The Beatific Word

Notice: this is a repost from my Myspace blog. Just figured I'd slap it on here for giggles. Plus I'm eventually going to do my big epic Cultural Anthrpology on my brother's wedding, so consider this an appetite-whetter.

***

I understand that we live in a dress-down city in a dress-down culture. Comfort has its place. I also understand that when people have to make a personal stop in the morning, and then proceed directly to work, that they may be required to wear all or part of their work garb to said appointment. So it's not like I'm going to talk shit about the people that showed up to morning traffic court in Dickies and work shirts.

But I'm just enough of a conservative to think that, if you're going to be in a courthouse for any reason, even if you're just dropping off a check, you have to be able to do better than a T-shirt that says, in block letters, "TRUST NO BITCH."

Call me crazy.

The reason why I was maxing the Compton courthouse in the not-too-distant past is not terribly important. But far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to turn a fucked-up situation into one in which I can practice my own sick brand of cultural anthropology.

Before this experience, I'd never really been to Compton. Oh, I'd heard plenty about it, and read quite a bit about it too, but I don't recall ever having physically laid eyes on the place. And you know what?

Compton isn't all that bad.

Of course the housing stock has seen better days, and due to massive disinvestment and usurious banking policies there are practically no businesses of any kind save gas stations and liquor stores. But the houses have some style, and I can see a situation where a guy following in the conceptual (if not political) footsteps of a guy like Alexander Hagen could simultaneously turn Compton into a decent place to live while making some serious coin.

This ain't a travelogue. But the prevalence of one-story homes and the dearth of big business ensures that the nine-story Compton Courthouse is practically visible from the 110 Freeway, five miles away. Like all giant courthouses, the building is an ugly, brutalistic Space Age monstrosity that seems to personify (if a building can be said to personify) the abrogations of justice that have been committed against the neighborhood that dared produce people of a color different from that of the elites.

This ain't a political piece, either. I'm no bleeding heart, I merely point out concerted efforts by one group of people to severely buttfuck another group of people.

The Compton Courthouse is a symbol of and indictment against the powers that be, while simultaneously being a symbol of and indictment against the community it serves.

This may get a touch complicated. I think I may need another beer.

The variety of petty violations during traffic school itself read like a litany of people who either wouldn't or couldn't keep their paperwork current. Expired this, expired that. A lot of failures to appear. Some forty different cases, all handled by a judge who cut through said cases like a battalion of wheat threshers. Once the actual proceedings got underway, everyone was out of that room in a hour flat.

Some hours preceded this epic act of bureaucratic efficiency, however, and I am desperately glad that I brought a book to dispell the boredom and distract me from certain facts: namely, there wasn't anywhere to sit, and there wasn't anywhere to smoke. Smoking would have involved going outside, smoking, and then standing in the playoff-tickets-sized line to get back in through the metal detectors. This line would periodically be halted when the congestion of people around the elevators became too great. And while I could have taken several cigarette breaks, at the time I had no idea how quickly the whole process might begin and was justifiably nervous that I'd go outside for a smoke, only for it to turn into some half-hour ordeal of queuing, only to miss traffic court entirely.

Such annoyances notwithstanding, the time spent was not devoid of interest. Like our aforementioned 'Trust no bitch' guy. Like the harried lawyers who attempted to bully their way past security and were kicked to the back of the line. Like the guy who sat next to me during the proceedings, who played like he was a lawyer but didn't actually have two nickels to rub together, not to mention a distinct lack of lawyering experience.

It was kind of sad, too, in its own way. Small problems in small lives. A small problem in my own small life.

The percolations are imminent.

I've got a bunch of shit bouncing around in my brain right now.... A couple of amusing conceptual movie things, which shall be like unto filmic armageddon, and a few ideas for fiction stuff.

Part of me wants to write up some stuff then post it here...

Then again, part of me wants to just say fuck it and directly write things here.

We'll see how it all pans out.

Maybe I need to do a Man Who Slept for Forty Years sequel-type thingy.

One of the great joys in my internet trawling is random bits of news and such, and (not to beat a dead horse, as I mention this site on my Myspace blog quite often) warrenellis.com is one of the best. Maybe THE best, as it's essentially run by a mad british misanthrope with a demented sense of humor. I strongly suggest you all swing by.

But if you're not in the swinging-by mood, today there was a posted story about a woman in Israel who married a dolphin. Let me pause for a second and let that one sink in. Now, the story itself was amusing, but the real kicker was the link to a rather comprehensive guide to fucking dolphins that had me in tears, particularly the section about the dangers of actual intercourse with male dolphins (which brought to mind the 'perils of Superman banging normal females' conversation from Mallrats).

Seriously, this is one of the funniest fucking things ever.

Like I was saying about media cheering me up (if it's the right media)....

So the first Batman movie is on cable (the first Burton batman movie, of course), and it's the scene where Joker ambushes Vicki Vale at the art gallery, and his whole big entrance thing (set to the dulcet tones of Prince) is where he and his gang deface a bunch of famous paintings: Blue Boy, a Degas ballerina painting, etc.... Now, as an art lover, the concept makes me shudder a bit, but I fucking LOVE the moment where one of his goons goes to deface the Francis Bacon painting of the howling man between the big shanks of beef, but the Joker stops him, saying 'I kinda like this one'.... SUCH a deadly moment, and proof positive that if anyone thinks there's a better superhero-movie bad guy than Nicholson as Joker, they were obviously dropped as a child.

I've got a bit of a smile on my face now... let's see how long it lasts.

I feel like beating a bunch of people with sticks.

I'm sick of being on fucking hiatus.

My writing of late has been crap.

I have the social life of a fucking Benedictine monk. Hell, at least they all congregate in the monastery and go out amongst the poor and what not.

I'm just about ready to expose myself to radioactive waste to see if it gives me super powers (like head-explody).

Let's just say I'm in a bit of a woe-is-me, pass-the-Paxil mood.

Considering that pretty much every aspect of my life is in some sort of disarray (I know, I know, welcome to the club), I'm starting to think about who I'd give a big bear hug to were I wearing several pounds of C-4. This guy would probably be toward the top of the list. Him, and whichever nimrod within the Taliban that authorized the destruction of the gigantic Buddha statues in Bamiyan (assuming said douchebag hasn't already met his fate in some godforsaken cave along the afghan-pakistan border). Not that I'm a Buddhist, but if you can't respect massive statues that have stood for fifteen hundred years and resisted the destructive tendencies of Genghis Khan himself, well then you don't deserve to have that operant limbic system you're sporting.

All that being said, the right sort of media can put me in some approximation of a good mood, so I'm thinking about having 5-6 more beers and watching Princess Mononoke.

But the day I get head-explody, watch out, world. I've been keeping a list.

So here's something I wrote as kind of a laugh....

The Man Who Slept for Forty Years

System indicates increased brainwave activity.

Huhmumnuh...

Third Protocol, now running.

Someone...

Good morning, Mr. Davis.

Morning.

Your throat seems dry. Would you like some water?

Yeah.

There is a nipple hanging from the wall to your right. It will dispense water.

Ooh. Tastes like plastic.

You have been in a coma for forty years.

Huh. And I'm just now waking up?

Yes.

Shouldn't there be a doctor here?

Internal medicine is one of my many functions.

So you're my doctor.

Yes.

And you're, what, a computer? A robot or something?

In a manner of speaking.

Okay. Forty years, huh?

Forty-one years, three months, seventeen days.

So it's been longer than forty years.

Yes.

Is there maybe a human I can talk to?

I have been programmed to ease your reentry into society. I am here to help in any way I can. I have access to the Central Database.

I dunno... what happened to me?

An adverse reaction to a trace amount of cashew nut in a bagel purchased at Starbucks franchise #42138. This resulted in several successful lawsuits filed by your relatives on your behalf.

Really? So I'm rich?

I'm afraid that all the money was awarded to your wife.

Oh. I guess that's cool.

Of course she died soon after the settlement.

Really? How?

Her private jet went down off the coast of New Jersey.

Isn't there any way you could like, pulse all the information I'll need into my brain? Like The Matrix, you know? Or have you not seen that movie?

You will be pleased to know that, as her sole surviving family, the divorce not having been finalized, her money was awarded to you. Before Black Friday, you were indeed a wealthy man.

I'm not thrilled about how you phrased that last bit.

Would you be interested in some music from a popular oldies station?

No. You guys still got baseball in the future?

Yes, though I remind you that this is not longer the future. It is, in fact, the present.

Don't suppose I could get some scotch out of this little nipple thing.

It is possible, but like the water it would taste of plastic. Or so I'm told.

Too cool in the future to use glasses, I guess.

Glasses were deemed to be wasteful.

Screw it then.

You will find that things are not so much different now than from the time when you remember.

Yeah, you're right, I do have a lot of fond childhood memories of good times with my freakin' robotic buddies. On the moon.

According to the Central Database, robots did not becomes widespread until ten years after you fell into your coma. And your file says that you are from the Old United States, not the moon.

The 'Old' United States? Forget it, I don't want to know. Can I go back to my coma now?

I have archived audio highlights of various events that you missed. Would you like to know the Best Picture winner in 2037? Or perhaps you'd prefer to relive Super Bowl LXXXVIII?

Got any porn?

I do not understand your request.

Course not. How 'bout morphine? Still got morphine in the future?

You do not require morphine.

Kiss my ass.

I do not understand your request. Your behavior has become erratic, Mr. Davis. I'd hate to have to sedate you.

Okay, okay, I'll be good. So, uh, how'd it all turn out?

I do not understand your request.

You know, things. Did we get that Mideast thing sorted out? Did Ah-nuld become President? Did the Cubs ever manage to win it all?

The Mideast continues to be a tumultuous region. The Cubs won the World Series in 2017, precipitating the Great Chicago Riot. And according to my files, no one named 'Ahnuld' ever became President.

What about the oil thing? Gas has gotta be fifty bucks a gallon by now.

The discovery of inexpensive cold fusion was, according to learned opinion, one of the factors that led to Black Friday and the general collapse of world markets.

Huh. Go figure.

You know, I can do impressions. Would you like to hear some impressions?

THE END (or, the point where I decided that joke was wearing thin)

Tags: fiction

As the title so succintly states, today is ash wednesday. Now, there aren't exactly a ton of catholics in newport, or at least I didn't know very many as I spent my formative years there. I'd never even heard of Ash Wednesday until I went to college.

Now, I knew that after my decidedly non-religious upbringing, going to a Jesuit university would entail some adjustments, but I was still very much puzzled that one day my freshman year when all of a sudden I started seeing people walking around with black stuff smeared on their foreheads.

All day long I kept seeing these people, and my normally adaptive brain couldn't figure out what the fuck was going on. Finally I ran into a similarly-marked friend, who took pity on my obvious confusion and laid out the whole ash wednesday concept for me.

This but one of the many instances of awkwardness I encountered at college given my complete ignorance of catholic iconography and liturgy and so forth. One afternoon in my Dante class I apparently committed some sort of heresy (in a comment I made about the nature of the Trinity) that in a different time and place would have empoweed local officials to haul me in front of the local bishop to either repent or end up lashed to a stake while someone kindled a bonfire at my feet.

Religion is often amusing.

There are few moments where I'm happier than when I have something to noodle around with endlessly. So I can see that fucking with the appearance of my page is going to suck up a bit of my time here in the not-too-distant future.

As such, do please bear in mind that I am indeed in the process with said fucking, and that the page may not be super-aesthetically pleasing all the time. I'm trying to get something that works, rather than just regurgitating the color scheme(s) of my Myspace page.

Thank you for your patience.

So now I'm a livejournal person.... yikes.

Watch this space. It's gonna take me a while to get this whole operation looking how I'd like it to look. Especially since I flat-out refuse to pay for the right to blather on in type for the grand total of like three people who might end up seeing this.