No more intros. Not today, maybe not next week. Intros will come back whenever it chooses to emanate from its fur. Whatever the Hell that means.
The following is part three of the story “Joan of Arc,” concerning the temporal displacement and inebriated escapades of a womanizing retirement community activities director. You can read parts one and two here.
Sun. April 22, 2012 — Chica Chica Boom Chic (Uma Noite no Rio)
Well you can better believe I drank myself senseless on Monday night, what with Anne Frank materializing out of who-knows-where with a salty mouth and a fake ID and Joan of Arc armed and armored and gunning her hog past Jimborooni’s and all. Who knows what all I drank, but the next morning I sure was in a bad way. I was seeing double and was bruised in strange places and to top it off my alarm clock hadn’t gone off and I’d woken up at noon, which meant the old folks had probably been clamoring for an hour for a canasta game that would never come.
The following is part two of the story “Joan of Arc,” concerning the temporal displacement and inebriated escapades of a womanizing retirement community activities director. You can read part one here.
Mon. April 23, 2012 — Enhancement and Propriety
The weekend passed predictably—Saturday night soaked in bourbon, Sunday morning gel-coated in aspirin—and then it was Monday and I was up at dawn, cursing my alarm clock, petting Mr. Mittens, driving my rusted Methuselah of a Honda Civic to Foxwood Prairies. I’d been the activities director at Foxwood for a few years. The old folks there were really something. There were two different communities of old folks at Foxwood—independent living for those still sound of body and mind, and assisted living for those whose bodies and/or minds had become less sound—and I scheduled and managed recreational activities and outings for them all. It was all standard stuff—bingo, canasta, Go Fish, cross-stitching, trips to the Piggly Wiggly and the flea market. The monthly schedules pretty much wrote themselves. The old folks didn’t want their activities director thinking outside the box. They wanted him making sure the canasta decks weren’t missing any cards and clearly enunciating B17, N27, O40, G33.
The old folks sure could be a pain in my ass, but I liked them all okay. They were old enough to not give a damn about anything anymore, and I appreciated that. People my own age still gave way too much of a damn. What was the point? Everyone was going to get old and not give a damn anymore anyway, so why not not give a damn now and save yourself a hell of a lot of trouble? But people my age didn’t think like that. And, to be fair, not everyone was going to get old. This 17-year-old kid in my town just got himself squashed to death by a vending machine, for instance. I never trusted those things. They were always stealing my money, and now apparently they were out to murder me, too.
Everything comes to an end. It must. Like Rick Moranis. We will slowly and painfully grind to a halt with such extreme snail-ness that one day, when it is gone; you’ll think it had gone a long time ago. In the meantime, two of our winners have already received their mix-tapes and the reviews are nothing short of stark raving madness. I strike again. With impudence. And mostly against the English Language and Her Grammar and Spellings which makes me a language misogynist I guess. Oh well. Rick Moranis, think about it.
The following is part one of the new story “Joan of Arc,” concerning the temporal displacement and inebriated escapades of a womanizing retirement community activities director.
Sat. April 21, 2012 — Petit Dejeuner
This morning I woke up in bed with Joan of Arc. Who knows how she got there. Who knows how I got there. The previous night was a highball/Heineken haze. I thought old Joan had been burned at the stake five or six hundred years ago—I had watched her die in a TV miniseries and two different History Channel reenactments—but there she was, sleeping beside me, hogging all the covers, her milk-white skin unclothed and uncharred, her tunic, sword, and plate mail on the floor with my jeans and lucky boxers. When she woke she was not excited to see me. She rubbed her eyes, muttered quietly in French, then got out of bed and quickly dressed herself. It was really something, how fast she could put on that plate mail. I asked her if she wanted any breakfast—I had some waffles and sausage links in my freezer—but she didn’t answer me. I think her English might not have been too good. Also, it turned out I didn’t actually have any waffles or sausage links left, just really cold empty boxes. Not that it mattered. By the time I remembered how to say breakfast in French, Saint Joan, the Maid of Orléans, was gone.
An art exhibition in an abandoned lot on NW 20 Street, off of Second Avenue, popped up on May 17, not the best part of town. New York artist Ryan Foerster primarily works in photography but also makes zines, films, and installations incorporating found objects. It was his art that was displayed at the site. The show was put on by Shoot The Lobster, a gallery in New York, curated by Bob Nickas. His vision for this ongoing curatorial project is to have outdoor exhibitions in hot and strange places… That’s Miami alright!
I approached a bunch of art weirdos hanging around a large tamarind tree that was a bit off-center in the lot. A lot inhabitant (a homeless gentleman) was casually mixing with the crowd. Before touring the grounds, I noticed that some people had booklets in their hands. I asked to see one and discovered that it was a zine also made by the artist, very simple, beautiful, and clear. There were images of his girlfriend, his garden, and a few decaying things.
On Being a College Radio Station Music Director in 2001
Scenes from College Radio Volume 3
I was chosen/elected/whatever to be Music Director my Junior year of college due mostly to possessing the position’s most necessary trait: tenacity.
WVUM’s executive board was made up of different people with responsibilities over the station’s moving parts. Among these were positions such as station engineer that fixed stuff that got broken, production engineer who recorded anything that was neither music nor the droning monotone of our DJs, and an Underwriting Director whose responsibility it was to go out and find our equivalent of advertisers.
The three top positions were as follows in order of importance: General Manager, Program Director and Music Director. These could not be halfassed though finding the time to do them well was hazardous to your GPA and/or sanity. To offset this somewhat, the top two came with scholarship bonuses that unfortunately had the side effect of being the actual reason most people sought the positions rather than any real love of the station or its work. Contrast this with the benefits to being Music Director, specifically free CDs, tickets to the occasional show, and undeserved swagger. Oh, and severe and nearly instantaneous burnout.
Ice Cream wants you to know they’re safe and happy after moving to NYC by way of releasing an EP called Safe and Happy.
The following is the sixth and final portion of the story Minimum Security, a tale concerning loneliness, insomnia, incarceration, Burmese Pythons, and Dadeland Mall. Previous episodes are here.
Madhouse / O Holy Night
It was Christmas Eve, and Dadeland Mall was a madhouse. Procrastinating shoppers were sprinting from store to store and lugging their own weight in gift-wrapped Macadamia nuts and waiting refugee-faced in endless, serpentine checkout lines. At noon we commenced the Dadeland Holiday Minimum-Security Spectacular, a thrice-convicted cockfight impresario singing “Little Drummer Boy” in a sweet falsetto, but no one stopped to listen. Everyone had somewhere to be. No one had time for a spectacular.
The warden didn’t seem to care that no one was paying attention to us, though. He was enthralled. He was clapping his hands and jumping around and sucking on his grapefruits like no one’s business. We reenacted the Nativity and sang Handel’s “Messiah” and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and danced to “Santa Baby” in a chorus line and performed pivotal scenes of Home Alone and It’s a Wonderful Life. For the Spectacular’s grand finale, each of the inmates lit a white candle and sang “O Holy Night” as a compulsive public masturbator in swaddling clothes placed a glittering gold star on the top of an artificial Douglas fir. Boy did the warden get a big ’ol kick out of the grand finale. He was crying like a baby. The gold star glinting and gleaming on the tree, we finished off the final chorus of “O Holy Night” and then the prison guards retrieved all of our costumes and choir robes and extinguished and collected our candles. Some of us were in for arson. You never could be too careful.
The following is the fifth portion of the story Minimum Security, a tale concerning loneliness, insomnia, incarceration, Burmese Pythons, and Dadeland Mall. Previous episodes are here.
It was finals week for all of us enrolled in educational courses in the food court. Prison lecturers sipped on celebratory mocachinos and Johnny Rockets milkshakes and TAs passed out number two pencils, teacher evaluations, and ominously heavy stapled exams. I had been hoping that somehow my survey of post-war Soviet literature final would be in English rather than Russian, but of course it was in Russian. A guy like me couldn’t catch a break. As my classmates diligently tackled post-war Soviet literature’s most pressing questions, I scribbled my favorite Cyrillic symbols in the white spaces of my exam, handed my test to my professor, and shook his hand. He stared at me warily. Who knows what I had been writing on all my tests and papers. Not me. That was for sure.
I had never been a particularly good test taker. In high school that’s what all the dumb kids would say when they didn’t want to say they were dumb—I’m just not a good test taker—but in my case I really wasn’t all that dumb. I was just absolute shit at taking tests. Lots of times I knew the right answer, but I’d bubble in the wrong oval, or I’d second-guess myself, or I’d accidentally skip a page and leave a quarter of the test questions blank. It was really something. I must have been the worst test taker of all time. School wouldn’t have been so bad if all you had to do was learn stuff, but of course they had to go and make school one big competition. People were always doing that, ruining perfectly nice things by making them competitions. They were always telling me, Why can’t you dress as good as so-and-so or cook as well as so-and-so or smell as nice as so-and-so? Boy did that make me feel lousy. My whole life I was constantly losing competitions I didn’t even know I’d entered.
So whether you’ll be over at Wetlab for the last Friday of cheap beer for a while, on a towel with Misael, joining LegalArt for an evening of video installations and Peroni, fleeing Miami Beach, or staying indoors and avoiding the shit weather, here’s a few ways to kill some time before your 3 days of freedom:
- Uncle Luke reminds everyone on South Beach this weekend to play by the “rules.”
- It’s Fleet Week in New York City, which by itself isn’t terribly interesting, but it’s the first Fleet Week since Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was repealed. Go get ‘em, sailor!
- Honestly the most annoying thing about Kickstarter is having to sit through the painful videos, but they’ve lead to the website being dubbed the Hipster Home Shopping Network.
- Also from the Atlantic we have the easiest lede ever: shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.
- Yeah I’m not posting anything about Facebook. Here, read something about how Zynga’s financial foibles instead. Then go play Draw Something with your Aunt.
- In which the newspaper industry doesn’t so much die as it commits suicide.
Quit fooling yourself and click on some stuff.
- What it was really like being gay in the World Of Mad Men
- Four words: Lego Marijuana Art Show
- Funniest Tweets from Facebooks IPO Shitshow.
- How to open a beer bottle with a chainsaw.
- Best lines from Betty White’s Friars Club Roast.
- Are any of us from Iowa and in college? Ok good – they’re pretty stupid apparently.
- A whole mess of improvised weaponry for when the shit hits the fan.
- Stop buying your dad ties.
- Green Arrow is getting a TV show and so are some creepy CGI Care Bears
- If you need advice on what to do in Vegas,might as well ask a reverend.
The following is the third portion of the story Minimum Security, a tale concerning loneliness, insomnia, incarceration, Burmese Pythons, and Dadeland Mall. Previous episodes are here.
December / Die Hard / Lexus
December came to Dadeland, and on a special weekend detail my fellow inmates and I decorated the mall with fake Douglas firs, artificial mistletoe, and tinsel in preparation for the imminent holidays. It was going to be my first Christmas in prison. The thought made me a little sad, but most of my thoughts made me a little sad. At least this year there would be no guesswork on which column contained my name on Santa’s list.
The warden, in addition to being a clothes hound and a grapefruit and Häagen-Dazs enthusiast, was an aficionado of all things Christmas. He strolled the tiled floors of Dadeland in December with a carol ever on his lips and an extra bounce in his step. Every year the warden organized an extravagant Christmas show in the open area near Michael Kors and Auntie Anne’s Pretzels. It was called the Dadeland Holiday Minimum-Security Spectacular. Inmates reenacted the Nativity and sang Handel’s “Messiah” and performed selected scenes from A Christmas Carol, Miracle on 34th Street, and Die Hard.
I had mixed feelings about Christmas. I liked all the colored lights people strung on their houses and around ficus and palm trees, but I didn’t like the presents. I had never gotten anything good for Christmas, and had never given anyone anything good for Christmas. On TV around Christmastime I’d always see these commercials where a man blindfolds his wife, walks her out to the garage, and then pulls off the blindfold to reveal a shiny new Lexus with a big red bow. Boy those commercials made me feel lousy. What could I possibly buy my sweet Maria that could compete with a shiny new Lexus with a big red bow? Usually I bought her bath soap. I bet those disgraced corporate executives had bought a shiny new Lexus for a girl or two on Christmas, though. One of the executives was going to be Joseph in the mall Nativity reenactment, and another was going to be the Virgin Mary. No one was surprised. Those disgraced executives were always pulling strings.
Over on Thought Catalogue, one man chronicles his quest to get DENIED a a medical marijuana card in the golden state.