Novel Excerpt #2 (from part III)

My dearest Alexander, my only grandchild who hasn't been corrupted by modern liberalism, or by elitist academic pursuit, or by political correctness, or by cultural relativism - my only remaining relative with a shred of hope and a chance for true success.  You are now becoming a man, shedding the chrysalis of childhood, of ignorance.  I hope this letter will inspire you to reconsider the world you find yourself in, and to make profitable decisions in the near future.  I intend to tell you the truth, as best I can, about what matters, and about the world as I have come to know it, and about the wisdom I have gained through my experiences.  You, Alexander, hold the key to your own salvation.  I aim to make this key more visible, more accessible.  Freedom and power are just at your eager finger tips, just within your reach.  I was once a boy, like you, as strange as that may seem, but I have very few remaining memories from that era.  In hindsight I have realized it was of little importance.  I was a young and naive idealist, yet I espoused fate rather than free will.  But the world is indifferent toward the destiny of mortals such as you and I.  It is through a divine source, which enshrines the judgement and guidance we so desperately crave, that we may harness our gift of free will, and utilize it to our ultimate advantage.  You see, my beloved Alexander, I have lived a long and purposeful life, but this saga could have been shrewdly derailed at any moment, especially during my late adolescent years, the crucial period you are now faced with. 

Novel Excerpt #1 (from part III)

While vacationing in Vienna, just prior to the First World War, I was in close contact with an up-and-coming spy by the name of Mr. Allen Dulles.  The young man had a promising future, and I intended to steer him in the right direction.  Presenting myself as a wise and admirable mentor, I took this feeble lad - this warm body with gestating potential - under my wing, later utilizing him as a loyal pawn at the Office of Strategic Services.  There was a certain unforgettable day, during the early stages of Project Paperclip, after I had arranged a meeting between a then middle-aged Dulles and former SS general Karl Wolff.  These stalwart gentlemen were in high spirits when they finally joined forces to discuss a cessation of hostilities in Italy.  Enthusiastically, I served the two of them countless portions of fine Scotch whiskey, allowing them to laugh heartily, kick up their feet, and bond like brothers in front of a fierce, glowing fireplace.  I recall retreating to the shadows for what seemed like hours, lurking there in a dark, forgotten corner of the room, observing the interaction from afar.  Suddenly, the men smiled maniacally and conducted a proud and brazen handshake, bellowing in agreement while maintaining a piercing eye contact.  A wave of euphoria swept over me - I made this happen! I thought.  And at that moment I realized the crisp American uniform adorning my naive protege became obsolete, losing all previously perceived significance.  I leaned in closer, towering over Dulles while gazing into those hypnotic flames, imagining myself perched on his shoulder, plunging my talons into him before devouring his flesh.  The power I wielded over him was like that of a predator over his prey.

Charlie's Apartment

 On July 5^th, in the Year of Our Lord two-thousand and fourteen, the following was written in the diary of one Charlie Chambers:

I got a text message from a friend this morning.  It was Chloe.  She misses me.  Probably in a platonic way.  I said I miss her too, but I don’t really.  If she’d been sleeping with me, maybe I’d miss that.  The text just said, “I miss you Charlie!  Hope you’re having a nice day!”  I hate it when people call me Charlie.  It reminds me of Charlie Brown, or Charlie's Angels or maybe a Charlie-horse.  People called me Charlie when I was a kid, and I guess I had no choice.  Now people ask me if they can call me Charlie.  I say I prefer Charles.  I like to think I'm someone more distinguished, like Charles Dickens, or Charles Darwin, or Charles Manson.  Turns out my parents named me after Charlie Chaplin.  Well, actually it was my mother's idea.  I didn't think to ask her until I was fourteen, about a year before the accident.  Of course, his first name was really Charles.  My mother, Margaret, was always obsessed with cinema, theater, poetry, literature, art – really any form of creative expression.  Chaplin was one of her favorites. 

Chloe is technically just a friend.  But her sweet eyes are like the sun, maybe a solar eclipse, or an atomic bomb blast swallowing up a million unsuspecting indigenous peasants.  She walks the earth like them – inquisitive, but more naïve and optimistic.  The point is that it’s tough to look directly into her eyes without getting an intensely warm yet uncomfortable feeling.  I’ve always wanted to make love to her.  Really, always.  Even when she had a boyfriend.  Monogamy is such an absurd cultural construct.  If you’re into stereotypes, Chloe is a neo-hippie alternative girl who is always reading poetry and talking about her horoscope and spirits and dream interpretations and chakras and all sorts of abstract, bastardized aspects of Eastern culture.

I met someone new the other day - Nicolette.  We got coffee – I paid for hers – and took a nice walk down by the river.  We went out on the dock, and I thought about what it would be like to drown, or to drown someone else.  Just to hold them under until they stopped struggling.  I wondered how many spontaneous murders have taken place, and how many have never been discovered.  We ended up having conversations about existentialism and monotheism and sports.  I really hate talking about religion, but she brought it up.  I wondered how long it would be before I slept with her.  Maybe a week or so.  

Nicolette is almost too smart for me, but I am probably more witty than her.  I’m also more unconventional.  My complete apathy toward sports is a decent example of that.  But also my atheism, which I regret using as part of my identity.  Let me clarify that: I regret the fact that our society rewards credulity, superstition, and fear.  My parents never mentioned any deities or barbaric fairy tales while I was growing up, and I don’t think such ideas would have occurred to me naturally.  My father was a marine, then a police officer.  My mother raised me, and then became a librarian.  They were patriotic Americans, and they didn’t need some ideological crutch to comfort them.  I intend to carry on their legacy.

On this aforementioned day, Charlie was alone, casually milling around his apartment with no specific plans.  He was cleaning things that didn’t need to be cleaned and organizing things that were already in order.  He was paging through books he had already read.  Many of Charlie’s friends said he was obsessive-compulsive, but he often insisted that he just liked to be organized – to know where everything in his apartment was located.  It was true, after all, that Charlie took great care to maximize the cleanliness and efficiency of his living space.  His dishes were done in a timely manner, and a full trash bag never remained on the premises for more than twenty-four hours.  The floors were swept and mopped at least twice each week.  His closet was arranged according to the color of the article, and his books were arranged by genre.  His pocket items (wallet, cigarettes, lighter, lip balm, eye drops, cell phone) were neatly placed on the windowsill in his bedroom.  Charlie sometimes wrote himself notes in order to remember his priorities, but he came up with another method for certain reminders.  Since everything was usually in such immaculate order, he always noticed if something was out of place.  He realized that if he purposely misplaced an item, it could represent a component of some unspoken “to do” list.  For instance, when he ran out of a certain spice or condiment he turned the receptacle upside-down.  A few weeks earlier, when his supply of coffee had been nearly depleted, Charlie opted to move his coffee maker a few inches forward from the wall.  The next day, he immediately noticed this atrocity, and promptly went to the store to purchase another bag of coffee.  On the topic of caffeine, Charlie had had his fair share of stimulants that day.  During his usual breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee, Charlie washed down an amphetamine tablet with a pint of orange juice.  Around 1:00 p.m., he cut up a small line of cocaine with his credit card and snorted it with a rolled twenty-dollar bill.

Charlie noticed The Tibetan Book of the Dead sitting on his dresser.  He picked it up and began perusing.  Before long, Charlie began thinking about all the people he had known over the years who had died.  He counted thirteen.  But then his mind began to wander, and he entertained the possibility that he may have interacted with others who are also now dead.  Maybe dozens more.  Out of all the people he’s greeted in passing, briefly made eye contact with while waiting in line at the bank or the supermarket, how many more are now decaying mounds of flesh and bone trapped in the cold ground?

The fact that Charlie’s thoughts were so vehemently drifting toward the macabre was no coincidence; this day marked the six-year anniversary of an incident that would live in infamy.  Charlie himself had little or no recollection of what had transpired that day, only the mundane details of the events leading up to the accident.  Charlie was fifteen years old and had recently obtained a temporary driver’s license after completing his driver’s education course.  It was a Saturday evening - July 5^th to be exact - and the Chambers family was headed to the movie theater, in a way attempting to continue the exciting yet serene spectacle of flashing lights from the previous evening.  But this satin white Subaru Outback, this specific vessel of transit, was stopped short of its destination.    

Uncle Jack, a greasy and corny man whom Charlie never really cared for, was towering over him as he awoke to a painful new reality in a sterile hospital bed.  Surprisingly, Charlie only suffered a mild concussion, a fractured collarbone, three fractured ribs, a sprained left wrist, and substantial bruising.  After attempting to comfort his nephew, Jack relayed the details of the crash, often rolling his glassy eyes upward, striving to recall what the officer had said.  According to Jack, the family was traveling down a rather curvy stretch of County Road “A” a few miles south of town, when Charlie swerved sharply, attempting to avoid a collision with an intoxicated driver who had crossed over the dividing line and into their lane.  His father was in the passenger seat, and his mother was sitting directly behind his father.  Their car collided into the approaching vehicle with the passenger side facing forward, causing the parents to be killed instantly.  After all these years, Charlie still feels guilty about how it happened and he wonders if, within that split-second, he made a conscious decision to spin the wheel to the left.  Did he purposely sacrifice the lives of his beloved parents to save his own?  This is what has been on Charlie’s mind.  This is why he has become increasingly nihilistic, distraught, cynical, and jaded.  He doesn’t know why he did what he did.  He wants to believe he would have traded his own life to save his parents (or other loved ones, for that matter), but he is uncertain, and that uncertainty only adds to his sense of meaninglessness and insignificance.  An outside observer might conclude that Charlie has gradually attempted to fill the void left by the loss of his parents with drug binges, promiscuous sex, creative expression, and other forms of indulgence.  Now that he is twenty-one years old, he more often than not adds alcohol to the mix.  One might disapprove of this cathartic path, including the manner in which this young man has been squandering both his potential as well as the funds he received from his parents’ life insurance policy.  His actions may seem sleazy, especially when taking into account the fact that Charlie had promised many of his family members and friends that he would use the money for his college education.

Charlie’s only concrete memory regarding that fateful drive was the song “Strange Magic” by the Electric Light Orchestra playing on the radio.  The song was still playing in Charlie’s head when he awoke, but it was faded, illusory, as though it were being pumped through a seashell.  One might presume that the song took on negative connotations in Charlie’s mind following the accident.  Quite the contrary; Charlie had always enjoyed the song, and now it simply reminded him of his parents – the meals they shared while watching campy films from the 1980s, the inside jokes they cracked at holiday celebrations, the walks they took in Springtime – it did not remind him in the least of the accident.  After all, Charlie had no actual memories of the accident itself.  He found the song rather comforting.

Charlie cooked himself dinner, but shortly after dusk he had a surreal and unexplainable experience, which inspired him to converse with a certain acquaintance.

Chloe approached confidently, her black leather boots reflecting the moonlight as she strutted down the vacant sidewalk toward Charlie’s apartment.  Charlie stood outside, acting like he didn’t notice her yet.

“Oh! Hey, thanks for meeting me…” Charlie said, fumbling through his pocket to clumsily pull out a pack of cigarettes and a sky blue lighter.

            “Of course,” said a twenty-six year old woman, slender, with pale skin and hair as black as the night that surrounded her.  “What’s on your mind, cowboy?”

            “You’ve always been a good listener, and I really just wanted to tell you about something.  It happened like an hour ago.  Well…” He took a quick drag of his Lucky Strike and exhaled a burst of smoke.  “I’m pretty sure it happened.  I’m struggling to believe it…I mean, I have been a little fucked up today.  But I don’t think it was a hallucination.”  Charlie was fidgeting, sweating, and talking rather quickly.

            “Hey calm down, Charles – it’s gonna be okay,” Chloe said, in a composed and soothing tone, almost like she had previously rehearsed for that very moment.  “What happened?”

            Charlie paused, his pupils shooting around every which way, as if he were following some elusive insect.  “Have…have you ever heard the song, ‘Strange Magic’?”

            Chloe nodded.

            “I haven’t told anyone this before, but one of the last things I remember before the accident was that song playing on the radio.”

            Chloe’s demeanor changed.  She appeared genuinely concerned and sympathetic.  He didn’t talk about the accident much, but she was certainly aware of this tragic aspect of his past.  Charlie was staring directly into Chloe’s eyes.  He had become lost.  A moment later, he hastily looked downward and ashed his cigarette.

            “Anyway, I was just hangin’ out at my apartment, cookin’ some food, and I thought I heard that song playing.  I walked into the living room and it got a little louder.  Then I realized it was coming from the TV.  But here’s the thing – the TV wasn’t on!”  

            Chloe’s sea-green eyes widened with interest.  Her beautiful ivory face drew nearer as her graceful neck craned slightly.  Charlie continued explaining the occurrence, and brought up a few additional strange things he had noticed around his apartment recently.  He told Chloe a candle was once burning when he didn’t recall lighting it.  He mentioned a few items that were out of place, and he didn’t recall misplacing them.  He said he had justified these other mysterious moments to himself by assuming the drugs had significantly altered his perception of reality.

            “So… You actually believe me, or what?” Charlie tossed a mangled cigarette butt into the street.

            “Yes…”

            “Do you think someone’s just fuckin’ with me?  I don’t even know how th-”

            “No,” Chloe proudly interrupted.  “It’s them - it’s your parents!  I think they’re trying to contact you from the other side…”

            Charlie was baffled, yet skeptical.  “What other side?”  Charlie asked.  “Where do you think they are?”

            “Heaven and Hell are real, my dear.  Your parents miss you terribly!  They want you to join them…in Heaven!”

            “But how can that be?” asked Charlie.  “My parents were atheists!”

            A warm and disarming smile swept across the young woman’s face. “Ah, but the criteria for our place in the afterlife is not determined by humankind – not even by the holy texts, which were written by Man…”

            Charlie didn’t believe a word she was saying.  He was humoring her – just trying to be affable.  Maybe to flirt a little.  Still, he knew he couldn’t explain the peculiar occurrences.  They talked for another twenty minutes, and at some point Chloe said something that really stuck with Charlie:

“You seem open-minded, and I assume you describe yourself that way… This is a chance to truly embrace open-mindedness…”

And so, Charlie tentatively decided it was time to abandon the reason, logic, and secular perspective he was raised with, and embrace superstition.  It was part of his newfound narcissistic quest for “open-mindedness”.  In fact, there seemed to be evidence that such a reaction was now reasonable.  It was time to explore the realm of the soul.  One might say it’s not what his parents would have wanted – it may have seemed counter-intuitive to the ideology they espoused during life.  But one’s priorities sometimes change after death.

Charlie returned to his apartment, and though he was initially thinking about what Chloe had said, he was now involuntarily imagining her without clothing.  The mop bucket was still on the kitchen floor and Charlie decided to dump it down the drain.  As he opened the bathroom door, he paused to look at himself in the mirror.  Then, what seemed like a brisk, yet faint gust of wind suddenly engulfed Charlie’s body, sending a chill down his spine.  He abruptly spun around, eyes widened and mouth agape.

            “Chaaarles,” the voice whispered.

            Charlie was alone in his apartment.

Hannah Dolezal: Fiction/ Roast (speech transcript)

The more seasoned attendees of Dolezal Family graduation parties might know that one of the traditional themes of my speeches is a “roast”, during which I proceed to shrewdly lay waste to the past behaviors of my siblings through several pages of uncompromising text.  However, during this event, I have opted out of the roast segment of my speech.  Hannah is quite sensitive, and I wouldn’t want to make her go crying to her mommy.  Now, the more astute among you may have realized that the previous statement was actually a mild roast in disguise, so let’s proceed to the next section…
     Hannah Elizabeth Dolezal was born on May 13^th, 1996, with a haunting smile and several obnoxious microscopic holes in her heart.  During ages zero through four, Hannah served as her brother Ben's loyal companion and rag-doll.  Playing in the side yard usually ended with Hannah screaming bloody murder and Ben acting calm and vaguely confused, muttering to himself in an unknown language.  Video evidence of these events has recently surfaced, and the footage is shocking.
     Yes, those early years were dark and traumatic, but a monumental and life-changing event was just around the bend…
     On his deathbed, Albert Einstein prophesied, "One day, there will be a young girl who will possess such incalculable intelligence and creativity, those around her will be baffled and frightened.  You will identify this marvelous youngster by her first name, which will be a palindrome, and by her last name, which will be confusing and difficult to pronounce. She will suffer from a rare medical defect known as Swiss Cheese Heart. This is the girl who shall be the recipient of my secret invention, the Nuclear Fission Heart.  She will carry on my torch and become one of the most brilliant minds of the 21st century."
     On October 23, 2001, when Hannah was five, a competent team of mad surgeons at the Milwaukee Children's Hospital attempted to install the aforementioned nuclear heart into Hannah.  I remember being on the edge of my seat in the hospital with my family, hoping and praying that the operation would be successful.  Several soul-crushing hours later, Hannah miraculously emerged…as a powerful cyborg that made Dick Cheney look like a cowering rhesus monkey.
     Since the surgery, Hannah has been a lot tougher.  From that point on, she was able to keep up with Ben during all of their activities.  The arbitrary crying fits that plagued her formative years were a thing of the past.  She had conquered death, and it was time to live.
     As Hannah grew up, I first noticed her talents and intelligence through her good sense of humor, which was dark, witty, sarcastic, satirical, obscene, hyperbolic, self-deprecating, and laced with relevant cultural critiques.  And this was when she was seven years old.
     Around that time, I left for college, and Hannah continued blossoming into a lovely young woman.  I often introduced her to new and old music when I visited.  By the time I returned, Hannah was 12, and smart as a whip, just as Einstein had predicted.  She was reading and writing constantly, thriving off of her endless supply of curiosity…as well as nuclear power.
     We went on many adventures during the subsequent years, and had many good times that usually included eating delicious vegetarian food, listening to music, discussing philosophical, sociological and cultural issues, and drinking coffee.  Once, when Hannah was 15, I was somehow conned into letting her drive me to the coffee shop.  Little did I know, it was one of the first times she had ever operated an automobile.  As one might expect, she parked behind another car and proceeded to slam her foot down onto the gas pedal instead of the break.  Luckily, the car was already in park.  Sometimes, while driving to the coffee shop, a song comes on, and Hannah says, "Hey, this reminds me of your life!"  She then proceeds to chronicle stories from our past that occurred when we first used to listen to that specific music on a regular basis.  In fact, many of the times we've shared have been accentuated by a vast arsenal of music, which has become the soundtrack to our lives. 
     Now…some of you might think the fictitious section of this speech, or the “Tale of the Nuclear Heart”, was a bit strange.  Let me explain the metaphor: To me, Hannah is a superhero.  She has special gifts, she is often mysterious – lurking in the shadows of her room – and she routinely rescues us…from boredom.
     Soon, Hannah will be crossing the border of Wisconsin, into the treacherous land of Minnesota, enthusiastic and naive, like a deer crossing the highway, in search of greener pastures. 
      I’ll miss you, sister, and I wish you the best of luck.

"A" is for Audrey

Audrey was despondent.  Better days had come and gone, and this formerly blissful waitress had developed a bleak outlook.  Cinnamon and ginger filled the air - scents that were known to please most patrons, but not her - not anymore.  During her break, Audrey pondered all the dreams she had as a child, all the goals and fantasies she had not yet accomplished.  Eventually the sentiment became ominous, as though the weight of reality was crushing her, pummeling her sore feet into the tiled floor.  Feeling a bit light-headed, Audrey reached for a dark pint glass filled with carbonated water and corn syrup.  Grasping the receptacle were long, elegant fingers, parched from bleach water, with chipped burgundy nails.  Her hand shook lightly as she tilted the black liquid against her glistening red lips.  It was two in the afternoon and the lunch rush seemed to be dying down. 
    "Just one more hour," she thought, attempting to envision the end of another stressful and oppressive shift. 
    "Keep on keeping on, and it'll be over before you know it." 
    Luscious blonde curls bounced freely just above her petite shoulders as she walked briskly toward a table of new patrons.
    Morning came early, and Audrey did not feel adequately rested.  Noisy traffic and chirping birds suddenly infiltrated her bedroom window, along with the piercing high-pitched laughter of children outside.  On her way to work, Audrey stopped at the diner for some breakfast and coffee.  Perusing the dining room quickly, Audrey chose a booth next to the window facing 5th Avenue, and sat down without removing her sunglasses or her zebra-print jacket.  Questions about her past randomly loomed in her mind, many of them regarding squandered potential and fading dreams.  Right when Audrey was about to open the menu, she was startled by a sudden blur of motion in her periphery.   Someone flew down the the isle in an obvious hurry, swiftly dropping a small brown package on Audrey's table.  The man was exiting through the back door by the time Audrey came to her senses and swung her head around to look.  Unaware of what had transpired, Audrey instinctively lifted a folded corner of brown paper to reveal a neat stack of one-hundred dollar bills, about three inches thick.  Vivid images of exotic beaches, pristine waterfalls, and infinite freedom immediately filled her mind, replacing the dismal contemplations of the previous moment.  With an indescribable warmth welling up inside of her soul - some perfect mixture of excitement, adrenaline, happiness, and confusion - Audrey immediately buried the package in her purse and headed for the front door.  Xanax and spare change rattled against the newfound parcel within Audrey's purse, as she dashed toward a parked taxi.
    "You said it was on first street," a young woman barked into her cell phone as she clumsily barged into the diner.  Zebra stripes adorned the women's jacket, and her curly blonde hair, much like Audrey's, bounced freely just above her shoulders as she sat down at a booth next to the window facing 5th Avenue.

Journal Entry 12/12/13

I keep feeling like small tasks are urgent.  I need to read a book immediately.  Or I need to clean my apartment before I can do anything constructive.  I need to find a better job, or figure out what big step I'm going to take next in life.  I just turned 30.  Time is running out.  Or is it?  Maybe I'm a late bloomer, and my fame and fulfillment are just around the bend.  One thing I've been wanting to do lately is write more often.  You know, just to get my thoughts out - to clear my mind.  And one of the things I've wanted to write about, briefly, is my first memory.  Well, it's not one specific memory, but my initial realization of a tangible reality.  I remember where I lived when I was two years old.  I didn't necessarily know it was Kaukauna, WI, but I knew about the friendly old man at the end of the block who entertained me with his parrot quite often.  I knew the calming sensation of hanging out with my parents in our attic (though I somehow have no recollection of the lower floor(s)).  I knew the girl across the street, Erica, and I remember the swing set behind her house, as well as the layout of the kitchen which one could enter from the back yard.  There.  Now that I've written down my first memories, they will forever be preserved.  And during the years and decades since these preliminary memories, I have documented many more in writing.  Maybe not enough, but a substantial amount.  When I occasionally go back to peruse my journals, I am sometimes captivated and enthralled by the excavation of forgotten memories - memories I may never have revisited.  Events buried by time and age and distraction.  Do yourself a favor; next time you have a compelling experience, write an account of it.  Or dictate it to an audio recording device (which I have also found helpful at times).  Include as many details as possible.  How did you feel?  Who was with you?  What did they say?  What was the weather like?  Describe the room, the mountain, the water, the sand.  Explain the context, the relationships, the idiosyncrasies.  Be a biographer, a historian, an omniscient fly on the wall.  Maybe a decade from now, you'll stumble across this personal artifact.  Maybe two decades.  The enjoyment gained from reading it will easily be worth the trouble it took to write it.  

Benjamin Dolezal: Fiction/ Roast

Hello.  I’m Ben's older brother Matt.  As an introduction and disclaimer, I’d like you all to be aware that I have written and performed monologues for my two other younger brothers during their respective high school graduation parties, and those speeches were based on the theme "Fiction/ Roast".  Anyone who knows me well knows how much I value tradition.  Therefore, I have attempted to construct this narrative in a format and style as true to the originals as possible, as though this were the third installment in a trilogy.

            In good conscience, I feel I must be perfectly honest on one subject:  Unlike his two older brothers Adam and Luke, Benjamin did not work for the CIA.  He did, however, hold a brief desk job at the FBI, until he was put on probation and later fired for taking J. Edgar Hoover's name in vain.  But that’s neither here nor there. 

            Let’s just start at the beginning.  The year was 1994.  On January 1^st, president Clinton passed the North American Free Trade Agreement, eventually resulting in a net loss of more than 600,000 American jobs.  In April, one Kurt Cobain, front-man of the popular rock band Nirvana, was found dead with an apparent self-inflicted gun shot wound.  In June, Microsoft announced it would no longer sell or support the MS-DOS operating system apart from Microsoft Windows.  Indeed, the year seemed rather dark and bleak, until, on August 11^th, a precious ray of sunshine was bestowed upon the unsuspecting city of Appleton, Wisconsin.  Its name was Benjamin Michael Dolezal.

            This vaguely humanoid entity quickly evolved into an enthusiastic ball of soft flesh, whose endearingly flamboyant lisp put his sexual orientation in jeopardy for years to come.  Since the amalgam of his anatomy constituted a loosely spherical form, Ben was quite the tough and durable little runt, and wasn't afraid to get rowdy with his older siblings.  Declassified video evidence has depicted Benjamin and I engaging in various forms of tomfoolery, most of which were incidents of me either throwing pillows at Ben or Ben at pillows.  During such games, this eager little rascal would squeal with glee, like a naive pig awaiting slaughter.  Ben's tolerance for pain still amazes me, and to this day I only recall him crying on two occasions, neither of which resulted from physical injury (unless you count his broken heart of 2008).

            In addition to invincibility, another quality Ben developed during his formative years was a capacity for eccentric storytelling.  This skill was largely inspired by the "half an hour movies" he would avidly watch as a young lad.  At age 3, Ben gave a lecture on the socio-political implications and gender-role issues of the 1939 film "The Wizard of Oz".  The talk became one of the most cited sources in graduate dissertations nationwide.  Ben later became a brilliant purveyor of prose, and is now a dedicated connoisseur of history.

            Today, Ben’s myriad interests include art, woodworking, reading, writing, history, video games, music, and god only knows what else.  He even taught me how to play guitar, which really paid off when our hit single “Emiliano Zapata” climbed to the top of the Mexican pop charts.

            Of course, young men around the world have come to envy the Renaissance Man Benjamin has become, but there is a lesser-known detrimental side to such vast personal enlightenment – namely, Ben occasionally lacks awareness of his surroundings.  Due to an overload of obligations, passions, hobbies, and daydreams, Ben is seldom aware of the current year, much less the month or day of the week in which he resides at any given moment.  It also goes without saying that he, in many cases, is clueless regarding what to eat, when to eat, how to prepare something to eat, and most of all, when to stop eating.

But these irrelevant facts have no place in the world of a genius.  For the world of Benjamin is filled with vivid colors racing together in enigmatic equilibrium.  It is alive with howling hoodlums, hairy hobbits, and hallowed hallways of history.  It is pulsing with catchy drum-beats, radiant organ riffs, and nostalgic folk tunes.  Benjamin’s world is a world beyond ours because it is an irresistible product of his uniquely innovative mind and his courageous spirit.

       As Benjamin is released into the wild for the first time, I’d just like to say, on behalf of everyone here, we wish you the best of luck, Ben, and we are honored to be part of your world.  Thank you.

Jonathan Clove & the Great Percolator

One summer day several years ago, while waiting at the bus stop, I spotted an eccentric figure approaching.  He held in his hand a small silver percolator, which he carelessly swung about while whistling an old Louis Armstrong tune.  I immediately recognized this man as an author, a poet, a recipient of numerous awards for masterful literature, who, through no shortage of misfortune, became a raving and disheveled hobo.  As tragedies bombarded him year after year, his incremental surrender to mental illness rendered him an outcast in his own city.  I greeted him, and mentioned that I was fond of his work.  He was noticeably impressed that I had identified him so easily, and I went on to inform him that I consider myself a writer as well.  He asked if he could hear a few of my poems, and I recited three that I had memorized.  The man remained enthusiastic, but his demeanor became calm and pleasant.  He told me I reminded him a bit of a young W.B. Yeats, and that I had great potential, and the spirit of a true visionary.  There was a brief pause, so I asked him about the coffee maker he so casually carried.  His eyes widened, and he began to chronicle this wondrous object.  The pot was allegedly an original ‪Alfonso Bialetti‬ from 1933, made in ‪Piedmont‬, Italy.  I had no way of verifying this, but his passion for this glistening item subdued my skepticism. He claimed that brewing coffee with this percolator gave him profound creativity, and lit his mind ablaze when writer's block had stifled him.  He said it brought him the words he sought - like a whirlwind of eloquent diction transported though a supernatural vessel.  The man likened this prized possession to Aladdin's magic oil lamp.  Calling it his good luck charm (as I regretfully did) would have been an understatement.  His hand jittered lightly and steadily as he held the percolator out in from of him.
    "Here," he said boldly. "It is your turn to take the torch, good sir."
    That was the last time I saw Dr. Jonathan Clove.
 

Late November

For words four words one couldn't find
So divine, the time to hide
The tiny tenacious machine
Spun through her mind

A double-helix to divide
Satin stained, it rained inside
Starless silence after the thunder
But with the power of lightning we loved her

Another did and does and so it goes
One heart stopped, and in a widower slows
Sight and sound and scent embellished
In hell that seemed a dream he relished

She built the sky, twice as bright
And in her name we shall take flight
An immaculate soul, forged in the furnace of the sun
With blessings for all, and lost memories yet to come

The Unclean Rider

Local light-skinned law enforcement
Made a quite obscene endorsement
Legislation, my dear old soul
Attempts to prevent my desire to roll

Yet I pursue The Night in my automobile
Rolling, like film on a reel
Mighty wind through locks I feel
A thunder storm in every wheel

Townsfolk gaze with greed, despair
Conquered by a steed so fair

And mouths agape at musk so rare
But I, for one, could scarcely care

Those who doubt or dare ask why
Have seldom heard an engine cry
Or pressed against a clutch so fine
Or felt a chill along their spine

For days, for weeks, for months on end
Obsession fixed on but one trend
My income now a shining heap
At last, rewards are mine to reap!

My mistress great, my maid, my wife
Agree I lead a wondrous life
Pursuing The Night from dusk 'til dawn
Indeed, I have it going on
 

The Attention Deficit Diaries (Pt. II - Merciless Lee and the Factory)

What was once the swift and graceful motion of a feathered utensil elegantly grazing the surface of hemp scrolls is now a rattling box of keys with no resemblance to a musical instrument, in appearance or in range of auditory pronouncements.  It is a sinister cackling, but it gets the job done.  Can I follow some rules and disregard others without being called a hypocrite?  Can I be spontaneous, yet  civilized?  Can my memes of expression reside somewhere between quantum physics and theocratic fascism?  Fucking Lee.  Always looking over my shoulder.  Everyone has a Lee in their life.  He's not your boss, but he keeps you in line.  He's not your boss's boss either.  He is an independent, enigmatic entity that asks you strange questions, micromanages, and frequently adjusts his glasses.  He prowls the freshly waxed, tiled halls of this stainless-steel jungle, florescent bulbs bearing down and illuminating his nitrite-pink forehead.  Compulsive profanities lurk just behind his eyes, as furry forearms sway to and fro, like those of a more rudimentary primate, an old-fashioned ape.  Lee seems vaguely inhuman, and has likely been contracted by a sub-sub-contractor.  He is a merciless mercenary.  One-hundred and twenty-three degrees Celsius.  You nervously twist your blonde, brunette, and red facial hair.  Only one piece of gum left.  You have to wait until the machine cools down to forty, so you have a few minutes to consider how many people might die today, how many will be born, how many will have profound realizations, how many will give their lives for something they believe in, and how many of them will have been wrong.  Dead wrong.  And you still have time to forget about Lee.  But I am not satisfied.  Am I being held captive by arbitrary grammatical laws?  Am I trapped in some literary Abu Ghraib?  Is this a rare and unprecedented case of Stockholm Syndrome?  Maybe if I rhyme some of the time I'll be fine...

The Vestiges of a Lucid Dream

An alleged serial killer was swiftly swinging through ironic person-sized holes in strange mechanical structures that rotated throughout a dystopian sci-fi elevator shaft in an intricate and indistinguishable pattern.  He may have been escaping from a futuristic maximum security prison, or just practicing.  This faceless antagonist had calculated the timing so precisely that he could execute this feat with ease, while others would have surely died trying.  His astounding agility and intelligence were clearly apparent.  Another scene involved the killer planning his attacks - surveying various empty houses and other buildings.  Suddenly, first person perspective was implemented, which meant I had become the killer.  Soon enough, I had the profound realization that I was innocent - that I was actually in my bed, dreaming in REM sleep.  This came as quite a relief, as I hid behind a TV, wondering if I would be able to get a few shots off without anyone seeing me.  The images in my dream began flickering, fizzling, and turning to static.  It was like the end of an ancient reel of 8 mm film, crackling as the quality ominously disintegrated.  It was the impatient pops and clicks of a needle clinging to the outer edge of a vinyl record.  I became aware that the REM stage was nearly finished, thus completing another sleep cycle.  In the distance I could hear a fan and an aquarium.  I then made the seemingly autonomous decision to depart from this nostalgic realm of fantasy and return to a warm reality, like being born again.  After all, my dreams were crumbling.  What would you have done?

Broken Body Blues

I've never been in a car accident, but this is how I imagine a victim might feel afterward.  Excessive knots ran throughout my entire back like miniature landmines, and the skin on my face had been insistently scorched by an uncompromising solar orb.  Even my scalp was unfairly and inexplicably burned, despite an ostensibly protective layer of hair.  My wrists and ankles were sore and useless, and my left shoulder was pulsing with inflammation.  So was my right forearm.  My hips and inner thighs felt as though I had narrowly escaped being drawn and quartered.  These conditions functioned as a straight-jacket, restricting my range of motion significantly.  I twisted and contorted myself, attempting another spinal adjustment, again to no avail.

Such a state of anatomical devastation had left me with additional afflictions, such as mild nausea, a complete lack of energy, and a diminished capacity to concentrate on anything beyond pain, discomfort, and frustration.  My demeanor and outlook were as cynical and pessimistic as ever.   I was frail, humble, and unmotivated.

"Whoa! You're as red as hell!" a coworker blurted out.  Evidently he was unaware that I possess both mirrors and nerves.  He was unaware that I was aware.  Either that, or he fancied himself a merchant of rhetorical statements and senseless observations.   I wanted to tell him his hair was as black as coal.

"Yeah, I got sunburned..."
 
I didn't want to be clever, or funny, or affable.  I didn't even want to be polite - I just wanted to be a ghost.  I was disoriented and half asleep.  My passion and creativity had been marginalized, in favor of a cold, apathetic gaze.  Luckily, a simple text message revived my spirits.  Damn.  Tennis is a brutal sport.

A Pleasant Distraction

Falling eyelids make time freeze
Lashes smile, a subtle breeze
Orbs at rest behind incisions
But when revealed they cause collisions

I must digress to assess
How on earth one might possess
Golden locks, legs of a goddess
A countenance so bleak and modest

And as she struts past
I find that she has
A bun in the oven
A beauty so sudden

My heart is tender, calm and coy
My mind is eager to destroy
The notion of her lips so red
Grazing mine, entwined in bed

Alas, I return from the unseen
To greet the steel of my machine
This purgatory where I work
This factory where bosses lurk

Then I remember Johnny Cash
And all the great ones from the past
Etta James and Brian Jones
Malcolm X and Al Capone

And all the books I haven't read
Every author, 'live or dead
I think of them, and I can say
My soul is fine another day

 

Haiku #2

All the crickets laugh
"A seemingly small giraffe!"
From a distant path

Haiku #1

Mao's little red book
In my glovebox, have a look!
It's my secret nook

The Benevolent Mentor

An internal battle begins
White blood cells die for my sins
An ominous crash of thunder
A torment in my chest, and under

But a cool wave makes its way inside of me
And gives my soul back to Sobriety
I was sick with a fix of childish hope
Naivety the needle, desperation the dope

Where have I been since the sun went away?
In Milwaukee, to see the Ancient of Days
A weary traveler, aged beyond his years
Yet drank more life than any of his peers

He took me in, under his wing
A weathered, feathered, leather thing
And through the skies we whirled and twirled
To see the wonders of the world

Hedonistic queens of sex
The Brontosaurus and T. Rex
Microscopic Asian germs
And enormous slimy worms

Everything in its place
Grown in time and flown through space
Turkish Bath, Barcelona Beach
I shall learn and he shall teach

Grandpa Vern is a Legend

Grandpa Vern is a legend.  He has sprinted faster than a deer, won several prestigious awards for his outstanding journalism, and once killed a deadly gorilla with his bare hands.  Or did he kill a bear with his deadly gorilla hands?  The act was conducted too quickly to tell.  In any case, Vern also served an unspecified country bravely as a Kamikaze pilot during World War II.  He has been around this world, and back.  At ninety-nine years young, Grandpa Vern is still kicking, and despite witnessing innumerable nerve-wracking sporting events, his tell tale heart is still ticking.

            Regardless of Grandpa Vern’s breathtaking history of mind-boggling accomplishments, he is really just a simple man who loves and cares for his family, his community, antique cars, and the meticulous documentation of trivial occurrences on his calendar, year after year.  But the vortex of Vern’s legacy can be found in the countless gifts, vast and subtle, that he has bestowed upon his naïve kinfolk.  Now, everyone knows that Grandpa Vern has graciously made charitable contributions to the empty pockets of his grandchildren for decades, but let’s examine the inception of this compelling tale.  First, Mr. Vernon J. Cahak gave one Sally Lindsay the gift of his hand in marriage.  After several under-the-table deals with The Stork, Vernon gave the gift of Life – three lovely children, who each stopped crying at night when given a pacifier dipped in whiskey.  Through these initially offspring, a batch of an additional 9 grandchildren later sprang forth, and so far, an additional great-grandchild has shown his bright little face.  You might think Vern had little or nothing to do with these seemingly isolated incidents of procreation, but think again.  Vern’s benevolent yet regulatory hand was guiding this process, as he kindly passed the gift of favorable genes on to each of his grandchildren. 

Yes, superior genetic makeup is but one of the many wonderful gifts Vernon has given.  These specific biological mechanisms have allowed enhanced athletic abilities, impressive writing skills, patience, understanding, eloquence, humility, a good sense of humor, or simply exhibiting symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder.  In rare cases, such as my own, a descendent might end up with all of said dominant traits (perhaps excluding one).  However, these genes may lay dormant, and may require the powerful presence of their almighty founder in order to be expressed.  Vern’s presence, which includes exposure to his uncanny wit and wisdom, allows several units of his deeply poetic phrases, peppered with his patented profanity, to be absorbed directly into the bloodstream.  As you may have noticed by the diction and flow of this piece of literature, I have been in Vernon’s presence quite a few times over the last 27 years.  You might also be interested to know that, because of this stalwart grandfather, I was, at one point in my career, that fastest kid in elementary school.  I went on to play on the little league all-star team, and became one of the top sprinters and long-jumpers in track and field.  Again, relating to Vernonesque genes, I kept several journals when I was a child, and I have been periodically updating a personal narrative that mainly chronicles my college experience in Milwaukee.  This Microsoft Word document is now 90 pages in length, and none of you will ever read it.

When engaging in the writing process, my aim is to entertain.  But this is a serious matter!  Grandpa Vern is the reigning patriarch – the king of this family, and he deserves some respect.  He is the best father my mom has ever had, and he is my favorite grandfather on my mom’s side of the family.  Not only that, but he is a model, an archetype for all future grandfathers around the world.  Yes, even Oriental and Colored grandfathers.  He is the quintessential grandfather.  Grandpa Vern’s stealth and cunning, though notable, are no match for the community involvement, goodwill, hard work, love, care, and kindness he exhibits on a daily basis.  Though often referred to as “Grandpa Vern”, Mr. Cahak has recently earned the prestigious title “Great Grandpa Vern”, mainly due to his evident greatness.  This Man among men has provided infinite inspiration to all of us, and we love him dearly.  Grandpa Vern is a true American hero.  In a lively chant, I must declare, “Ninety-nine more years! Ninety-nine more years!”

Matthew Dolezal accepts first-prize at the Mega Ultra Superman Triathlon Award Ceremony

Ladies and Gentlemen, friends, fans, fellow participants, Fox News…

After winning the Mega Ultra Superman Triathlon (also known by the acronym “MUST”), I admit that I do feel like a superman.  Some folks in the media have argued that I might actually be superhuman, but I don't advocate bragging, so enough about my amazing physical capabilities.

Now, in a diverse audience such as this, I know some of you may be distracted by your various emotions – be they love, profound admiration, sexual desire, jealously, hatred, or even blood-lust, but if you sit tight and open your ears and hearts to my message, you just might learn how to become a better person, a stronger person, and a more successful person.  In short, you might learn how to become more like me.

Once again, I’d like to thank you all for being here tonight – it’s a real ego-boost.  I’d also like to thank several individuals who unwittingly contributed to this accomplishment through inspiration and favorable genetics.

First of all, I’d like to thank my Grandpa Vern, who began my family’s great athletic tradition with his record-breaking participation in track and field.  He always said he could “run like a deer”, and even now, at eighty years old, he can still walk like a goat.

Secondly, I thank my mother, who has always been an avid runner, and trained me well over the years.  Next, I'd like to thank my younger brother Adam for carrying on our family’s cherished athletic custom with his inspiring involvement in Cross Country during high school, though he maintained his position as "last place" during each meet.

And last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank my wonderful sponsors, Red Bull and Fat Tire, who made this dream a reality.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I stand before you today as, yes, a mighty champion, but also as a unique individual with a unique story.  For those of you who haven’t yet had the privilege of reading my autobiography, it’s important to note that mine is not simply a story of commitment, endurance, and superior physical ability – it is also a story of overcoming adversity.

You see, when I was about three years old I contracted a severe case of asthma due to the rampant pollution of a local paper mill.  I recall many sleepless nights in the Emergency Room, and this unpleasant ailment also detracted from my performance during high school sports, karate, and snowboarding.  Being an asthmatic, I never imagined that I would one day complete a triathlon, much less earn first place in one.

A few years ago, after the advent of chronic back and neck pain, I sought help and explanation from a prominent chiropractor.  Soon enough, I was diagnosed with a ruthless defect called “scoliosis”.  Having a spine that, in alphabetic terms, most closely resembles the letter “S”, I never imagined that I would one day attain such a prestigious honor.

Then, there was college.  I would describe my college experience as a reckless four-year art binge, during which I had no accountability, and not even a brief consideration of athletic pursuit. After the heavy alcohol consumption and other unhealthy habits that animated my educational development, I never imagined I would be standing here before you today.

Though I am honored and thrilled to be here, I am not particularly surprised, for I did adhere to a strict training regimen, which included kickboxing, yoga, Tae Bo, Tai-Chi, Chai tea, and waterboarding, which was conducted by former vice president Dick Cheney himself, God bless his soul.  This training, and the voracious spirit of competition that has been instilled in me since birth, have allowed me to be successful in my journey.

Earlier, I mentioned the fact that I have good genes.  However, during most of the competition I was actually wearing shorts, though I had a custom-made aqua-dynamic scuba suit (designed by the wonderful folks at Red Bull) which protected me from the elements (including toothpick fish) during the 8 mile Amazonian backstroke, but that’s a bit of a tangent…

Regardless of my meticulous preparation, I did encounter many difficulties during the race.

For instance, while being chased by a pack of wild boars through the Cocaine Cactus Maze, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my liver, as though I had just been shanked by an unruly inmate.  But instead of throwing in the towel, I pressed on, repeating in my head, “the MUST is a must, the MUST is a must!”

Additionally, while cycling up the mighty Mt. Tambora, the heavy inhalation of sulfur and volcanic debris caused me to have a mild asthma attack.  But I didn’t give up.  Instead, I cracked a Red Bull, and repeated again the phrase, “The MUST is a must!  The MUST is a must!”  This must have helped, because I successfully applied the same method during the pyramid crawl, when my spine felt like a soft pretzel, baking in the Egyptian sun.

At last, I realized that I had overcome the ultimate adversity, as I burst through the finish line, my body intact, and my mind enlightened.  Afterward, I was compelled to kick back and relax with a nice, cold pint of my favorite beer, Fat Tire.

During Stephen Colbert’s speech at the 2006 White House Correspondents Dinner, he commented on then president George W. Bush, saying “it is the heart-warming story of a man who is repeatedly punched in the face.”  Due to my various physical disorders, I used to think of my own story this way.  But since my recent victory, I now liken my personal narrative to that of a man who has looked Life straight in the face, and given it a nice, hardy kick in the nuts.

Now, I can tell by the looks on your faces that the more astute among you have become aware that approximately 74% of this uplifting tale is indeed fictional.  Let me, then, leave you with these words of enigmatic inspiration: "If you can dream it, you can imagine it."  Thank you.

A Modest Abortion

As many of my beloved readers are aware, abortion is the most controversial topic ever, in the history of the World.  However, I have devised a solution that could potentially unite those deemed "pro-life" and "pro-choice", respectively.  As evidenced by the following text, this astute remedy is the most fair compromise imaginable, for it takes into consideration the “rights” and the emotions of each fetus, each mother-to-be (or mother-on-the-fence), and each vigorous onlooker, who, in many cases, happens to be a male without any prior, present, or possible future personal experience with pregnancy or childbirth, yet brandishes vehement opinions regarding the actions members of the fairer sex ought to take in an instance of said phenomena.
            Myriad reasons may be cited when a subject considers abortion, but in many cases, the subject, though choosing to engage in sexual activity, did not choose to become pregnant.  The microscopic unit gleefully tingling in her uterus is therefore an “unwanted growth”.  In other cases of unwanted growths, we, as a reasonable and libertarian society, allow carriers to rid themselves of their infestation.  After all, is a carrier fully to blame for this new plot development?  Should we force this striking young damsel to forever live with the result of her naivety?  If so, we should also force lung cancer patients to keep their tumors, if they had a history of tobacco use, and force women to keep their warts if they had a history of toad-kissing.  In the case of the smoker, there may have been a single cigarette that broke the camel’s back, so to speak.  In the case of the lonely princess, there may have been a deceptive bribe or a strange delusion.  In the most unfortunate case of the tragically gestating female, there may have been one too many sperm cells in that fateful load - one translucent renegade serpent had deviated from the herd, and thrust himself toward the glowing abyss, like an eager Islamic extremist quickly approaching the Holy City of Virgin Concubines.  This tenacious fellow, and many like him, have sacrificed themselves for the “good of the cause” - the initiation of an undesired expansion in an unwitting vessel.  Following the model set forth by Lady Liberty, we must allow the subject, in such an instance, to choose if (and when) she wants to basically "kick the growth out" – especially if it has not been paying rent.
            At this juncture, we seem to be faced with what non-nihilists refer to as a “moral dilemma”, since the growth has the potential to become a “human being”.  One (an advocate of “life”) may object to the aforementioned policy, but I must assure him/her that it is not as sinister as it sounds.  The growth’s very existence is not to be opposed, simply its presence within the host.  Extinguishing the growth’s life is not necessary – but its removal from the carrier’s reproductive Mecca is.  Thus, labor would be induced in a harmless fashion, at whatever time the host decides to part with her invader.
            Following its departure, the former tenant would be given access to food, shelter, health care – essentially all conditions necessary to sustain life.  The growth has thus been freed, and would be afforded the opportunity to choose its own destiny.  This could be tough for a fetus who is let go during, say, its thirteenth week, when it has determined its gender identity, but cannot yet swallow.  Figuring out how to consume the available nourishment may be challenging in this case.  On the other hand, if the carrier decides to part ways with said inconvenient bulge after six or seven months, there is a high likelihood that the growth will survive, independent of the former host (who would then be referred to as the "mother").  Such a birth-giver would realize that procrastination is not only the infamous Thief of Time, but it can also result in unspeakable responsibilities, including the upkeep of a voracious, ever-growing fleshy alarm clock.

Urban Nightfall

Ricky is a looming giant, a skyscraper of a human being, as he passes through the crimson curtain into a dimly lit gathering of strangers.  The scarcity of light reveals an emotionless visage, chiseled with mysterious darkened voids under poised, purposeful eyes.  He is a bronze statue, seemingly unmovable.  According to Dave, Ricky is a serious motherfucker.  He’s a dealer, and he’s been around long enough to know exactly what’s happening - everything that's happening.  He’s been busting his ass since thirteen and deserves some respect.  He is tough as nails, and a master of the street market.  Don’t fuck with him.

Dave met Olivia and I at Eli's Pub around midnight.  Scarlet and Greg arrived about twenty minutes later.  What an intricate and scandalous history this group of individuals has had with one another!  Greg and Scarlet are “together” now.  Scarlet is my ex.  Greg is my ex Lisa's ex.  Olivia is one of my ex Lisa’s best friends.  One could invent a system to label one’s relation to another based on past romances.  It would be ancestry for the college hipster-in-denial/ twenty-something aimless city slicker demographic.  Greg would then be closely related to me since he has likely made love to at least two of the same women I have been with.  However, I had both of them first, a fact that would give my title more prestige.  Had I engaged in sexual congress with Olivia last night, Scarlet would have become distantly related to her, in a new and improved system of genealogy for a generation that is reluctant to procreate. 

Eli's was surprisingly busy, for a Monday.  It turned out they were serving $5 pitchers of some ostensibly high quality lager, and each member of my crew quickly devoured two pints.  As usual, the alcohol effectively neutralized the discomfort caused by the stimulants.  Later, as I began loosening up a bit, a middle-aged white man entered the bar and sat next to Dave.  His alleged date, a black female, sat to the left of him, in the stool next to the wall, as though taking refuge.  After mere seconds of observation, Dave and I realized the man was unreasonably intoxicated.  This seemed agreeable, even comical, until his violent rhetoric began.  While conducting an obnoxious discourse with an unspecified audience, the man casually mentioned his desire to “kill someone” shortly before he said, “I’ve got a .45 on me…” 

I wasn’t prepared for something like this, and I hate to admit it, but I was nervous.  The kind of nervous that allows one to imagine another Columbine coming out of the woodwork.  The kind of nervous that makes you freeze because you realize that no matter which neighborhood you live in, you could be next.  The kind of nervous that empowers the infamous mainstream news media's policy - “If it bleeds, it leads”.  You could be next – the next victim briefly discussed on the nightly news - then forgotten, a mere statistic, buried in mundane paperwork for eternity.  The thought is enough to drive a semi-inebriated mind toward paranoia.  The bartender had overheard a bit of the man’s ramblings, and shot a concerned look in my direction.  I walked over to him and confirmed his suspicions.  I then slyly exited the building to call the police.  I planned to give them a “heads-up”, and tell them that an intoxicated and unstable man with long blonde hair was possibly packing heat at the local pub, and that they should stake the place out, and be ready for action.  As this thought was about to be implemented, the aspiring psychopath in question stumbled out of Eli’s Pub, and continued down the desolate sidewalk.  We were safe – for now.

The next person to exit was my Olivia, the princess of the wind.  She put a spell on me long ago.

"Let's go home."

How could I refuse?

The next morning my alarm went off at 8:51.  Liv had class at 9:00.  She sat up for a moment, emitting that delightfully displeased purr that signifies a sour attitude.  She curled back up with me, squeezing me tight, making the other sound – that satisfied one, the one she sometimes makes in the middle of a dream. 

“You’re so much better than school,” she murmured, about 70% asleep. 

I set the alarm for 10:30 so she would have ample time to get to her second class.  At 10:29 I reached over her, over those childish moans, and turned off the alarm right before it was scheduled to commence its piercing racket.  I know how much she hates it. 

“It’s time to wake up,” I said, in a soft, comforting tone.

“You’re so much better than an alarm clock.”

And alarm clocks are so much better than babies.

The Doctrine of Doubt

With the chaos of daily life in modern Western civilization, the consideration of a deep philosophical question like "What is the meaning of life?" seems quite low on one's list of priorities.  There are countless tasks I must complete each day in order to maintain my socio-economic and cultural status.  After realizing this cycle appears infinite, one assumes his/her "purpose" is to be a cog in a machine - indeed, the word "career" seems to have replaced "purpose" in our society.

But eventually, there is a break - you have a moment of time that has not been reserved or booked or clouded with efficiency, and you look up at the stars and wonder what it’s all about.  This is inevitable.  Our brains are machines of curiosity.  We wonder and speculate, and then, if our curiosity gets the best of us, we begin to investigate.

How did this all come about?  What is my purpose?  What will happen after I die?  I used to have simple and comforting answers to these questions.  “God created the earth and its inhabitants in seven days.  My purpose is to worship my creator, and spread the good word of His son, who died as a sacrifice so that we can have eternal life.  If I have faith in Jesus Christ, who is the way, the truth, and the light, I will go to heaven when I die.”  This explanation was sufficient for almost two decades of my life, but eventually my mind started to wander.  I became a bit more inquisitive.  I had more and more time to look at the stars and ponder. 

I began to ask myself questions like, “How can God be a single entity, yet also three?” “If everything is predestined, how can we also have free will?” “If god has chosen souls in advance for heaven, why would he create people just so they can go to Hell?”  To these sorts of questions, I would always get a response like, “He is God, and mere mortals cannot understand his infinite nature.”  That explanation is adequate, but if that is the case, why do we claim to know when he has answered a prayer?  And how can we have the ability to determine which parts of the Bible should be interpreted literally, and which are metaphorical?  I wanted to find out more about God, but I wondered how much I could trust Man in this pursuit.  How do I know that what I’ve been taught and raised to believe all of my life is actually true?  What if I had been born in Pakistan, or Saudi Arabia?  Would I be an adherent of Islam today? 

Founding Father Thomas Jefferson once wrote, “Question with boldness even the existence of God; because, if there is one, he must more approve of the homage of reason, than that of blindfolded fear.”  So I decided to investigate.  As I searched, I began challenging myself, and my presumptions.  I later realized that instead of finding justifications for my faith, I only found more questions.

Devout Christians often claim the Bible is God’s word, and thus “inerrant”.  After examining the canonical gospels, however, one might beg to differ.

The most minor issue with the New Testament has to do with a number of discrepancies between the gospels.  For instance, Jesus’ famous “Sermon on the Mount” takes place on a “plain” in the book of Luke.  Matthew recounts eight beatitudes, while Luke only mentions four.  Matthew places the raising of Jairus’ daughter from the dead in a different location than Mark and Luke.  Matthew, Mark, and Luke place the cleansing of the Temple at the end of their gospels, while John places this event at the beginning of his.  There are myriad other similar examples, but let’s move on. 

Throughout the book of Matthew, Jesus makes it clear to his followers that the “Son of Man” will arrive very soon.  However, there is no indication that this event transpired within the set timeframe (or at all).

Matthew 10:23:
“…I tell you the truth, you will not finish going through the cities of Israel before the Son of Man comes.”

Matthew 16:28:
“I tell you the truth, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”

Matthew 24:30-34
“…the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the sky, and all the nations of the earth will mourn.  They will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds…he will send his angels…they will gather his elect…I tell you the truth, this generation will certainly not pass away until all these things have happened.”

If the gospels accurately depict the life of this Christ character, why do the Epistles of Paul (written before the gospels) contain no mention of Christ’s virgin birth, his miracles, his parables, his sermon on the mount, or the Lord’s Prayer?
If these attributes were known in the first century of Christianity, Paul would have been the one to know them.  Paul does not even pretend to have met a savior such as Jesus Christ, and knows nothing of his teachings, since he does not include a single sentence quoting Jesus in any of his writings.

Christ was said to have been a Jew living in Palestine during the first three decades of the Common Era, thus he and his followers would have spoken Aramaic.  Why then were the gospels written in Greek?  Authors far removed from the purported events must have written these accounts.  Indeed, the authors of the four canonical gospels are not known, nor is the time or place of their authorship.  There is no mention of these documents in the historical record until 150 years after the events they describe allegedly took place (the first mention of a canonical gospel – John – was by  Theophilus ofAntioch in 180 AD).  Even if Mark was written shortly after 70 AD, as many apologists claim (though there is no evidence of this), there is still a 40-year gap between Christ’s alleged death, and the first written account of his life.  This means that no account of Christ’s life in the Bible was written by someone who had met him, or even seen him.  All accounts of his life and teachings are based on hearsay, and 18 years of Christ’s life are missing from these writings.

There is no mention of a Jesus of Nazareth who was called “Christ” from any of the nearly two-dozen historians who lived or traveled in the Mediterranean region during the time Jesus is said to have lived (though there was later a popular forgery, but for concision’s sake, I won’t get into that).  This is odd because he was allegedly quite popular, often preaching to large crowds, and having a very controversial execution, according to the gospels.  After Christ’s death, the following event takes place (in Matthew): “…many bodies of the saints…were raised, and coming out of the tombs after his resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many.”  This zombie-related incident was not recorded by any historian.  The same can be said of other Biblical events that would have been witnessed by many, such as Herod’s mass slaughter of infant males.

Like myself, Robert M. Price was a Christian fundamentalist for a large portion of his life.   His interest in apologetics eventually led him to receiving his MTS degree in New Testament studies, and later his Ph.D. in systematic theology from Drew University in 1981.  After several years of pastoral work and teaching, Price enrolled in a second doctoral program at Drew, receiving his Ph.D. in New Testament studies in 1993.  But the more he learned, the more he discovered “that traditional Christianity simply did not have either the historical credentials or the intellectual cogency its defenders claimed for it.”  Price explains: "...Thus I forswore the harmonizations used by apologists to keep the Bible sounding inerrant and authoritative.  I concluded that my faith must in the end be sacrificed to keep myself honest with the text.  Otherwise, if I twisted the text for the sake of my faith, what could my faith possibly be worth?"

Besides historical improbabilities, inconsistencies, and other major errors, another cause for skepticism is the “hero archetype” that Christ fulfills.  There are dozens of pre-Christian pagan messiahs with whom Christ shares many traits.  These include Attis of Phrygia, Buddha, Dionysus/Bacchus, Hercules/Heracles, Krishna of India, Mithra of Persia, Quirinius of Rome, Jao of Nepal, and many others.  For instance, Horus of ancient Egypt was born of the virgin Isis-Meri, accompanied by a star in the east.  He was a child prodigy, teaching in the Temple at age 12.  At age 30 he was baptized by Anup, and began traveling with 12 followers, performing miracles such as walking on water, exorcising demons, and raising Osiris from the dead.  Upon his death, he was buried for three days, and then resurrected.  His followers called him “Anointed One”, “Good Shepherd”, “Lamb of God”, “Lord of Lords”, “King of Kings”, etc.

Justin Martyr, one of the first Christian apologists, wrote the following:

“And when we say also that the Word, who is the first-birth of God, was produced without sexual union, and that He, Jesus Christ, our Teacher, was crucified and died, and rose again, and ascended into heaven, we propound nothing different from what you believe regarding those whom you esteem sons of Jupiter.” (Apology I – chapter 21)

“And if we even affirm that He was born of a virgin, accept this in common with what you accept of Perseus. And in that we say that He made whole the lame, the paralytic, and those born blind, we seem to say what is very similar to the deeds said to have been done by Æsculapius.” (Apology I – Chapter 22)

But this vehement advocate of Christianity also had a simple explanation for all of these antics: It was the Devil’s fault…

"It having reached the Devil's ears that the prophets had foretold the coming of Christ, he set the Heathen Poets to bring forward a great many who should be called the sons of Jove.  The Devil laying his scheme in this, to get men to imagine that the true history of Christ was of the same character as the prodigious fables related of the sons of Jove..."

In its context, this could be a valid excuse.  However, this explanation cannot be found anywhere in the Bible.  If god is omniscient, and he wants us to believe the Bible is his word, why didn’t he include some text clarifying these matters?  Why did god feel it was necessary for his son to fit the savior archetype so well?  It would have cleared up a lot of confusion if he could have simply stated why pre-Christian myths feature saviors possessing the exact same supernatural attributes as Jesus Christ. 

Where is the evidence of omniscience in scripture that apologists claim?  There is no mention of the discovery of electricity, or DNA, or the various technological advances that would take place, such as the development of automobiles, or satellites, or the Internet.  There is no cure for cancer.  A mention of any of these or similar topics would lend credibility to the claim that the Judeo-Christian scripture was divinely inspired.  In reality, everything in the New Testament could have easily been written by a man living in the Middle East during the first or second century CE.

*

It can be said that the Bible’s claim to inerrancy is problematic, as is its historicity. “Okay, fine!” one might say, “These so-called ‘holy books’ are just a bunch of plagiarized mythology carelessly throw together and given a historical backdrop.  But they still contain wonderful moral precepts like the Golden Rule.  I mean, where would we get morality if not from religion?”

Is the Bible really a reliable guide to morality?  Many would agree that the Old Testament can be counted out as a candidate, since God advocated the death penalty for the most mild of offenses, allowed fathers to sell their daughters into slavery, allowed masters to beat their slaves, encouraged sectarianism, and implemented genocide on a regular basis.

But the picture usually painted of Jesus Christ (in Sunday school and in mainstream discourse alike) is that of a great moral teacher who healed the sick, advocated on behalf of the poor, and resisted an oppressive and unjust Roman empire.  However, when reading the gospels objectively, one would not find consistent moral teachings and actions. In one breath, Christ would say, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” and in the next, “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother…a man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.” He goes on to say, in Luke 14:26, that “if anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children…he cannot be my disciple.”  Before Jesus is crucified, a woman pours ointment over his head to prepare him for burial (as was the custom).  This bothers Jesus’ disciples, who think it is a waste of money, which could have been given to the poor.  Jesus responds, “…you will always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me (Matthew 26:11).”  Also in the book of Matthew, Jesus compares a foreign woman to a dog, curses a fig tree, and recommends castration to his followers.

Needless to say, the aforementioned information (which is just the tip of the iceberg) has contributed to an erosion of my faith.  I find it confusing when others still believe so vehemently, even claiming certainty, that the Bible is the perfect message of an omniscient deity.  However, this phenomenon of irrationally persistent belief has been studied meticulously.  In psychology, "confirmation bias" is a tendency to search for (or interpret) new information in a way that confirms your preconceptions.  As professor Tim van Gelder puts it, "...One of the most obvious manifestations of belief preservation arises when we consider whether a claim merits our acceptance. When we have a pro-attitude to the claim we tend to actively seek evidence confirming or supporting the claim, and fail to seek evidence going against it. That is, in our search for evidence we try to bolster our beliefs rather than challenge them."  Psychologist Robert E. Ornstein once observed, "Conceptions often act as barriers to understanding."  He further explains, “It is quite difficult for us to alter our assumptions, even in the face of compelling new evidence.  We pay the price of a certain conservatism and resistance to new input in order to gain a measure of stability in our personal consciousnesses."

*

Either Yahweh created the universe, or he did not.  Either he inspired the Judeo-Christian Bible, or he did not.  Both cannot be true.  If the Bible contains errors, then it is not the word of an omniscient god, but of Man.  If it is the work of Man, then it is open to interpretation.  If it is open to interpretation, it is open to analysis.  Upon analysis, I found countless errors, inconsistencies, and mythologies.  Any Christian would agree that these problems occur in other religious texts as well.  Absolute truth exists, though it is not always accessible.  There are some questions we will never be able to answer, and that vulnerability scares many of us.  But pretending to be certain in the face of mystery does not make us correct.

After the aforementioned realizations, I was no longer safe in the comfort of my dogmatic shell.  I could no longer have simple black and white explanations for the intricacies of existence.  I could no longer let theologians and priests think for me…
I must state plainly that I am not claiming to be certain that Yahweh does not exist.  Far from it - certainty requires proof, and proof is hard to come by.  In fact, the only thing I can prove, beyond any doubt, is that I exist.  I am constantly experiencing my own consciousness.  Whether the sensations, memories, and events I experience are illusions or not, I cannot be certain.  Instead, I will opt to act according to the consistencies I have observed around me.

Conclusions are formulated by analysis, by weighing evidence.  Many conclusions are temporary, and can be altered according to new information.  In the case of religious dogma, my reasons for doubt significantly outweigh my reasons for belief.  But uncertainty isn't acceptable for some people - they fear death.  They need an absolute explanation, even if there is no evidence to support it.  "Someone, hurry up and answer me!  I just want to be comfortable and docile, and follow orders!" scream the bewildered masses.  Most people seem to accept the supernatural explanations that are most popular in their region of birth.  Americans are overwhelmingly Christian.  Iranians are overwhelmingly Muslim.  Vietnamese are overwhelmingly Buddhist.  Why doesn't the same thing happen with fire?  Why is there such a global consensus that fire is hot, and that it can burn things?  It is simply because the existence, properties, and effects of fire are testable.  There is no way to test the existence of an invisible entity that does not leave footprints, or DNA, or any evidence of its presence.  There can therefore be no proof that these entities do not exist.  No one can prove that Yahweh does not exist, just as no one can prove Zeus, Santa Claus, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster do not exist.  Again, the evidence that they are only mythological characters outweighs any other unfounded claims.

Well, now that I have to think for myself, make my own decisions, and accept responsibility for my own actions, with no divine assistance, I’ve got some very profound philosophical questions to answer…

What is my basis for morality? Well, first of all, the “moral teachings” of Christ that would actually be accepted by today’s progressive standards (love, generosity, equality, etc.) were also written about by secular philosophers like Plato and Socrates centuries before Christ’s alleged existence. These are clearly not his own ideas.  Plato and Socrates were mere humans, making moral observations without even pretending to receive divine consultation.  It seems that morality is innate – derived from human experience, observation, and remarkable intellectual capacity to imagine the situation of others.  This is known as “empathy”.  From this perspective, one might observe: “To cause, proliferate, or contribute to human or animal suffering is immoral.”  Does someone need to believe in a specific supernatural entity on insufficient evidence in order to conclude that torturing children is morally wrong?  What is morally upright then? To help others, to love others, to live in harmony - refraining from murder, theft, etc.  A general moral outlook would suggest that we should seek to understand, empathize, and co-exist with everything around us – all life on earth.  After all, there is lots of evidence that earth exists, and no evidence that heaven or hell exist.  I think Earth should be a higher priority.

Another question would be, “Where do I find happiness?”  I must admit theism offers quite a bargain in this department.  As I recall, no matter how bad things got, I could always take refuge in my imaginary friend.  And no matter how many naughty things I did, I could always transfer the burden of guilt to his shoulders.  Happiness can be different things to different people, but I am personally glad to be autonomous, and delighted when others can live happily and peacefully, free from arbitrary constraints.  I am also happy that I no longer fear a cosmic dictator who has me under constant surveillance, legislates against certain uses of my genitals, and threatens me with an eternity of torture if I question his infinite love.  Fear can cause a lot of anxiety, not to mention irrational submission.  Aside from conquering fear, I also enjoy creative expression, free inquiry, traveling, visiting with friends and family, music, learning, etc.  I also appreciate the small things in life, like taking a walk, or cooking.  John Lennon would say, “Happiness is a warm gun.”  I would say it’s a warm burrito.