Archive for March, 2008


Posted: March 9, 2008 in Uncategorized

It didn’t make any sense. Of course, I had yet to acquire all of the puzzle pieces that were necessary to fully understand the depth of the situation. But the bits I did have, when pushed together, formed nothing more than a fractured photograph with very little context. After all, one may force such memories together, but that does not necessarily mean that they will harmoniously join together.

I felt it was necessary to do quick inventory of what I did know; that perhaps such an exercise would allow the closed doors of my mind to open. First on the checklist of current knowledge was the fact that my current surroundings were dark. In fact, it was beyond dark, it was black. The floor that I layed on was concrete, or so it felt. It was cold and hard and chipped, as a concrete floor should be, particularly one that was so devoid of light. As I propped myself up on my hands, I panned the room and saw nothing but black. The only feature I could deduce was the hum of some sort of ventilation system; but considering I could not see said ventiliation system, and my ears were not fully in sync with my brain, I could not really tell from which direction the hum was coming from. In all honesty, it sounded as though it came from everywhere, but nowhere at the same time.

I was, to the best of my knowledge, still fully clothed. Not only was I fully clothed, by the smell of my shirt, I was wearing the same clothes I had been wearing for God knows how long. I felt, for lack of a better word, sore; this dull pain that radiated from every inch of my body. My legs felt as though they had just been sewn onto my body and my hands felt stiff and blistered, like they had been digging into frozen turf. In another test of my senses, I brought my hands up to my face and felt the around my cheeks. They felt dirty; crusted. What was it that I felt on my face…was it…


Wait. Blood. I could remember seeing dried blood on my cheeks; as though I had been crying bloody tears. Why do I have this memory? Where is it coming from?

I could feel that the answer was so close, but the metaphorical fog that had decended over my head kept me from spitting the answer out to my lips. Suprisingly, my head did not ache (and with such a fog one would figure that it was accompanied with pain), but it was foggy nonetheless. The fogginess was, in my mind, comparable to that moment of confusion that arises when coming out of anesthetic coma. That moment when you crack your eyes and see someone that you do not recognize, nor do you have any recollection as to why you are laid out on a table. This moment was similar, yet in some way, wholly different.

“Why, why, why?” I whispered to myself in dry and cracked voice while my mind pondered the self-directed question.

After a few moments of pause, the fog lifted for a millisecond. “The mirror. By the door. I saw my face. My blood…?” I whispered yet again.


Well, that answered one question, but not where the blood came from, nor did it answer why I was aching. The situation appeared to provide an overabundance of questions, with nothing more than a drought answers. Back to the inventory, I thought, over thinking will just make the answers more fleeting than they currently were. Established within my brain thus far: streaks of blood, and a cold, pitch black room, but what else was there?

My name is Cole. I work for an advertising firm. I live in a flat downtown and I drive a Volkswagen. I am 32 years old and I live alone. Good start, I thought, but those are easy questions to answer. Dig Cole, dig…dig a little deeper.

I had a date. With a woman. Her name was…Jocelyn. We flirted for a while, I asked her out and she said yes. I went to pick her up on a Friday night at 7pm. I was wearing…

(the same shirt)

and took her…took her…where?

(the door)

(what about the door?)

(think about the door)

That voice. The Voice that has been with me since childhood, always prodding me about this and that, but currently persuading me to think about “the door.“ But what door? It would appear that my mind is currently a steel door; a door that is closed and has had gum shoved in the lock, but surely the Voice is not referring to that door.

The door, the door, the door…what about the door?


DING! That door. There was someone at that door. I could see myself…in the mirror by the door when… going to answer the door. Cold metal on my fingers as I opened the door (brass painting worn off)…turned the knob and….and…and what?


The flood of realization (relief) washed over me and pierced my skull as I began to realize how

(but not why)

I had arrived in the room. And much as the lights went on in my memory, and nearly in sync with my epiphany, so went the lights in the black room in one blinding second. Blinded by the abrupt bright and yellow and man-made illumination, I began to remember…everything.

Prying open my Third Eye. So good to see you once again.



If you have not gathered it thus far, I like to make lists. Most of the time these lists are, for lack of a better word, dumb; other times, these lists are functional, but not nearly as entertaining (I could post my grocery lists, but then you might know my dirty dark product-related secrets). So, my dearest Reader, without further ado…my words of wisdom for the day, free of charge as always.

DON’T…ever grab a cheetah by the tail. That tends to make them very upset.

DO…chew with your mouth open around children. They need to know how the initial stages of the digestion process works.

DON’T…hesitate to pass gas in an elevator, but wait until you are about to get off. The remaining people on the elevator will appreciate the lingering reminder of past meals.

DO…ask a woman if she is pregnant if you are unsure. If she is, she will be happy you asked; if she is not, then maybe she will take the hint.

DON’T…say “when pigs fly.” Thousands of pigs are transported via air travel every day, and if a human is “flying” when taking a trip in an airplane, so is a pig. Someone will call you out on that if you say it, not to mention it just sounds stupid.

DO…tell dirty jokes when you meet a girl’s (or guy’s) parents. They will appreciate your sense of humor.

DON’T…blow your nose with the toilet paper from your place of employment. No explanation needed.

DO…wear a ski mask when going into a gas station at 2:34 A.M. You might get the stuff you want for free.

DON’T…ever miss an opportunity to comment on someone’s cold sore. Herpes: it’s the gift that keeps on giving.

DO…eat a dozen of Krispy Kreme donuts in one sitting. A good rule of thumb is if you don’t feel full, you should keep eating.

DON’T…call every Asian man you meet Kim Jong Il. Unless you know karate, it’s not a good idea.

DO…pretend like you have Tourette’s when you are at a public library, and then threaten to sue when they try to throw you out.

DON’T…tell people your last name. If celebrities can go by a singular name, so can you.

DO…not (fooled ya) tell me I ripped off this idea. If someone else before me has done the same, big deal. What can I say, great minds think alike.

Think for yourself, question authority.
–Timothy Leary


Prison Break

Posted: March 7, 2008 in Uncategorized

Often in times in life, both for those that are religious and those of us that are not religious, we question why certain things are the way they are. As I age (gracefully), I find myself asking such questions about my body and why it does not want to cooperate with me. Whether it is my back, or my hair (for the record, I have all my hair, even if it is graying a little bit, but we can call that blonding), I can’t help but wonder why my body is habitually rebelling against me.

Today, or rather this week, I have taken my wonderment to another level. Over the last six days, my face has felt like donkey has kicked me between the eyes, or perhaps that a thousand microscopic monkeys are taking part in prison break of epic proportions. I attribute this discomfort to my sinuses, which in my mind is a little strange. I am, obviously, not a doctor (but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night) but I don’t have a cold nor have I been otherwise ill. Yet, seemingly good health aside and for some strange reason, the material that normally flows through my facial plumbing has decided to halt its journey from one end to the next.

This traffic jam of mucus has resulted in the most pleasant feeling of my nose and teeth throbbing like a worked up virgin on prom night, and said throbbing has led me to this question: why in God’s name would your sinuses, which are prone to such misbehavior, be located in an area that one cannot reach? Fingers, pencils, and pipe cleaners have not gained me access to the anatomical gems. Why God (or Allah if you swing that way) would you torture us with a level of irritation that makes a person feel like a baby might come popping out of his (or her) ear?

These questions are, of course, rhetorical in nature as they have no real answer. However, what these questions do provide is (beyond giving me something to bitch about) further proof that God (or whatever for all you atheists out there) has a really sick sense of humor. So with that…hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to the doctor I go.

I’m gonna get drunk don’t you have no fear; I want one bourbon, one scotch and one beer.
–George Thoroughgood



Posted: March 4, 2008 in Uncategorized

The pulse in my head was thumping to the beat of a thousand electric drums; that all-too-familiar sound of techno music becoming in tune with the ever present beat of my heart, and by extension, the life giving pulses throughout my body. The sound, while familiar, was by no means comforting, but strangely, not unwelcome in its presence. The beat was always the same and somehow, the subconscious processes of my mind ensured that all the nerve endings and extensions of my brain relayed the rhythm to every inch of my exhausted temple.

I cannot tell you why, on this day, the rhythmic chant of youthful tribal music permeates my soul. Admittedly, my recollection of the evening before is scattered, or rather, non-existent. Such lack of recollection is not uncommon. Typically such black holes in my memory are substance induced and I often rely on the words of others to fill in the blanks; to assure me that my actions were not the actions of a madman. On this morning (or is it afternoon), I cannot recall falling into the rabbit hole. That’s not to say that I didn’t, of course, but as far as I can tell, my previous evening was spent in my less-than-appetizing flat. But at the same time, something is missing, and I dread that, for whatever reason, the missing piece is one that I would rather not remember. As they are always fond of saying, curiosity killed the cat, and my curiosity always wins the battle within.

My eyes crack open, matted and sticky like pink eye, or crying in my sleep. (bleeding) As one sensory perception begins to kick in, the thumping in my ears subsides in order to allow my mind to process new information. As is customary each morning, I notice the water stains on the ceiling and my wonderment of such things ceased long ago. The stains are nothing more than decoration; a constant part of life that I have come to accept when awaking each morning (afternoon). My view of these aesthetically unpleasing marks is brief as I roll to my right to look at the clock on the wall.

This roll, something so rudimentary in nature, produces a sensation of pain throughout my body that I was not expecting. My sheet wrapped legs feel as though they have been scraped with a knife from the inside out. This pain, this ache, radiated up my back and to my hands. I glance down at my hands and notice the dirt underneath my fingernails; tell-tale signs of work. Further down my fingers there was, dried blood, or so it appeared. I must have had an interesting night.
2:38. Goodness, I out did myself this time. The light filtering through my olive green curtains told me it wasn’t 2:38 A.M. Despite the pain, I pulled myself out of bed and swung my legs over the side. As my feet touched the hard, cold wood floor, it dawned on me that my feet were blistered. Looking down I could easily see the red inflamed skin bubbling off the side of my toes.

Jesus Christ, what had I been doing last night?

From whom?

Who are “they?”


The sound of this abuse on my door startled me to my feet. Who is paying me a visit with such a travesty of sound? Perhaps they know what I did last night. Perhaps they can fill in the blanks. I hobble to the steel grey wooden door; the brass painting has long since faded on the door knob. As I reach for the handle, and glimpse my face in the mirror next to the door, I realize why my eyes are matted. Like red tears, crusted blood is running from the corner of my eyes and has covered my face like Apache war paint.

At this second it dawns on me, what if the person pounding on my door can not only tell me why I look and feel this way, but is the reason why I am in such a state. I pause with my fingers on the cold, formerly brass door knob, but force of habit takes over and I cautiously begin to pull the door open…

What if it’s…?

Sometimes opening the door will answer all of your questions; other times, it will just lead to more…

Strange brew kill what’s inside of you