The Happy Little Tree

There once was a happy little tree. It lived in the middle of the forest, surrounded by other happy little trees. But this happy little tree couldn’t join in the happiness of the other happy little trees. This happy little tree was a secret. Its Creator had decreed that no one could know about this happy little tree. The other happy little trees saw it, but they couldn’t acknowledge its existence due to the proclamation from their Creator. The Creator’s name was Bob Ross, and, although he seemed nice, he was actually a vindictive megalomaniac. The happy little tree lived in isolation. Even though it was surrounded by other happy little trees, it could not communicate with them and they could not communicate with it. Not only that, but it couldn’t even express its grief, for Bob Ross had also decreed that it should remain forever a happy little tree and never show its profound sadness. So the happy little tree put a brave face on its misery and despair and eventually died of Dutch elm disease.

THE END

A Poem about Opossums

I performed the following piece in The Encyclopedia Show at Kieran's in downtown Minneapolis on Sunday, January 21st. This month's theme was Marsupials.

With this presentation, it feels like my life has come full circle. Back in 5th grade, I gave an oral report on opossums in conjunction with a written report. It included my first attempts at stand-up comedy and acting, grasping and inchoate though they were. Of course, back then I was eager to get good grades with the least effort possible, so I would sugar-coat any subject, even the opossum. I’m sure I depicted it as a noble beast that serves an essential purpose in the Grand Scheme of Things. But now that I’ve lived in the Real World and my eyes have been opened to the ugliness that underlies everything we believe in, I will give my honest, unvarnished appraisal of these larger versions of rats. This judgment will be delivered in the form of a poem.

Possum, O Possum,

What makes you so awesome?
You originated in South America, and entered North America in the Great American Interchange following the connection of the two continents.
Or so Wikipedia would have us believe.
Did you really originate in South America? Or did you originate
in HELL?!
Your unspecialized biology, flexible diet, and reproductive habits make you successful colonizers and survivors in diverse locations and conditions.
This is all true, but it leaves out the most important question:
Why?
Why did God see fit to bring you into this world when everything about you seems to insult His Creation?
You have hands and feet like human hands but with claws
and it’s creepy.
Your face is white like a banshee or a ghost.
Your fur is grey and black and stringy.
And it’s gross.
You have a long rat’s tail,
and that is super-gross.
Truly, you are Nature’s scumbag,
and you couldn’t care less, you who scuttle through the margins of the Night.
You are shunned and shamed, targeted and tricked like the trickster you are.
This is a well-earned fate.
You have no honor. You will play dead to avoid a fight.
Your young cling to you like bubonic bacilli.
Do you drop them in the dark of night to fester in the lymph nodes of America?
Answer me, Hellbeast!
Your face is a portal to another dimension.
Is that where we’re all heading in this imperial twilight?
You hold your secrets closely, Opossum.
You are a wise Sphinx of the Night.
Through back alleys and brothels you carry the fate of America on your back.
You will be the last thing standing once the Empire has fallen.
Then will you be King, King of the Ruins, having made the whole world your natural habitat.
This was supposed to be a poem about opossums.
But instead it became a poem about the imminent fall of the American Empire.
That just seems to creep into everything I write these days.
Sorry about that.
But, again, opossums are creepy.
But they’re also the rebels of the Animal Kingdom.
If you ever see one,
I’d just leave it alone.
It’s probably crawling with disease.

Forty is the New Twenty

For the last 2 weeks I was working at the U of M bookstore in Coffman Union. It was a good job. I got to chat with my co-workers, get some exercise by walking around getting books off the shelf and help the mostly friendly students picking up their online orders. Usually I’m no fan of customer service work, but I actually enjoyed it this time around, owing largely to the amiability of the customers.

I also have to admit: There were a LOT of cute girls there. But they were about half my age, so what could I do? Just talk to ‘em, I guess. In my defense, we’re probably about the same age emotionally. Or not. I don’t know.

It’s not like I have much (if any) more romantic or sexual experience than they. Lord knows I haven’t fucked much. I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 31. I haven’t even reached double digits in the number of times I’ve had sex.

I guess it’s not surprising when you consider what my conception of sex was. As they say in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, I “put the pussy on a pedestal.” I thought sex was the ticket to adulthood, to being a man, to no longer being a freak, which is what I felt like as an adult male virgin.

It was also the essence of romantic love, which I thought was the end-all be-all, the sine qua non of life. Superficially, sex is the only thing that separates romantic relationships from all other relationships, and I focused on that.

But what really kept me from fucking for most of the last two decades or so was my fear of rejection. I’m a sensitive guy, and my relationship with my parents (esp. my mom) was weak, making me desperate for a romantic relationship to fill that void.

Women, like most people, don’t find desperation attractive. I tried to hide my desperation through a guarded reserve and quietude. But this kept me from talking to women, much less asking them out. It also kept me from responding warmly on those rare occasions when a woman would flirt with me.

It just kinda sucks that, now that I’m finally emotionally ready to be “sexually active,” most of the women who are DTF aren’t “age-appropriate” for me. And the age-appropriate women wanna settle down. It’s quite a pickle.

Ultimately, this is just a preemptive defense against the naysayers I imagine hovering in the wings, ready to pounce on my cradle-robbing impulses. But I’m only worried about these nattering nabobs because I’m one of them. I will tsk-tsk someone (in my head) involved in a May-December romance.

It doesn’t take long for me to realize that I’m just hating on them out of envy. It’s also driven by bitterness and anger. I only really feel this way toward the friends I don’t see anymore, the ones who’ve drifted away. I resent them more for leaving me high-and-dry than for being happy.

I know there are plenty of guys who prey on younger women, exploiting their naivete. What I’m trying to say is I’m not one of those guys. Given my history, it’s clearly not in my nature, and I think my maturation and emotional healing have prevented me from heading down that road.

At the end of the day, though, I’m gonna fuck who I wanna fuck (with their consent, of course). And the haters can go fuck themselves. Age isn’t a measure of maturity (as long as the person isn’t underage). If you have a problem with me dating women half my age, I suggest you ask yourself what you’re really upset about. Because I doubt it’s me or the supposed exploitation of someone you’ve never met.

The True Origin of Star Wars Scripts

There’s been a lot of heated debate about the Star Wars sequels lately. Many longtime fans of the franchise are extremely angry about these new films. They seem to think that the writers and directors are taking unwarranted liberties with the Star Wars galaxy.

What they don’t realize is these stories were not invented by the filmmakers. They are, in fact, based on ancient scrolls discovered by George Lucas in the Mojave Desert during a peyote-fueled vision quest in the 1970’s.

Lucas found them in ceramic jars in a cave. With the help of the world’s greatest linguists, he was able to decode the writing. It told of a highly advanced, space-faring civilization that existed, as the text has it, “a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.” NASA scientists confirmed its authenticity through the discovery of elements in the jars that could not have come from our galaxy.

But Lucas didn’t keep this information secret to serve his own ego. The U.S. government allowed him to make his films based on the scrolls only if he presented them as fiction of his own creation. They were understandably concerned that public knowledge of this intergalactic communiqué would lead to massive riots, looting and a breakdown in the social order.

This revelation should chasten those who have been critical of the films’ content. The filmmakers have only taken small liberties with the details. The broad strokes are religiously faithful to the original text. But those who would question the motives of the writers are questioning the wisdom of a civilization that was far more advanced than our own, not just technologically, but culturally as well. So stop that.

We can’t possibly understand the wisdom of a purple-haired woman who refuses to tell her supposed comrades what their escape plan is. It’s beyond our puny human cognition. We would be better off letting these scriptures wash over us in the (perhaps vain) hope that they may enlighten us through osmosis.