.

If ya ask me ah think dey helped create it.

But, ah sure as hell, don't wanna debate it.

Damn; ya got dat hair all ova ya face.

Da s*** kinda clashes wit de lace.

Ma prefer is fo joint fem head.

Fraid ah be like dat til ah dead.

Bizarro boys and me; we be so differ ent.

Yakking ain't goan mek no dent.

If you all'd be so kind as to help.

Ah could use another whelp yelp.

See, ah got me some mo of dis ancient green and da Dolla only tek da plastic.

So, could ya be so nice as ta spas out some mo of yo spastic?

It's all right if you don't give more of the advice.

Whut ya preach but don't practice.

You discovery of sex was so cutting edge ah must thank you.

But all gist the same, had ah know the details of it

Ah might be blamed fo having made you.

Who am I? I am me. Couldn't make it any plainer.

Gotta get off here.

As my biggest fear.

Is that ah'll start to sound like Mark Leyner.

If ah gots a problem now.

It be how

Dat da Crips wanna hang me from da poet tree.

It's an old literal dat be

as dere sought "glory"

is kind of f***in' up dey own s*** story.

To dey chagrin, dey only found ma Blood twin ambitions.

And he be armed wit state-of-the art, military munitions.

Lily, Lily, Lily, Lill-eee.

Da Grand Canyon is great right out of the gate.

Ah try not to stand at da edge and wait.

Da nex step be a trip.

Gettin off on the lip.

I learn dat Icarus flopped fo da mounds.

Cause da fly boy had no sense fo da bounds.

Ah really want ya to no.

That Grandpa and ma love ya so.

At leas when we don't wants to kill ya.

We be worry when yu kids play in the skids.

Do ya know where a slip might tek ya?

Ah, ah guess grandma and ah mighta been dare.

When udder, mo gentle tings be in da clean air.

Now, we read of all da evil freaks.

So sick, sick, and sick; it be hard not to smell da reeks.

Want ya to no one mo; it ain't us whut did dis.

Yeah, de scum likely was such.

But, dey ain't all dat much.

We mek faces at some

And all of dem run.

No need to be tuff.

Sometimes da game's won by a good bluff.

And now it's you call.

Mek it; that be all.

You s*** is so free.

Jus lak it should be.

Down here in the lit-hood

Lawd no it all good.

But time she be a bitch.

And it ain't no fun in the ditch.

Ah ain't one to preach.

If ya want one, dere be a tithin' leech

at every corner.

Ah rilly shouldn't I know; but ah beseech.

Dere a sintence ah'm compelled to say.

If ya tek it uptown, git ya an agent and mek dem suckas pay.

Rappin' Rod Lee gotta go piss.

Poor boy ain't got the totes of free bliss.

No, it ain't no farewell kiss.

Since when you tink you get yo wish?

Yous can tek dis dis break from de remy niss

As a chance to go all bookie and hiss.

Please, please, please, please, please; do your worse diss.

Ah be disappointed iffin you come back wit just another pussy-ass miss.

Ah'd even settle fo a dit-dit-dit grouse.

Ting be mah ol' lady righteously sed dat since I gots Bizarro income it be ma gig to clean the whole f***in' house.

It ain't too, too, too bad.

I can play this old scratched, skipping piece of grooved vinyl.

Ah can do dat whenever 'cause ah been very, very, very had.

No big, but fooled the f*** outta me, as ah thought it be final.

But, you can have a perfect, digitally enhanced, remastered version from Youtube for squat.

Mufuggas ain't change da words on dis one; not.

Yet ......... it likely ain't whut ya tink.

Ta check it all you need is da link.

****************************

I come to bury Bizzaro; not to praise it.

Great I've gotten your interest in the graveyard. ............ Hello? ...... Ah, whatever. I just wish you wouldn't get your sardine sandwich all over the book. If you'd like to mess up your keyboard, that might be amusing. Perhaps, when you saw the title you thought the story might be about romance and sex, in its Millennial induced re-interpretation. The intimation of matters of the heart and genitalia always command prime attention. Millennials especially love to talk and lecture about it. I thank all of them for their wonderful discovery and information. I just find it a bit confusing that the people who study such things estimate that their participation in the acts are 33% less than that of their grandparents; unfortunately not specifying the time.

Now prepare to be severely disappointed, as you are with your own "discussed to death" matters of the heart and genitalia. Come on; admit it, at least to yourself. If things were so great you wouldn't be sitting there with this jackass book right now. In addition, this isn't about cocks, pussies, and deep feelings at all. But maybe it is. Maybe it's the lack thereof which is suggestive of what is not there. Metaphors make some borders truly porous. Who was it who said that? ................ Me. It helps if you pay some attention.

Who am I? Try asking Mark Leyner if you really give a s***. He's spent a lifetime being interested in such things.

Still there? Whatever. Maybe this is a Mark Leyner book reading. Mommy, do the opening, please. Hahaha. He's too big for online publishers. Not any more. Though familiarity does not necessarily breed contempt, it seems quite capable of breeding repetition and boredom. The proverbial thrill has a nasty habit of relocating as regularly as "improving" suburbanites. After a few months worth of Bizarro boilerplate, Virginia Woolf's boilerplate started to again look very good to me; sexier too.

We've all heard that "All roads lead to Rome." But, what we haven't heard is more about the person who supposedly coined the phrase. I have no doubt whatsoever that it was someone who started their journey with great expectations and enthusiasm and after a few years on the road settled into doing their ten miles per day clickety-clack, wishfully oblivious to their pedestrian surroundings with the lack of aid supplied courtesy of an MP3 set to Katy Perry's latest. This is far from the worst possible outcome as the Bizarro gang stops at every turn to write a "cool, funny" book about it.

When I started writing about six and a half years ago I regretted not having done it all my life. Now I know that I was blessed, but was too dumb to recognize it. Hello, hello, hello, hello. Daily, I sprinted through all my husbandly duties so that I could get back to the keyboard and punch in the brilliance discovered since my last sitting. I was overwhelmed and excited, writing myself little notes of things to include the next time fingers met keys. Over morning coffee I'd discover the methodologies of writers long gone, and analyze the techniques of post-modern superstars George Saunders, Jonathan Franzen, and most of all David Foster Wallace. It was wonderful. It was better than being young and in college as the subjects studied were not dictated to me. It was a beautiful deluded period and I didn't yet require sedation.

I watched numerous author interviews on YouTube. These weren't podcasts. They were filmed by real TV stations which actually paid money to their guests. At first, I thought I'd refuse any such invitation, because of all the cantankerous, stupid questions the interviewers asked. Second thoughts came when I found out how much the writer's got paid for an hour's drudging sham.

However, I finally decided that I really wouldn't go if they begged me, the "literary" media that is, but sometimes I fancy myself being interviewed on those TV shows with a smug working-on-my first-book-literarily-pretentious host. Hey, give 'em a chance. They've only begun to utilize their senior citizen discount card and all they need is the last 200 pages. The guy or gal host, obviously not having read my book about infectious, prolific, and much-too-obviously-symbolic skull worms and their brain eating cousins, would ask questions like; "How do you gauge your audience?"

"The truth is I don't. Gauge, that is. Regarding the audience, I have absolutely no idea who the hundred or so losers are anyway, and don't care as long as they paid for it. Probably got the book as a required birthday present from someone who hates them. That's okay with me as somebody paid and has 'instant karma' type, Western capitalist potential. Far f***in' out."

"What do you think about God?"

"After 'Why hast thou forsaken me?' I don't, thinking I'd return the favor; that image and likeness thing an ancillary consideration."

"What do you see as some of the problems with post-modern literature?"

"I don't see anything inherently wrong with the genre that couldn't be fixed by a handful of decent writers. Right now we are besieged by a potload of s***ty 'meta' books. About eight million of them are about a writer writing a book. The Bizzaro books are less offensive in a sense, only because their eighteen year total printings have not yet approached eight million. By the way, what kind of book are you working on?"

"Why do you write?"

"Ah, I think you've answered. Actually I've pondered this question since the outset. On different days I have spouted different answers, ranging from attempting to speak at length to the wife who only allows me two distilled sentences per encounter to becoming rich when the movie rights are purchased. No chance of either on this book. So, I guess I really don't know. My agent hates it when I say that; so he makes up 'noble' things for the back covers. But, f*** him. He ain't helping me to get to Carmel anyway. Creep sells the s*** cheap in Thailand, and thinks I don't know about it. Did I tell you this business is full of sharks? No, I didn't mean the "cool" land shark Bizarro sub-genre, taken from Saturday Night Live like 1970. Never mind. However, beyond the petty concerns of the day, Revelation came springing from the cynical thought I conjured up on one glorious morning while attempting to strike a bogus, self-effacing balance to telling my long suffering fellow dog walkers how great a writer I am and what I am working on now. I told them that the only reason I write is because in my advanced years it's the only thing I can do today as well as I could have done forty years ago. I can sit and risk severe fatigue only in my fingers. Simply put, I WRITE BECAUSE I AM TOO OLD TO DO ANYTHING ELSE, and I strongly recommend the endeavor to other codgers. You've seen worlds the young haven't. Tell them about it. They might come to the realization that their circumstances are not the most difficult anyone has ever experienced. The ones capable of a 40 percentile ranking on the SAT's might even find an analogy or two. And, if not, so what? Get that computer nerd cash; shove the Bitcoin. Nobody likes the goddam Millenials anyway. We just haven't sufficiently detoxed from that 'New Age' nicey-nicey, required façade yet to say so. I hate those incense burning channelers. They co-opted a movement in favor of drugs, sex, and rock 'n roll to substitute it with a non-movement of no drugs, no sex, and no rock 'n roll; saying they dig on the sitar excitement, if not the Native American flute s*** sold in the gift shops on the reservations.

I fill up my days thinking that I will soon be recognized as the next Hemingway. If a fortunate Hemingway it will be after I'm dead, to avoid the ensuing bulls***. And then I recall that the real Hemingway was a genius and consequently had packed it in by my age, the only real way to avoid the bulls***. Not having done that, I now unintentionally familiarize myself with the knowledge of diseases that come with decrepitude, including Eraserhead Press. Jeez. Unless David Lynch owns the place, you can get an idea of the degree of originality from the name. If you need a one liner try; 'Because I'm sufficiently educationally challenged not to know that everybody has heard this bulls*** one hundred times before.' To their credit, the Bizarro fellowship has some idea of the reality that it is nerds, dorks, and geeks who read books in high school, when the cool people are getting laid or saying that they are. Two Bizarro writers have managed to turn that perception into a three figure less advertising expense monthly income.

So, to circle back to the beginning of this square Bizarro World weary essay answer, to some ostensibly forgotten question, I say that I still enjoy writing more than anything else I do other than walking my dog. You're kind of supposed to say that cheery s***. Right? Or, is it cheesy? Never mind. I also say that somewhere herein I have answered all the questions TV interviewers ask. I just hope PBS doesn't stiff me on the imaginary check as it's supposed to be more than the royalties from the entirety of my book sales. Yeah, even from cheapo PBS. Isn't meta fun?

As I have no chance of appearing on any of their shows, please consider this aforesaid sufficient to satisfy any curiosity you may not have. I refuse to get into Mommy and Daddy stuff because I'm a private person and also because that asshole Leyner has already whined it to death.

Sometime during this last year was I first became aware that this "Bizarro" category was considered another genre in this book and pamphlet writing industry, which still has the audacity to occasionally refer to its products as "literature." DFW referred to the entire entertainment industry as the beast which absorbs everything and merely opens another genre pigeonhole whenever deemed potentially profitable. If that doesn't register, just picture "The Blob" with the blood of 250 Bizarro writers already consumed. Okay, I'll stay off my fantasies.

The funny "jokesters" centered in Portland, Oregon; definitely not the Maine incarnation; came up with the term almost two decades ago, when they began distributing books, mostly e's, because they could get retarded books for free from retarded writers. ........ No, I didn't send them any, mostly because I wasn't yet writing and also felt outclassed with nothing to put in the required credentials section of their required submission form. I guess that's the joke part. Submission? Submission? The very term seemed repugnant under the circumstances. Submit to a non-paying, low income nerd? Hey, I'm from "The Big Apple." Everyone there knows how to hustle. But, they're also sufficiently genius to get paid for it.

I fully recognize that from the owning nerds point of view it's; "What the hell?" Ain't no distracting, free women lining up by their doors anyway. On a business level, it took a few hours of time from someone reasonably computer proficient to get the garbage on line, and if some sucker paid for it, it was 100% profit. No qualms with that. This is free enterprise America. What does give some pause is twofold. First, the perpetrators of the crime and the putrid accomplice writers involved portray themselves as "cool," often cutesy surreptitiously. A farce is a farce is a farce. Come on. They're as "cool" as the fat boy everyone used to slap in the head in the third grade. You remember the one with the baggy short pants, glasses with lenses which looked as if they were made to fortify a brick wall, and a finger up his nose, digging. They even write about it. They do so sufficiently often to have made it a sub-genre when sales are detected; "Bizarro; snot regurgitation." I mean, I make no value judgements here. If you think that's "cool," go for it. No wonder so much of "Bizarro" is sexual fantasy, with no relationship to reality. The second pause is that in this market saturated with s***ty e-books, some middling writers have opted to do this "Bizarro" thing, because it's the only way for them to get "published." It's quite attractive. One on-line Bizarro "publisher" now actually pays $50 for 200 pages of crap in novel format and a penny per a thousand words for their s***ty zine. The tragedy is that so many of the middling writers have gone this route when they could have been writing other kinds of middling books; resulting in a huge loss for the literary world.

From industry experts I've met courtesy of the Goodreads advertising and free book website, I have found that "Bizarro" is as hard to define as "meta," "post-modern," and "post-industrial." One particularly incisive and now defunct website referred, which someone astutely named GoofBookInfo.com advised this; "There are a number of stated ideas concerning what exactly Bizzaro is. Like garbage, you likely know it when you see it, but a precise description may be temporarily elusive, as there are different constituencies. GoofBookInfo.com is only concerned with the term's consideration as a literature genre. If one took into account Bizarro's place in a 'movement,' the word 'bowel' immediately comes to mind, while bogus, redundant Dadaism seems overly complimentary. We mavens here at GoofBookInfo.com don't pay heed to any of the officially written definitions and moreover, essays. It obviously seems to be more of a business, which seeks a one-size-fits-all, small niche; aimed at low-test-scoring-suburban teenagers, who ostensibly want to appear 'rebellious.' The entire operation is a mutual-admiration-society, propagated by a small group of parochial people who, like most writing and wannabe groups, wish to carve out a little cranny for themselves, taking into consideration too few of their own limited interests and skill sets.

There are a few who appear to be on the fringes of the scene, as it is a convenient place to dump their worst writing. That is an elusive positive, as otherwise Bizarro would just be one big inbred 'Deliverance' up-the-ass scene. It may be helpful to add that the common description we most often hear involves the presumed methodology. It is 'Using ersatz traditional language to deadpan the most ridiculous stories possible.' Fans and beneficiaries would add 'entertaining,' likely at the wrong place in the sentence. We've also heard it colloquially said that it is 'Books which are like the movies in the Cult section of the DVD rental place.' So, there is a certain demonstrated market crevice implied there, and it's inevitable that some would seek to mine it.

The 'cult darlings' often fall into the trap of taking themselves far too seriously. The DVD cult section includes 1975's original 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show,' the 2016 re-do, and also 'Chupacabra I Have Known and Loved.' The latter title is much closer to what is being done to the book world through the efforts of the Bizarro people.

We, here at GoofBookInfo.com feel reasonably confident in making a prediction. In a few years, this 'Bizarro phenomenon' will be seen as the short term folly of a handful of Portland weirdos with delusions of grandeur. Oregon, of course. The most fundamental aspects of book editing might have added a few years to the lifespan.

Having said that there is a minority report to the minority report. There are some who linger at the edges of the scene because they know their subject matter is truly bizarre, but can't really get behind the main purpose of the 'movement,' as it were."

I give appropriate thanks to those at GoofBookInfo.com, who have taken the trouble to enlighten me. With all due respect to them, I've come up with my own definition. "Bizarro" is any writing done with the banality of middling, traditional considerations concerning subjects sequestered nerds find unusual. Book covers vary, but have a predilection for 1950's EC comic art. Like the punk rockers unable to play their instruments, the devotees of "Bizarro" apparently consider incompetence some sort of egalitarian virtue. The participants act as if the stupidity is simulated, though it sounds quite natural to all but the most simulated of reader-reviewers. It is merely what it is; no more; no less. Enjoy it if it tickles your fancy. That's all. Charles Ludlum and sometimes even Jon Waters have pulled it off, but their followers have not."

A moralist might have difficulty in laughing at a jerk, as opposed to laughing with one. The duplicate sniggering act would seem to morally require some sort of differentiation between those born stupid and those feigning the one-trick-pony "joke." Personally, I don't feel the need to go through the rigors of differentiation when, in either case, the presentation will appear to be identical. What it is is what it is; if you missed it the first time through. Besides, I hate people ever since the day my mother made me wear short pants to school and all the other kids ................ The painful memories preclude continuation.

Having said that, in all fairness, if Chicklit is a legitimate genre, why not Bizzaro? Just recognize that there are genres, and there are genres.

Anyway, being the enterprising adult American I am, I figured; "What the hell?" I've already written 30 books which in good months give me a three figure income. ........ All right, it's not a regular thing, but it has happened. Everybody gets so f***in' precise in this supposed information age. I took the worst parts from what I'd already done and put them in this book. Only took a couple of hours, and I figured that if some people were stupid enough to pay for it, fine with me. So, moralists, wherever ye be; have no second thoughts about whether or not you're laughing at a retard or one pretending to be one. I'm a throwback to Ed Wood. What is here is not purposely stupid. That's just the way it is. And don't worry about laughing at this retard; as this retard thinks you're a bigger one if you pay for this.

I have dared step into the Bizarro world which attempts to be super cool by being super banal. I want it both ways; beyond criticism. To say it's terrible is a compliment. If you don't laugh at this stuff, I hope you at least get queasy. Long live Rupert Pupkin, "The King of Comedy!"

P.S. My wife has just read this and in addition to complementing me through finding it putrid, she has informed me that if I ever get invited to any TV show that I will go, despite my distaste, and regardless of remuneration. I say that this will be the case only if they give me tons of money and come to my house for the filming, but this seems to be in the process of negotiation. At the bottom line I feel confident in insisting that the payment covers my air fare and hotel bill; which rules out the Bizarro creeps. She sidetracks by saying that she insists that income is directly proportional to the degree of distaste pervasive in the task at hand. I'm not sure, but I think I told her that back when I used to work in a bank. If I had known that anyone was listening to me, I'd have shut up.

So, here's the "entertainment" part. If you can walk, and/or drive, get yourself a 24 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and some Smirnoff for an occasional kicker. Do not eat anything. That only ruins the effect. Soon that lady wearing the shark outfit bopping to "I'm in with the in Crowd" will be hilarious. Enjoy her in stitches. If this is not sufficiently, incompetent Bizarro for your refined taste, you must be abundantly chromosomally challenged.

Editor's note: This book attempts to disparage the noble attempts of the Bizarro (capital B) industry to offer something new in literature. The cheap shots displayed herein are consistent with one who is angry and disgruntled with their personal lack of success. It should be further noted that many of the stories contained in this book could well be classified as bizarro (small b), or if you prefer Bizarro Light. A reader may convert them to capital B by imagining the characters to have antlers on their heads, be pinheads or blockheads, and most of all, have some mental condition which has been found worthy of institutionalization by DSM-5. Rooms may be imagined as being decorated with maggoty dead animals, which sprout tiny feet when one tries to get rid of them, contain a potpourri of various forms of excrement, or dead beer cans.

The possibilities are not limited to the aforementioned, and are a function of the reader's level of creativity or depravity. Forgive the possible redundancy.

You may wonder why I took the trouble to write this. You also may have correctly guessed that it's primarily because the writer did not pay me. But, the lazy jerk left me with the final edit.

Hehehe. Snuck back. You say this makes no sense and is un-neccesarily offensive? What a Revelation. I told you up front that this was just another stupid Bizarro book. Like, duh. Laugh, get smashed, and rejoice. It is just so, so funny.

Go ahead and crucify me if you wish. It gives me the perfect vantage point to bleed all over you. If you like it that way, I'll stop.

Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut? Whut?

Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantinus Augustus

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