Life on Mars

We are getting in our first full reports now of what seems to be the dawn of a new era of mankind; Today, July 7, 2013, is the day that we now know for sure, there is life on Mars. Here is NBC news correspondent Jeff Schultz, live at capitol hill with questions for Wisconsin Senator and former NASA director Barry Pullman. Stay tuned for more images as they come to us.

Breathe in, breathe out…. Just act like you’re a regular guy. They don’t know what you’re thinking; they don’t know what you’re about to do…

I try and tell myself to stay calm, but my heart is beating out of my chest and my muscles are acting weird; the feeling reminds me of living under a tarp in Afghanistan, eating the crumbs out of the nearly empty packaged meals that ran out two days earlier, I start wondering if I am going to die from starvation like I almost did over there; I remember my tarp-partner going into hunger-convulsions. I remember not even being happy when the ANAs finally got us little bits of seasoned rice and clean water; I thought, wrongly, that I was finally done suffering. Now, back in suburban North Carolina, there are plenty of supply lines around me, but the only food I've had in the last two days were a few stale muffins and croissants that Starbucks dumped when they were closing. I don’t have much left in me, my still larger-than-average biceps and quads are telling me that they are going to shut down if I don’t get them some food ASAP.

The .45 caliber glock tucked into the back of my pants is digging into my lower back and I think I am bleeding, but I can barely feel it; my adrenaline has kicked in to the point that life around me is like a muted movie. I can remember my last 2 adrenaline rushes: one was 8 months ago, when I had 40 some rounds shot at me from high ground with no cover around me; the other was 2 months ago, when I impulsively put my last 500 bucks on red on a casino boat; it hit on double zero. The adrenaline is nice, my mind is taking a few minutes off from its usual coup of my existence; I should attempt to rob banks more often.

Nothing is confirmed yet, but oh boy, is it an exciting day for America, human-kind, and Earth. Reports are pouring in that the most recent Mars rover, Wonder II, has captured video of some kind of moving creature feeding on plants that grow just below the surface of Mars. Experts speculate that these animals are subterranean, and that they don’t require oxygen. I will tell you Elizabeth, this is a day to remember… today is the fabled day of first contact, back to you at the studio.

I am 30 feet away from the BB&T, and at this point I am committed. The world around me seems distant and greyish, even when loud metallic scrapings and crunchings start taking over the airspace around me. People start running towards the noise a block away, I don’t concern myself with it; instead I make my way towards the glass door. At this point, I am too hungry, too angry, too desperate to watch some disaster happen, I have seen enough violence and carnage for one pair of eyes.

I can feel my middle and rear deltoids cramp and lock up as I pull open the right door of the first of two double glass doors. The noise is still audible from in the bank; twisting of metal, perhaps even a few small explosions. People start running past me out the door to see the source of this noise. I seem to be the only person walking towards the bank counter. All this action is making me feel alive again, like I’m not just watching some shitty reality show whilst suffering from insomnia on some friends couch. I become aware of what I'm doing; I don’t like it. I walk up to the now line-less counter and tell the woman to give me everything in the drawer, and I discreetly point the pistol I have at her. I tell her in a low voice that I will fucking kill her if she doesn’t cooperate. She discreetly starts handing me stacks of money; 3 stacks of 20s, 4 stacks of 10s, 3 stacks of 50s, 6 stacks of 100s. No one is paying attention because everyone is screaming and asking questions and running around like a bunch of panicked pedestrians. I tell her to go to the safe and fill me up a zipper envelope with 100s. she leaves to follow my directions.

The implications of this are just tremendous… I think this kind of discovery is just what we needed to put an end to war. Now people will finally see that there are other things in this solar system that could pose a threat, that we are not alone, that we need to start thinking of ourselves as Earthlings, and not Americans, or Chinese, or Swiss.

Thank you very much Dr. Morton; that was Dr. Morton from the Astronomy department at UCLA and a leading member of the growing field of study of Astrobiology. I hate to have to interrupt this momentous occasion but we have breaking news out of Mooresville, North Carolina. There has been a massive train car pile-up, and anywhere from 39 to 52 silver back gorillas have escaped from the wreckage. We have local reporters rushing to the scene now to keep us informed about this story, so stay tuned for more. Back to Jeff Shultz, who now has Wisconsin Senator and UFO enthusiast Barry Pullman ready for some questioning about the discovery of life on Mars.

I can’t wait for this girl at the counter to come back with the money, and she will probably put one of those ink bombs in there anyways, so I leave. I’m sure I made enough off the drawer to do whatever it is I am going to do with this cash. I walk out and peel my top shirt off and drop it in the trash can. I hang a left and reality starts to kick in. People are running from the direction I am walking towards. Nobody bothers to stop and tell me why they are running, but there is genuine fear in their eyes; I've never seen an American civilian with genuine fear in their eyes before.

I make it a block, and then I see it. I am not sure if I am hallucinating from the combination of hunger and adrenaline, but there are gorillas running in the street, and not the democratic socialist kind. I have hallucinated before, but usually its men in robes and turbans, or little brown women screaming and crying, and mostly its marines dying on the ground in front of me as blood spills out of them and they ask me to take care of their wife and newborn baby that they haven’t met yet; sometimes they tell me to play catch with them when they are old enough, some tell me to make sure she doesn’t marry another Marine; some just ask me to pray with them.

These gorillas seem too real to try and ignore though; they seem to vivid, I don’t think my fucked up head could even make this up. I hang a left and a girl is screaming on the ground with a giant gorilla over top of her. I am brought back to the time I saw my standing officer raping an Afghan woman in a little compound we had taken over and were using as cover for the night. I couldn’t report him, he was my superior and 'brother'; and we weren’t close enough to a base for it to really matter. Sometimes that woman calls me a monster in my dreams.

Here was my chance to redeem myself. I pull out my Glock and fire 2 rounds into the Gorillas head. The gorilla blood splatters on the American pavement pretty much the same way human blood does on Afghan soil. A gorilla jumps on me from the back. It’s really fucking strong.

We are going to have to take this one moment at a time, Jeff. But I have already compiled a digital copy of great achievements in the arts and technology to present to these beings, if, of course, they have the capacity to appreciate it. I have put together a crash course in human history on an iPad to give to these creatures. It contains pictures, films, music, and literature since the dawn of human civilization. I have always been the type to assume any extra-terrestrial life is friendly until they prove otherwise. But words can’t describe the excitement I am experiencing right now, and I will be glued to the TV just like the rest of the world as we get more information on this great day.

I am face down on the pavement with a gorilla punching, clawing, and biting my back. I am trying my techniques I learned in basic training to flip this gorilla on the ground and gain the upper hand, but this thing has to be at least 350 pounds, and nothing is working. I edge my right arm around my body and blindly let off 3 shots into what is probably the stomach of this giant animal. He lets up for a second, I turn over and put a bullet through his jaw and into what might be his brainstem, because it falls limp almost instantly. I am splattered with bits of Gorilla flesh and blood. I try and get up, but I can’t. I think I have lost too much blood for my muscles to respond. My vision starts to fade… sounds start fading… my vision goes grey to black to white…

And this video has garnered over 150 million hits in the last three days. You have probably already seen it, but if you haven’t, take a look at this. Former Marine and veteran of 1 tour in Iraq and 2 in Afghanistan, Private First Class Jeff Thompson of Mooresville, North Carolina, saves a woman from an attacking gorilla and then wrestles with another before successfully neutralizing the primate attacker. While everyone else was running away, Private First Class Thompson went into the thick of the danger to save a woman from sure death. Although he is still in critical condition, doctors say he is recovering well, and President Obama has already decorated him with numerous honors for his heroic acts in the small town in North Carolina. We will warn you before showing this, the contents of this video are quite graphic, the faint of heart may want to change the station.

I open my eyes and there is machinery all around me, the beeps of the heart monitor start speeding up. The room is white and pale green. I try and keep a cool head and assess my situation. It seems I am in a hospital, and I am not cuffed to the bed. I don’t feel hungry anymore. My bag is sitting on the table. I struggle to reach over to it, and there are sharp pains all over my back that would probably be a lot worse if I wasn’t getting drugs through a drip bag. I look in it; the cash is still there.

I sigh; it looks like I will have to keep on suffering. This is the second time I had written myself off as dead prematurely.

I buzz the nurse in and ask her to turn on the TV for me. The channel that comes on is CNN. My vision is blurry; probably a combination of the drugs and the fact that I haven’t had my eyes open for some uncertain amount of time, but I make out the headline:

Life on Mars?

Karen and Daren

Cold, dry, grey; it’s hard to say which was the most of these 3 on January 13^th—maybe the coldness, greyness, and dryness were all evenly distributed in massive quantities.

Karen and Daren are the only people intrepid enough to venture out and weather the elements in the name of physical and mental health—Daren didn’t have to say anything; he just stared into Karen’s eyes and she knew…

You’re right Daren; we have to get out of this house.

Karen has been retired for 16 months now—the last 5 months of her pregnancy were wrought with illness and complications, too many to effectively design and create jewelry. After Daren was born, she had a sit down with Chess to discuss numbers—Chess’s specialty.

Chess explained to her that she would be contributing more to their household, which was increasing by 50% in terms of personnel, by not going back to the jewelry world. He presented charts and figures on his iPad that he had likely had some intern draw up for him, illustrating that the income she generated from jewelry was comparable to the rate for a good nanny. He went on to show figures suggesting children who spend time with their biological mother may be better tempered and go on to be more productive human beings—although this conclusion had a small superscript cross and in Chess’s footnotes, he explains that more research is needed before this statement can be confirmed.

You’re right Daren; we should get some hot drinks for a cold day like this.

The idleness of a new mother is a strange brew. Ostensibly it’s probably less hours of work than that of a jeweler, but they are scattered, unpredictable, and grueling. The birth of Daren marked a definite departure from the regularity of her life up until that point. Karen valued 8 hour nights of sleep, quiet mornings, a steady regimen of yoga, and a Friday and Saturday full of jokes, mimosas, and stylish people… all of which Daren has taken from her.

The spotty sleep and lack of relaxing mud masks was definitely showing on Karen; her once smooth and light complexion had become splotchy; she stopped taking the time to exquisitely braid her hair into cool plays on French braids and buns and had resorted to ponytails, which highlighted all the wrong things about her slightly-wild natural curls. She had also been drinking a lot more coffee and hadn’t practiced yoga during motherhood—which compounded on each other to bring about anxiety. Daren was turning her into a twitchy, unhealthy, wretched woman.

Chess paid her less attention now than ever; they hadn’t slept together in 2 months. He was never warm or romantic, but at least he used to talk and sleep with her. Now the only time they talk are at semi-formal meetings his assistant arranges, which feel more like awkward roommate meetings than they do anything that resembles matrimonial conspiring. He always comes with charts, graphs, and literature to back any of his requests or grievances, but never prepares Karen for the meetings so she only has off the cuff improvisations to battle his well thought out arguments. This argumentative jazz used to be sufficient in maintaining balance, she was much wittier and more intelligent than Chess when it came to anything other than numbers. However, due to the aforementioned lack of regularity in her life, she was unable to combat Chess’s power points and intern-researched airings. Chess called the shots now.

Karen tells herself that Chess is just stressed and working a lot; that he still loves her. Daren often consoles her; he explains that it’s impossible that Chess is going to the meatpacking district every night and bringing some slutty 23 year old to some overpriced boutique hotel suite and doing to them all the things he used to do to her.

You’re right Daren; he loves me, he loves us, he would never do such a thing.

A generic shopping bag with smiley faces and an invitation for return business blows down the street like a tumble weed—accentuating the desolation of the yuppie Brooklyn neighborhood Chess and Karen moved to upon finding out about Daren. Karen envisioned spending her life in Manhattan, she loved their East Village apartment and the feeling of being in ‘the center of the universe,’ but Chess’s ‘cost per square foot’ argument compounded with the child’s ‘need for space’ argument were invincible.

Now it’s rows of sushi restaurants and coffee shops and clothing boutiques and organic markets. The gays here aren’t wild or flamboyant; the minorities have married white people and speak in standard Midwestern English. There are rarely car horns or cabs or rush hour delivery drivers. The coffee shops and bars are taken up with middle aged people in tweed and beards and Moncler jackets.

You’re right Daren; this isn’t the New York I know and love.

Karen decides against Tiger Coffee and opts for Vini Vedi Coffee another block down. She struggles through the heavy glass door with her stroller; no one helps her. She eeks her way through the 4 strollers already in the close-quarters coffee shop; once again, no one helps her. She feels the glare of the other mothers on her as she orders a latte with a double shot; she takes a deep breath to try and shake off the weight they are causing. The barista seems equally unwelcoming; Karen takes the coffee to go.

She exits the coffee shop with equal toil to the entrance. The hot drink is everything the day isn’t—hot, moist, and brown; all in comparable and massive quantities.

You’re right Daren; it’s the little things that keep me waking up in the morning.

She takes a sip to accentuate her agreement. She sees a mother with her 8 year-old son and thinks of her future with Daren; maybe it won’t be so bad. As they pass, the boy asks:

‘Mommy, why is she talking to a shopping cart?’   

Loving and Caring Mothers

These are turbulent times we live in, sometimes—just sometimes—we may even need a seatbelt…            -Ed Sorrenson

It was hotter than usual in Brooklyn, and it hadn’t rained in what seemed like forever. Tension was high in Park Slope, despite the fact that this was the first summer that civil unions of gay couples were permitted. Over on 5^th Avenue, a row of premium strollers all sat outside Thanks-a-Latte, like a row of Harley Davidson motorcycles outside a Hell’s Angels hangout.

Inside, 4 of the 7 tables have been pulled together to accommodate the 8 new mothers and their fresh-out- the-womb-offspring.

‘So Sven and I have decided to nix the nursery, we had to have somebody come paint the walls back to creampuff eggshell.’ One mom with 2 inch bleach blonde hair styled with putty said after taking a sip of her decaf soy latte.

‘Yeah, I read that you should definitely have the baby sleeping with the parents, it is apparently really good for the baby’s sense of self-worth.’ Another mom from across the table throws out; she has brown hair that is stick straight and absolutely no bangs. For some reason, she’s drinking black coffee

‘That’s totally true, but that’s not why we did it. Me and Sven decided it should stay an art studio, because it’s really important that the baby sees that my passion for the viola and Sven’s passion for water colors is still intact. I mean, the last thing we want is the baby to not truly value self-expression.’ Blondie responds, then takes another sip and grimaces a little, it seems she doesn’t like soy.

‘We threw away our Ikea crib, even though it’s super cute. We have been reading Bullinger’s new book, Malawian Child, and it basically says that kids in Malawi are super great and never cry and that you should try to recreate the Malawian experience totally, so the baby is sleeping on hay now. Plus we got this really great space heater to keep the temperature in the mid-90s at all time, and Sergio had some guy wire up grow-lights so he gets plenty of high quality sunlight.’ A stunningly beautiful woman sitting next to the black coffee drinker adds, she has a guava smoothie and dirty blond hair in a messy little bun; she's still in her yoga attire. All the moms flatten their eyebrows and nod their heads intently, a few give ‘mmms’ or ‘yeahs’ of approval.

‘Didn’t Bullinger say in Babies are the Future’s Lovers that they need a crib to establish groundedness as an individual so that they can have meaningful and mutually beneficial relationships, because that’s definitely more important to me than how much October cries.’ A slightly plumper mom chimes in after a few seconds of reflection and sip of her cappuccino that she is drinking out of her own red, handmade mug.

‘In the preface of his new book he pretty much says that times are changing and with new times come new parenting techniques. He is just such a good writer. Sergio saw him at a book reading in Hartford. He said he is such a good guy in person.’ Guava smoothie retorts firmly but calmly.

‘Jen will go to a baby-retreat Bullinger is hosting next month in Vermont, I cannot believe she found tickets. It’s a weekend of total infant bonding and education.’ A mom with a French accent says,  she has bright red curly hair to her shoulders and has a double shot of espresso with nutmeg and a slight pour of condensed milk, but she hasn’t drank any of it yet.

‘Where is Jen anyways? She wasn’t at baby yoga this morning either.’ Guava smoothie inquires to the group.

‘She said she had some extra stuff to do today on g-chat last night and that she might not make it, I think she is still trying to get pre-school in order.’ Cappuccino in mug says. The mention of pre-school clearly raises the cortisol levels in the mom-posse.

‘She is sooo sweet, I always miss her when she’s not here.’ Another mom, with Asian style bangs and green tea says, in hopes to diffuse the tension that is clearly building. All the moms agree.

Meanwhile, Jen is back at her Brownstone on 8^th Avenue, with her baby strapped to her chest and a smartphone up to her head. She appears disheveled.

‘No I will not fucking wait, I was waiting 8 minutes ago, I waited on Tuesday when I called and you fucking dipshits did absolutely nothing to help me!’ A pause for a moment

‘No, that is total bullshit, me and my husband timed it, we waited 13 fucking minutes, and we ended up not making it to our reservations at our favorite Thai restaurant on time, and we didn't get complementary ice teas and we were the fucking laughing stock of Park Slope.’

‘What do you mean? Ugghhh! You are a total fucking moron, how about you go fuck yourself and I speak to your boss?!’

‘Well then let me talk to your boss’s boss, because you obviously have no fucking clue and no power or responsibility. Jesus fucking Christ, why don’t you just work at Dunkin Donuts if you don’t give a shit about ever moving forward?’

‘No, that is unacceptable. I will stay on this phone until I have a satisfactory resolution, you fucking peon.’ As she finishes, she jostles the baby strapped to her chest to comfort it.

‘Alright good.’

‘Heeey Tony, this is Jen Caruthers, yeah, oh I am doing great. There seems to be some kind of mix up, I received a g-mail that Lance was on the waiting list for Lundham’s Academy and I don’t see how that could be.’

‘No, no, no. The system has it wrong. His BAT scores are off the charts, he got the triangle block in the triangle hole on the first try, Tony. And my sister’s daughter Thayla went, so Lance is a legacy.’

‘That’s absurd, Lance is not a crier, he was just a little nervous at his interview and I didn’t get to breast feed him before. He just wouldn’t eat.’

‘Is there any way we could at least get a retest?’

‘No, Applingers is not a viable option, Lundham’s is perfect for Lance.’

‘Tony please.’

‘Please, there must be something you can do.’

‘Oh, Tony, this is just unfair and, and, atrocious. It’s fucking atrocious.’

‘Don’t tell me to relax, I have Lance’s future in my fucking hands.’

‘Okay, when he’s not a fully developed and expressive individual you can have that on your fucking conscience! You will be hearing from my lawyer you fucking cunt!’

She says as she slams her thumb onto the end button on the touchscreen of her phone.

Start Ups, Let-Downs, and Mergers

The Barclay’s arena had arrived in Brooklyn; the neighborhood was polarized. The yuppies and weekend hipsters who lived in Park Slope that were there for the schools and laid back neighborhood feel were upset about the gentrification. The Brooklynites were happy to have Brooklyn back on the map and new jobs; most of them weren’t alive when the Dodgers left Brooklyn for sunny Southern California, and unemployment has been an issue as of late. I think the stadium looks cool, but I hope the game traffic doesn’t interfere with my life.

It is a wet, early October day; the city feels like a soaked towel that wasn’t hung up evenly to dry—leaving it a bit damp and musty but not gross enough that it was unusable.

I love fall weather—it allows me to layer my favorite subdued-colored summer clothing under my light outerwear. I like to add a scarf sometimes with perhaps a single stripe of teal—orange is too obviously fall.

Along with the arena has come a new Atlantic train stop which allows you to avoid crossing Flatbush and Atlantic and having to walk into a giant cookie cutter shopping center to get to the Q train.

I walked down into the chic, modern, and altogether pristine underground station—it was probably the least dingy metro stop in the city, just blocks away from my apartment. Oddly, no one seemed to be using this new stop; I asked the MTA worker if the stop was open and he quickly said yes in West-African accented English and then looked back down at nothing.

I was on my way to a start-up convention to meet other pipe-dreamers like myself and maybe find some folks I could stand to work with for a few months. It may have been beginners luck, but I helped develope a guitar tuner app for Android called G-String that we ended up selling something like 6.2 million of, plus got another 8 million downloads of the free version with ads. The last two attempts, Qucklit (a micro literature reddit style app) and Jokesters (a social app for comedians that allowed for joke exchange), had both flopped. I was still living off my wonderfully simple and useful G-String which made me just enough money to continue the lifestyle I became accustomed to—for another 6 months or so… ‘It’s crunch time’ as they say.

The new, shiny, futuristic station conjured up images of a perfect, sunny, colorful utopia—like the future of ‘Back to the Future: part II,’ a movie I watched probably 35 times as a child. It was eerily empty, though. Only 2 other people were waiting for the Q; they were both sitting on opposite sides of a brushed aluminum bench near the track.

The guy on the left was a muscular black man with a bold pinstripe suit and a bolder red satin tie—he looked like a football commentator or a mayoral candidate from a second tier city.

The guy on the right was a skinny, crater faced and scruffy white man wearing an old sweatshirt emblazoned with Cedar Point across the chest as if it was a top tier university.

It was a five person bench, so I sat down in the middle seat, maintaining an appropriate bubble of personal space on either side. I soon became involved in both of their lives.

‘Lohn, I’m sorry but that’s fucking bullshit, you know how much I have busted my ass these last two years. We all had shitty quarters, even Apple had a shitty quarter.’ The Black man said in polished Midwestern standard English seemingly to himself but in actuality to a 140 dollar Bluetooth device in his ear. Apparently this new station has cell phone service.

‘Lord, I have told you a million times, the procedures are a due process of strict adherence. We must settle the scores and articulate your greatness to all of mankind.’ The crusty white guy said seemingly to a god but in actuality to himself, some consonants not articulated fully because of missing teeth.

‘We have a second kid on the way, you can’t do this to me, Lohn. I’m going to have to move Briggson out of the best school in the city if you let me go. Can’t I go on some kind of probation or something, I’ve never even gotten a warning.’ Briggson is a great son of yuppie name, all the more hilarious because he’s black.

‘The time will come when testifying to the lord is all that we can do, as the procedures dictate. Once we have lost all then we can truly give ourselves to you, Lord. I ask you please to fulfill the duties that I have read and read and read.’ I liked the strain of Buddhism that popped up in that exclamation.

‘Thanks, Lohn—but that doesn’t really help me right now. I appreciate your honesty but I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do now.’

‘Thanks Lord, you tell me of the great and glorious kingdoms that await for the righteous, and I tell you of the love I have in this realm, in this mirror of heaven.’

The light peaked out from the curve in the tunnel and a rumble became audible.

‘Well I’m heading into the city right now, I guess I’ll try and close up this last deal for you, but I don’t really see why I would.’ A listening pause. ‘Alright thanks,’

‘And here comes thee great grace, I thank you for your leadership and I will give you all my courage.’

As the train pulled up in front of us, the black man pulled out his Bluetooth, muttered ‘fuck,’ and walked onto the train, the back of his pinstriped suit a bit wrinkled from the stressful writhing he was doing during his phone conversation.

When I got on the train behind the business man, I looked back and saw that crusty old white guy was not getting on.

The Coffee Shop Business

It was not my dream to own a fucking coffee shop. It was not my dream to see my fucking town—my beautifully simple town—turn into a fucking tourist trap.

I have lived in Goa for all 42 years of my life, and I have watched the trash, both literally and figuratively, from the rest of the world come in and pollute my home. Goa is not India, Goa is Goa. We didn’t want the Portuguese to leave, we liked what we had going; we had a perfect blend of Mediterranean simplicity and South Asian wisdom.  Now it’s a bunch of fucking Indians and Russians and whoever else on holiday dirtying our beaches with plastic bags and semen.  My kids can’t even ride their bikes on the street, like I did, without running the risk of some coked up, tripping, novice motorbiking piece of shit running them over .

My family sold our cashew farms, in part because of me. I didn't want to be a farmer and my dad knew it; I wanted to be a business man. I wanted to jet around the world, adorn my body with precious metals, and fuck lots of white women, all of which require a lot of money—more than cashews can provide. Now, instead of lamping in the Hamptons and falling in love in Paris and Moscow, I am selling coffees to Indians and foreigners at prices that equate to daily wages a block down the street.

I make enough to drive a decent car and keep my family in utilities, but I will never get over the fact that I have failed as a business man; I have not, and never will, achieve my dreams.

A commercial came on this morning that ruined my day. It was for Tata cars, or Kingfisher Air, or Johnson and Johnson—I can’t remember; but it featured a father working in Dubai and face chatting on an iPad with his 9 year old son. First of all, I want to be working in fucking Dubai; second of all, all I have is a fucking daughter, and she is so fat and ugly that I am probably going to have to spend half my bank account to get somebody to marry her; and thirdly, I was an early adopter, and my fucking iPad 1 doesn’t have video chat capability.

I thought about this while I had my morning tea, I thought about this on the drive to the coffee shop, I thought about this as I walked into the colorful and joyous hell hole I was the owner of.

And now this fuckhead waiter’s drawer is 200 rupees short.

I visit my place twice a week, and make sure the numbers are what they need to be; they are pretty good this week, but this motherfucker has somehow lost almost 2 coffees worth of rupees in the 2 hours the store has been open.

I can’t hold it in, plus I pay more than anybody else around so I can get away with letting loose on my workers. I scream at him. I call him a piece of shit peon. I call him the laziest Indian alive. I say his mother did a shit job of raising him. I say his father set a bad example for him. None of these words are making me feel better, though; the rage is still boiling up in me. I grab his arm and squeeze; he jumps back. I almost slap him. I have to keep my cool though, the foreigners are all looking now. I tell him to go to the utility closet. He doesn’t want to. I threaten to fire him. He contemplates this and ultimately hangs his head and drags his feet towards the closet.

I follow afterwards, put him over my knee, and spank the fuck out of him. For about 3 minutes I channel all the rage inside me into the palm of my hand. By the end of the spanking session I feel much better, and I feel as though I can make it at least one more week in the coffee shop business.

Milk to Ice Cream

As I drive my 30 year-old, 3-wheeled, rusty ice cream cart down a busy Bangkok road, I look over at my daughter Liu every chance I get. She looks almost just like her mother, Milk, did-- minus the little bits of me, that is.

Big light brown eyes, high cheeks, little chin, electrifying smile, eyebrows angled like she’s angry even when she’s happy.

I miss Milk every day, every hour… nearly every minute. Thankfully I have Liu, a constant reminder of the woman I loved until I couldn’t love anymore.

I went to Thailand looking for a good time. I was 24 then and I worked remotely, so the cheap, fun living was appealing. I could dress nicely, pamper myself, and have a truly decent place on my modest salary as an editor.

One Friday night I met up with a few Thai friends. They took me to a fancy club that I could barely afford; but beautiful women gravitate towards high drink prices, so I suppose you get what you pay for. On my way back from the bathroom I bumped into Milk, and it was actually an accident (unlike so many other girls I had bumped into intentionally to start conversation). She turned around to identify the assailant, and I bowed quickly to apologize. It was probably my improper, awkward bow that made her smile, but as she did it seemed like they cut the lights on in the club, it was like that first hit of bright colors you get 30 minutes after popping good E, like a 4^th of July finale. We both suddenly burst into laughter.

We exchanged eye contact another 10 or 20 times from across the room over the next hour, smiling each time even more than before. Her eyes were like the sun before it sets—beautiful and easy and calming and inspiring, and then they would be gone, and I would be left with the reminder of the beauty on the horizon. I hate myself for it, but I can’t remember quite how they looked, and my eye shape shows too much on Liu for her eyes to make me melt the way Milk’s did.

I looked over at her again and she was leaving. I got one of my friends to come with me, in case she didn’t speak English. We stumbled through the packed crowd that was jumping up and down to a Thai band on the other side of the club. I got out the door and scanned the groups of high society Bangkok youth smoking cigarettes and mingling. I found her. I ran to her like a fool in love. I told her my name. I did everything in my power to make her smile. If her eyes were a sunset, her smile was like the clean shallow Southern Thai ocean below it— beautiful and dazzling and refreshing and invigorating, but unlike the eyes, I can remember every millimeter of that smile, every slight gap, every crease in her lips.

I gave her my number and I told her that she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She called me the next day.

Public affection must be done covertly in Thailand. I would love to take taxis with her; she would sit in the middle in the backseat, always much closer than she needed to be. Her smooth soft thighs would get me hard instantly when she pressed them up against my denim covered legs, the smell of her expensive shampoo would make me relax my shoulders, her shoulder touching mine would feel like a prayer; I hadn’t turned Buddhist at that point, so cab rides were the extent of my spirituality.

When she became aroused, her armpits would release strong odors that stung my nostrils; it was always clear to me when she was turned on. She also had a special smell when she was ill; it seemed to come out of every pore on her body. I hated it when she got the flu, I could smell her nausea. She pointed out to me after the fourth time we slept together that we had the same body odor. It was true. I thought it was odd that two people, born as far away as two people could be born from each other, had identical smells. The one thing I don’t hate about myself is my smell, because I can smell my armpits after a day out in the heat and it will bring me back to her for a moment.

Her spoken English was poor, but she could understand most of what I said, as long as I kept it simple. This meant unnecessary babble was kept to a minimum. It made me realize how over-intellectualized my past romances were. No longer was I trying to say things I thought would impress her, I was trying to do things to make her love me.

She would always say ‘yeah’ with enthusiasm, and more high pitched than any other words, and she would add the falling tone of ‘chai’ (yes in Thai) to it. It would always make me chuckle. I hate myself for not recording it.

After 2 years of perpetual visitations to Thailand, I loved her more than ever. Her English was better, and my Thai existed. Every time we were together I felt a rush I hadn’t felt since middle school (perhaps in a movie theater inching my hand towards a female partner, praying she wouldn’t pull away). I remember still, 2 years later, feeling tingles run down my neck every time a finger-tip made contact with her smooth, tattooed back, or her arms and legs with their blonde hair that caught the light when she was outside.

I was skeptical of Thai girls’ fidelity at the time—and still am for that matter—which is why I always wore a condom for the first few years. She had had a tumor in her uterus when she was 18, and the chances of her having kids were low, but I didn’t want to risk disease, and it was cleaner that way, and I never had a problem coming with her, condom or not.

On my 9^th visit in 2 years I applied for a long term Visa and it was approved. I bought a one bedroom condo at a fancy place in Ekkamine; I would have been happy somewhere cheaper, but status was important to her, so I suppose it was important to me too.

She kept a bedroom at her mother’s house, but her mother hated her—she looked just like her drunk of a father who had run off to the North to start a new life, and her mother resented her for it. No matter how much I insisted, I never got to meet her mother, until the funeral.

One night, 3 years after I first met her, as I reached over to my bedside table for an American condom I had shipped to me by a friend, she grabbed my arm and pulled my hand back. Then, she moved her leg down, lying flat on the bed, exposing the scars from her tumor removal, something I had only had brief glances of in the past—she had always artfully used a sheet or a leg or something else to cover the scars in well-lit situations. She looked up at me over top of her with no smile whatsoever, her mouth small and pouting and her eyes bigger than ever. She nodded yes.

36 days later, I found out I was going to be the father of a miracle child. I accidently got drunk the night she told me the news; I forgot to keep count of how many scotch and sodas I had had. At the time I could only think of how happy I was with myself—I knew for the first time, unequivocally, that I didn’t shoot blanks.

Me, the flaky ex-pat white guy, was going to be a dad… I was going to start a family in a Bangkok apartment.

I spent the pregnancy doing my best not to drink, and keeping Milk from smoking. Her petite little body was magical with that round, taught belly. I hate myself for not taking photos of her naked and pregnant; I remember telling her it was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen (and I remember meaning it) but I can’t remember the exact shape.

Then Liu came, during a rainstorm in August. Like every man before me who looked down at their own baby, I knew what life was—for a split second.

Now, 8 years, 3 months, and 12 days later, I have an 8 year old daughter smiling at me every time I get a chance to peek over at her, just like her mother would smile at me when I would get a chance to glance at her before.

I don’t use a computer anymore; I mostly spend my time with Liu. We sell ice cream in the day and flowers at night. She’s a great saleswoman, like her mother; she knows when to joke, knows when to be firm, and knows just what to charge people. I’ve never been good at that part of business, I’m a visionary type; the second someone tells me about their troubles I cave and give them my products at cost. Not Liu, though; she’s cut throat. I don’t know how she does it, but it’s good for business.

While Liu is at school, I go to meditate. It’s the only time I ever get moments where Milk isn’t the foundation of my consciousness. It seems I love her more since she has been gone; my mind has since created an image of her that has no flaws, not that she had many in reality—but then again reality is an illusion that I create, so who knows what her flaws really were.

I thought we would be together forever. I dove into our love without any thought that the lake might dry up. Now she is a bitter and constant reminder that nothing is forever. I hate myself for being such a fool; I would have skipped the gym sessions and the day trips without her had I known I only had 7 years, 3 months, and 21 days with her.

I do my best to spread an appreciation for joy and death through my business; no one buys flowers or ice cream because they are going to last—they buy them to please themselves and others in the short term. They buy them to begin a night of romance, or to give as a gift to a meaningful host; they buy them to share with those they care about, or just to make the moments we have together more enjoyable.

I have taught Liu all of this. She is already a better Buddhist than me.

If life is suffering, then I sure am living.

I will never—and I mean never—be able to rid myself of all desire, though. No matter what, I am always going to desire that beautiful, petite, big eyed Thai girl that made me so mad with love that I changed all my plans (or actually made plans for once); that girl that was my world one day, and then gone from this planet so suddenly the next.

So now here I am, a man without a country, a man without his woman, a man without any chance of attaining enlightenment.

The only thing I have left is my daughter, and the little bit of Milk in her.

Addiction and Living Like a Douche

I still remember the first time I tried it; it was about 5:15 in the afternoon in June. I had just gotten back from work; my clothes still smelled like fryer grease. People had told me about it before but I didn’t think it was for me. But I tried it, nonetheless. Before I knew it, it was 6. I remember thinking to myself that it was the best 45 minutes I’d ever had in my life; I wasn’t worried about anything; I wasn’t challenged; I was totally and utterly numb; numb to the world, numb to my inner feelings, numb to everything that made my anxiety bubble up. The best part was that I felt great afterword. I had things to say to others, I could finally connect with someone. I even met Danielle because of it. I would sit with her and we would just turn off. Then afterwards I would have the best sex of my life, it inspired me to do so.

I was an addict; I was addicted to Jersey Shore.

I wanted it all the time; I wanted it more than I have ever wanted anything. But I realized: it doesn’t last; I never felt the same way the second time around, it never hit me as hard; I was never as fulfilled by a re-run.

I started watching during season 2, so I had a back catalogue to rely on. I bought the DVDs so I could see the special features. I bought a flat screen so I could see the imperfections on The Situation’s face better, I swore I could get more girls then him; Danielle would assure me it was so.

It became less of a “me and Danielle” thing and more of a “me” thing; I would tell Danielle I wasn’t in a Jersey Shore mood and when she would go to bed I would watch an episode. Me, the couch, underwear, and a big ol’ pile of Jersey Shore in front of me, god it was beautiful.

I started realizing there wasn’t much Jersey Shore left when they all started becoming re-runs; something had to be done to stretch out my waning supply.

That was when I started cutting it down; I would watch more commercials, stop the show and channel surf, whatever to draw it out; 42 minutes of Jersey Shore could now give me a fix from 2 to 4am, I had it made.

This was when Danielle left me; now I was all alone to indulge in Jersey Shore on my time.

One day, while I was at my job, a customer asked me to hold the Mayo.

“How about you go f*** yourself and hold THIS you f***ing grenade!” It just came out; I was fired.

Being fired had never felt so good; I had found my bliss; I had found out how to never be short on Jersey Shore; I didn’t just have to WATCH Jersey Shore, I could BE Jersey Shore.

I sold my Plasma Screen; the money covered 6 months at a gym and tanning salon, I got the premium package.

I started skipping lunch for a new wardrobe; fitted hats and club shirts may be expensive, but the tank-tops kept the average price of gear down.

I started practicing my accent and my behavior; it’s tougher to be totally inconsiderate than one would think, but I started getting the hang of it.

I got a tattoo; where my bush once was there is now waxed smooth skin with the letters DTF in old English script.

I got a new girlfriend; she has melanoma, but she knows how to party.

I moved to a new house; it doesn’t have electricity in 3 rooms, but there is a hot tub in back.

Never have I been so happy in my life. The Hydroxy cut is really taking hold and my abs have never been tanner. I have a reason to wake up in the morning, I have a philosophy, I have something to stand for. I see people walking around so lost, so confused, so unsure; I am confident, I know what is what, and I am in love with who I have become; I can just look in the mirror and get off.

Before you criticize me and label me as a “douche” or a “Guido” or whatever you may call me, remember that I have a brain, I just choose not to use it; I have class, but I disregard it in the name of a good time; I respect women that deserve respect, I just choose not to interact with those types of women and therefore from afar it may seem I’m misogynistic; I have manners, I just think they keep me from enjoying myself. After all, aren’t we here to make our dopamine fire as much as possible? All I ask is that the next time you judge, remember that I’m being what I love and I am living the Jersey Shore Life, because I am an addict.