Go West, Young Man!

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Fuck Student Life

Student Life, Washington University's student newspaper, sucks. Awful Useless Bullshit is all they produce. Nothing but a waste of time, a waste of money and a waste of paper (and if you have any familiarity with the way Google works, you'll know what I'm up to here).

I tried to lend a hand. I tried to give them something worth printing, but two and a half weeks of empty promises and
projections have made it obvious that my editorial will never see the light of day.

So I turn to the internet.

"A Swift Solution" by Alfonzo Debussy

Our University is in a sad state of affairs. A brief perusal of any public space will show that Wash U is overpopulated. The student body has outgrown the facilities on-campus, such that any unwilling or unable to wait fifteen minutes in line must go hungry. We are all equal contributors to the University’s population, though some are seemingly more entitled to be here than others; professors and researchers before students, and upperclassmen before underclassmen. Our facilities have only recently become inadequate, and it is the opinion of this author that the source of strain on the University lies in the ranks of the Class of 2010.
As dedicated Student Life readers, surely we all know about “The Freshman Problem”; where WU expected 1,350 incoming students, they received 1,470. The superfluous 120 freshman can be found almost anywhere. Stop by the room that was yours before ResLife moved you to The Village; you’ll find one of the 120. Stand in line in Mallinckrodt; anyone in front of you that you don’t recognize is one of their number. Odds are good that, today, you’ve already broken stride to avoid bumping into one of them. Their presence can be felt in your legs from your long walk to campus, in your stomach from not having time before class to buy a bagel, and in your eyes from the barrage of Res-College T-shirts. Their presence is undeniable, but is it unmanageable?
The clear responsibility of the University is to expand, to provide more housing, classrooms and high-volume eateries. However, these changes are not likely to occur until half of the present undergraduate populated has graduated. So what can the estranged classes of 2007 and 2008 do to manage “The Freshman Problem”?
I have it on the authority of many former Bon Appetit employees that an 18-year-old college student can make as nutritious a meal as most of the food Bon Appetit has to offer. I do therefore humbly offer it to public consideration that the 120 superfluous freshmen should be reallocated from their courses of study to the courses of a meal. If we were right in determining these 120 as the source of strain, then this solution will relieve the strain two times over.
Let us suppose that each of these 120 weighs, on average, 125 pounds. Let us further suppose that, of those 125 pounds, roughly 95 pounds are edible material. This translates to roughly 11,400 pounds of food (and 120 fewer students around to consume it). The demand Bon Appetit could meet with that sort of surplus is phenomenal; it would take WU students 76 days of Center Court brunch to waste that much food. The boon this would provide to our institution is undeniable.
There are those who might balk at my proposal; I urge those less-progressive students to keep an open mind with regard to these changes. Many adamantly opposed the removal of Taco Bell Express from Mallinckrodt, and those same opposers now readily populate the line at the Asian Station. So, before you reject my proposal on grounds of culinary conservatism, realize that the Buffalo Freshman Wrap might well be your favorite dish next semester.

-Alfonzo

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

I Have Traveled Far...


...and seen nothing.


I've been having strange dreams, lately. In these dreams I've met people who were too good for this world--poets who starved with one hand on a quill, playwrites murdered in bitter feuds, authors driven mad by their own brilliance. These people deserve my company, as opposed to some.

My apartment was cold, and I was listening to Belle & Sebastian while under a blanket on the couch. The cool hand of sleep tugged at me, and I felt my limbs slipping into the slackened indifference of unconsciousness when my left thigh began vibrating.

"Stickshifts and safety-belts,
Bucket seats have all got to go,
Cause when we're drivin' in the car,
It makes my baby seem so far."

Alan's ringtone, by which I mean the song that plays when Alan calls my phone. If it had been anyone but Alan calling, I would have thrown it into a chair across the room and moaned until it stopped ringing. But Alan doesn't call me more often than I'd like to talk to him, and nowadays he doesn't call me much at all, so I figured I ought to answer it.

It was just three days ago that I'd decided to stop leaving the apartment more than absolutely necessary, by which I mean never except to get food. I'm really disgusted by humanity these days, plus I really need to write a fucking fantastic short story, so I figured the best option is to drop out of society. Then Alan called and now I'm doing his radio show for him on Friday.

I can't really explain what happened. This is exactly the sort of thing I should be avoiding, broadcasting my own voice out into the world! Yet, I couldn't resist the chance to somehow alter the minds of the select few who listen. Fear me, for I am armed with Media.

So, uh, tune in?

That is all.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Quitting Smoking

Quitting Smoking; it's a gerund with a gerund as its direct object. I didn't think gerunds could take objects, but somehow "quitting smoking" manages to be grammatical (as far as I can tell, and I fancy myself something of an expert).

It's not altogether exciting news. I didn't really set about talking about it on the blog, distracted as I was with matters of Vlad. It's not as though my smoking made any significant difference in the stories I've told you. Just take everything from In Des Peres to the present, and add "And then I smoked a cigarette" to the end of every other paragraph. There's the difference.

So maybe I'm a little irritable from the withdrawal. Even now, I still want them. I'm telling myself that I've got years and years of life ahead of me, so I can still afford to trade those years for a drug. I really want to do this, maybe to prove that I'm not completely impotent. I always thought that I smoked to give myself human problems; to escape the ease of upper-middle-classdom.

I'm full of shit, so you don't have to tell me that in the comments section. Maybe I'll just disable comments on this post; I hear Alan's been doing that lately.

Wish me luck.

That is all.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Alfonzo At The Movies

I don't know if I've got the gag reflex suppressed enough to ever make this a regular thing, but my most recent perusal of the movie trailers on Apple's website has stirred me into action.


Riding Alone For Thousands Of Miles
I understand that it's difficult to translate excitement, or even a sense of depth, but I can't help but feel that "Riding Alone For Thousands Of Miles" sounds like the most boring movie ever made; even more boring than Citizen Kane (what? I said it!). I watched the trailer, and it looks like it might be a pretty good movie. I don't see foreign films often, but if I'm in the mood for one and RAFTOM is on the marquis, I'm in.


Blackballed : The Bobby Dukes Story
Yes, from the people who brought you Anchorman : The Legend Of Ron Burgandy and Talladega Nights : The Ballad Of Ricky Bobby comes another terrible movie; only this time, there's no budget. Let us all pray that there will be no more (Catchy Title) : (Synonym For Story) Of (Character Name) movies.


The Last Kiss
From the moment I saw the Calvin Klein-esque picture of Zach Braff, I was worried. Could it be a spoof? Some sort of farce on The Gap, CK and Abercrombie's mannequin models? A redemption of Zoolander? The trailer loaded and I found myself watching The O.C.. Well, not exactly, but something that looked an awful lot like it. Just as I'd converged upon the haunting familiarity of the film's style, whose broad face should show up but Rachel Bilson's. Case and point.

But that's enough of that.


I saw her again, today, out on the oak walk between Rebstock and the library. She was walking towards Mallinckrodt with her little skeletal friend (I mean, I've been attracted to skeletal girls before, but it wasn't for the sake of them being skeletal), so I followed suit and got to piggyback on their conversation. A little strange, and occasionally referencing contexts I could not draw from, but informative all the same.

That is all.

Everybody's Stalking

So, as unrewarding as Atlanta has been to me, I have taken my automobile and left for greener fields. In the self-righteous high that came along with toppling the Capitlized Russian Boy, I thought that I might conjure some form of a social life out of the suburban rubble of the Debussy Manor. But a single visit to Carl's house, something I had talked myself into looking forward to, brought me into the stiff arms of addiction; the price of entertainment was, apparently, a $30 purchase and a monthly subscription. I'm a reader of fantasy novels, so I figure that I had no reason not to engage in the World of Warcraft.

Soon, it consumed me. It began to preclude all other social interactions and I became aggressively single-minded, to the point that I got kicked out of my guild and blacklisted by every experienced player. Unwilling to admit social defeat to a virtual realm, I cancelled my account and threw away the software. Alan and Carl, my theoretical cohorts, had to be left behind in their false world.

With nothing left for me in Atlanta, I sent my future landlord a check and moved into my studio apartment a whole 2 months early. Yes, your question is answered here and now; I'm checking out of the suite, finally getting a decent sized space to live in, alone. I feel like Chaz won't make it back to the group, so Alan may be stuck with Vladdy. Good riddance. I'll gladly continue to share my wit with you, just as long as I don't have to share my space with you.

I hear that Atlanta's 4th of July was rained out. It's only proper, then, that I tell you that the fireworks at the Arch were fantastic; truly worthy of a national monument. I went alone, but ended up tailing a bunch of WU students for the night. I had to lose them when they got on public transportation, but I was able to find them when they got back to campus. I occasionally find myself hypnotized by women that I've never met before, and the magesty of the fireworks was no deterrent to romantic brewings.

So maybe I followed her around. It wasn't like she was alone, and it wasn't like I was going to try talking to her. Though there's a reason to hang around the library. It's not like she had a boyfriend, or one that cared enough to see the fireworks with her.

I hate doing this. I wish there was some... more normal way to go about things...

That is all.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Round Here, We Respect The Fringe

We find ourselves, for a second time, at the end of a documented semester. Never did I ever think that I had so much stuff, but Johnny-5 has been converted into a vehicle with rear visibility equivalent to that of an 18-wheeler; as far as seeing out the back window is concerned, I can see enough to know either that there are one or more cars behind me, or none. It's good practice, I suppose, for using my rear-view mirrors. I just hope I don't get pulled over.

Though, if I do, what's the cop going to do? :

Cop : Son, do you know how fast you were going?
Me : Slower than you were, since you caught up to me.
Cop : Very funny. You going somewhere, son?
Me : Not anymore. You pulled me over.
Cop : Where you going with all this stuff?
Me : Home, Officer.
Cop : Where's home, son?
Me : Atlanta.
Cop : Atlanta?
Me : Yessir.
Cop : That's a long way to drive with no rear visibility.
Me : Would you rather I drive somewhere closer?
Cop : Son, you're either gonna have to mash your luggage down better, or leave some of it behind.
Me : Trust me, I mashed it 'bout as good as it'll mash.
Cop : Son, are you mocking me?
Me : Not in the eensy teensy tiniest, Officer.
Cop : You need to get rid of some of your luggage, son.
Me : What, just leave it out here on the side of the road.
Cop : I'll take what you decide you don't need.
Me : But Officer, I feel like I need everything in this car.
Cop : How about that leather fringe jacket?
Me : Oh, I definitely need that.
Cop : Atlanta, in the Summer? You won't be needing a leather jacket.
Me : I plan on living past this Summer, Officer, at which point I intend to continue wearing that jacket.
Cop : I'm gonna need you to step out of the car, son.

I imagine I'd talk him out of taking the jacket by trading a couple of black novelty t-shirts, a DVD copy of A Fistful Of Dollars, and a nice silk bathrobe he had his eye on (if he could read the label, he might stand a chance of knowing it wasn't really silk).

Or I could beat him over the head. I know! I know. I swore that I'd quit, but this damn patch doesn't do shit.

It's ironic, but I just can't adjust to being well-adjusted. I know one doesn't just wake up a completely different person, with different tolerance for bullshit and stupidity, but I'm not claiming to have woken up to these changes.

You may not be aware of this (if you're an imbecile), but I once spent a great amount of energy actively hating people, and most of this hatred was unjustified. It's not only in hindsight that I realize the groundlessness of my spite; I was completely aware of it all along.

I still see my former objects of hatred around campus, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a little awkward for me. It's like running into an ex with whom things ended bitterly, only the ex has no recollection of the fallout or even the relationship. I spent so much time muttering under my breath about these people, that I find myself instinctively turning my face down to better muffle my curses. Only, once I'm looking at the ground, I've got nothing to say. I harbor these people no ill will. Except one fucker, whose uppance will come.

In my conflict with Vladimir, I experienced, for the first time, a truly justified hatred. I took that truly justified hatred, applied to it my obsessive paranoia, and I managed to resolve the entire issue. The problem with unjustified hatred is that there can be no resolution. You may be right, I may be crazy, but never so crazy as to actually go beyond the point of muttering curses under my breath. So I just end up hating, muttering, cursing until the lower register of my voice gets hoarse.

There's no fulfillment in that, I tell you.

And so I pledge to never again hate without good reason. I do this, not out of the goodness of my heart (as there is so precious little), but out of my own interest in pursuing achievable goals. Which brings me to one last vignette:

Cop : Son, do you know how fast you were going?
Brody : About 82, Officer.
Cop : Are you aware that the local speed limit is 70 miles per hour, Son?
Brody : Yes, Officer, and I'm very sorry.
Cop : Well that's nice. Now let's talk about your rear bumper.
Brody : My rear bumper? Is something wrong with it?
Cop : Are you aware that someone has written on your rear bumper?
Brody : That fucker.
Cop : 'Scuse me, Son?
Brody : No, Officer, I was not aware of that.
Cop : [walks around to the back of the car and cranes his neck to read] "Four-hundred and twenty rocks." "I love pot."
Brody : That fucker.
Cop : What was that, Son?
Brody : Nothing, sir.
Cop : "Cops R Dumb." "Jesus was a pig..." you get the idea, Son?
Brody : I don't know who could have written that, Officer.
Cop : I'm going to need to search your vehicle for contraband, Son.
Brody : I swear, it's just some asshole playing a prank on me.
Cop : Oh yeah? Then what's that there in your backseat?
Brody : What's what?
Cop : There, sticking out of the pocket of that leather fringe jacket.
Brody : I don't own a leather fringe jacket.
Cop : I'm gonna need you to step out of the car, Son.

A boy can dream, can't he?

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Over The Head

But there was still the issue of Vladimir's mentor. His sick leave had extended to the point of arousing suspicion, though, fortunately, many of the employees of Monsanto Hall don't teach any classes.

I contacted him and informed him of my success, of Vladimir's downfall, in even more excrutiating detail than I gave to you, my readers; while you are always one click away from relief, he was neurologically incapable of telling me to stop. Maybe there's something to this arbitrary brain damage thing....

Rather than reveal Vladimir, thereby indicting himself, he chose to make use of the last of the compoundon himself, in hopes that it might stimulate growth in the lesioned area. With the trigger signal destroyed, he requested that I "administer the necessary head trauma". So I did.

And, you know what, I think I may be satisfied for a while. I cannot describe to you the joy I take in beating people, as seldom as it occurs in my life. However, I think I've reached my limit for a while. I beat my imbecilic foriegn roommate over the head with a steel potato cannon, I beat his megalomanic alter-ego over the head with a computer monitor, and now I've finally lived my dream; I got to beat a Wash U faculty member over the head using a paperweight from his own desk.

There's not enough aerosol in the world to cause the kind of brain damage I have, and I'm glad to say I'm satisfied in knowing that. There's really only one person in the world that I would even consider beating over the head, and trust me, it's on my Things To Do Before I Die-list.


In other news, I'm still a student at this goddamn school, which means final projects and papers are due. Let us all have a guess how much work I've done on them.

So, once more, with feeling:

That is all.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Something Convivial

It was Sunday. As on every day in recent memory, I woke far too early with a feeling like a lead apricot pit in my stomach. I put my ear to the wall and listened...

He left his room, and I tailed him, as I had done for the week prior. Though I was following him, I could not altogether shake the feeling that I, too, was being followed. A look over my shoulder met only a quiet scampering and an oval-shaped piece of feces.

He went where he's been going--the library--and, as always, he swiped his card and opened a door which my card does not open. However, today, made swift by my determination, I slipped a flyer in the crack of the door before the bolt caught. I waited for the other side of the door to clear. Convinced of my safety, I pulled the door open and stepped into darkness.

The upper levels of the library are full of secrets. I heard, once, of a room on the third or fourth floor which contains a full library on the Nazi Holocaust. I had never heard of this room before. It was completely dark, and a few steps forward brought my left knee together with a large metal object. I felt around the object, trying to get an idea of what it was. I found myself groping in the space between it and the wall, at which point I was knocked out by a blow to the head.

A small blow however, as I came to a few minutes later. The room was lit and I could see, now, that the large object was some sort of gas-powered generator. I also saw Vladimir, his pet rat on his shoulder. It was at this point I realized that my arms and legs were tied behind my back.

"Alfonzo, I might ask you to stop interfering if it weren't already too late."

"What have you done?"

"Rather, what am I in the process of doing? I'm making this school number one in the nation, and I'm making my career in the process."

He hit a number of dusty switches and the generator started rumbling. He began connecting cables from the generator to some sort of large computer. Pressing a button, the Windows start-up noise rang out, loud enough to be heard over the generator.

As Vladimir set his plan in motion, I began to fray the rope binding my hands with my fingernails (another reason not to bite them, kids). The sound of multiple television channels came from the computer system.

"I need not make the mistake of telling you my plan. I gather you already know the broad strokes."

"It's unethical,, Vlad. You can't just expose people to any compound you mix up in a lab. You don't know what it will do to people."

"The strong will become stronger. Those who don't survive were too weak to begin with."

"You need to run more tests! You've only tested it two actual people."

"Well, let's make it three." Saying this, he swiveled the monitor of his computer to face me. On it I saw mostly snow, and I heard the same noise that I caught on camera so many weeks ago; the same thing that had caused that freshman girl to fall to the ground, convulsing and bleeding from the nose.

I turned away, but soon Vladimir had taken my head in his hands and turned it towards the screen. I tried to shut my eyes, but he forced them open again.

"Embrace it, Alfonzo. Think how much better we'll get along."

The chaos filled my eyes and ears and I began to feel myself being pushed to the borders of my mind. I felt a trickle of blood collecting in my nose when, in my head, a bell rang in the key of epiphany.

Hit him, you idiot.

So I hit him. Throwing my still-bound arms backward into his stomach, he let go of my head and clutched his chest. I clumsily flung myself forward and hopped, though I don't know why (which is to say, I know that I was hopping because my legs were bound, but I don't know where I thought I was going to hop to).

And if, through all the things I've written for you, you hadn't already figured out that God hates me, here's your chance : I tripped on a nail.

By the time I hit the ground, Vladimir was up and moving towards me. He, through strength I did not know he possessed, picked me up and sat me on my own hands before, once again, turning my head towards the computer screen.

He stood up to swivel the screen again, and you know what? All I could think about was that that bastard had set me down right on the nail I had tripped on. I complained to myself, silently, for a good ten seconds before realizing the great boon he had provided me with.

I hooked my binding over the head of the nail and began wearing it away, far quicker than with my fingernails. I could feel the rope loosening as Vladimir returned to hold my head still, but I tucked my hands further under my legs, out of sight, so that I might undo my leg bindings.

"Alfonzo, you are mistaken in thinking that I am somehow bad. If I were truly bad, I would have killed you by now. But no! I am committed to my vision of a brighter, more intelligent future! So committed, in fact, that I am willing to include you in the vision. Does this mean nothing to you? I want to release you from the bonds of your imbecility. You will be my child."

"Oh will I?" This time, I merely stood up, but Vladimir seemed as breathless now as before. I reached into my pocket for my backup plan, and found nothing.

Vladimir pulled a syringe and vial out of his pocket.

"Alfonzo, your taste for the dramatic has betrayed you. Do you think, just because I'm enmeshed in all of this, that I have stopped reading the blog? I read about your meeting with my unfortunate mentor, and I divined your plan from your heavy-handed narrative. The moment I knocked you out, I took these from you. I must admit, I was expecting you to use bleach, or toothpaste, or some approximation as pathetic as you are. But this," he squinted at the vial, "this would have done everything you wanted it to," he smashed the vial on the ground, "if only I hadn't read about it!"

So, I admit, I was in more than a little trouble. I looked at the cables Vladimir had been connecting to his computer.

"Don't even think about it, Alfonzo. If you touch those, you will die by electrocution."

I drew my hand close to my chest and continued my frantic scan of the room, while trying to avoid looking at the computer screen.

....the computer screen.... I moved towards the computer and surprised myself by twisting the swivel-screen right off.

"You bastard," Vladimir said, growling as he moved towards me. I looked at the heavy flat-screen in my hands, looked at the angry Russian charging my way, and smashed him over the head with it. He fell just as hard as he did in Kansas City.

The prick.

The computer and generator still running and Vladimir out cold, I was at a bit of a loss. I suppose I've seen enough spy movies to know that the bad guy is best left alive and conscious until the plans he precipitated have been brought to an end, but in James Bond's defense, you just don't think of that sort of thing when there's a 180-pound Russian running at you.

I opened the gas tank on the generator, which had apparently been filled recently, so waiting for it to run on empty was out of the question. I turned to find Rat 85 standing on Vladimir's chest. It was something primal, even cro-magnon, that compelled me to do what I did next.

I shoved the rat in the gas tank. I figured that, if pissing in someone's gas tank can break their car, then surely an entire animal in the gas tank will fuck everything up. It took about ten minutes--time which I spent alternately kicking Vladimir's computer and trying not to think of what was going on in that gas tank. Sure enough, the generator began and wheeze and grind and smell a little, until it finally stopped.

I unhooked the cables from the computer and disposed of it in a manner which I choose not to disclose (I learned from my mistake, Vlad).

Let me tell you, just in case you thought otherwise, that I am a good person. I stood above Vlad, thinking about how little I wanted to carry him down from the attic of the library. I swear to you all, I took three steps towards the door, turned around, and dragged that heavy bastard all the way down to the lobby of the library. Needless to say, I attracted a lot of attention. Someone asked me what happened.

"He tripped and fell in the stairwell. I'm his suitemate, and I saw it happened."

A woman behind the counter called an ambulance as I crouched over Vlad's unconscious form. A crowd was converging on us when I noticed, impressed in bright red on his forehead, the word "DELL".

Before the throng descended, I got up and out of the library. As I ran by the people rushing towards Vlad, I heard whispers of "He saved him!" and "Who is that?"

I've never felt more like a hero.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

It's In The Water

He's contaminated the water! I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. I had merely assumed he targeting Bon Appetit venues; how naive of me.

I haven't actually found any proof of this, of course. I've been noticing, all week, that the water from the tap in our bathroom tastes a little funny. Sooner or later, things like this lead me into paranoia, and so I began to suspect some sort of large-scale water contamination.

Now, usually when I come up with paranoid theories, the impetus for the theory disappears and I am revealed, once again, to be just a little too worrisome; I've learned not to talk about these things.

But as my paranoid ideations stepped into full-swing, I made the leap. There is something in the water, and Vladimir put it there. Maybe the funny taste is completely unrelated, just another random flaw to which I attached meaning, but that's not the point. It makes so much sense.

Why use food as a delivery method when there's so much ground to cover. You'd have to freshly contaminate every new shipment of food as it came in, making sure to evenly divide to account for the popularity of the food item in question. And then Passover comes, and all the Jews on campus stop eating Bon Appetit altogether. The food method was full of holes.

But is water Kosher For Passover? You bet your ass it is.


So here's what we know : the compound is in the water, and it has been for weeks. If you drink water at Wash U, then you've already been compromised. The trigger has been refined into a psychoactive television image, which I can only assume will be spliced into the cable of every TV on campus.

I know what he's done, and what he's going to do.

But when is he going to do it?

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Every Breath You Take

I'm watching you. Not all of you, but you.

I'm inside your head. I know what you've been reading.

Because I'm watching you.


Why would someone raid the library for books on infrastructural communication mediums? I think that's fairly obvious.

The time came, this week, to speak to Vladimir's mentor in person. When I arrived, his office door was locked, but I could hear motion and someone talking behind it. I knocked, and a sort of upset groan returned. I knocked again, and the groan returned louder and more desperate. I knelt down to the mail slot (not as uncommon as you might think, a lot of WU faculty who practically live in their offices have these installed) and lifted it open.

"Excuse me. I'd like to talk to you about Vladimir Wipidowsky. I know about the work you two have done together, and I've got enough proof to..." The door opened and I looked up at a broken man, his cheeks slick with tears. He pointed abruptly into his office, and I stepped in as he closed the door.

The office was a mess, and not in the intentional sort of way (like Ed Spitznagel's office. If you ever get the chance, it's in Cupples II); broken coffee mugs, stacks of journals overturned, a swivel chair wheel still spinning in the air. He pointed to a seat that had not been overturned, and I took it.

"I demand to know what is going on, and what you're plan is. If I go to press with what I know, you could lose tenure." The mentor supported his red face in his palm, shaking his head and pushing a piece of paper towards me.

"I have been poisoned by my lab assistant, Vladimir Wipidowsky. In refusing to let him proceed down an unethical path, I made myself his target. He has produced a lesion in my brain which makes difficult, which makes it hard to make words. I can not write enough to arrest, he has more of proof than I. Stop him. Please?"

On top of this scrawled letter was a plastic bag containing an empty vial. "Is this what he used to... what he used on you?"

The mentor nodded.

"Have you got any more of it?"

Friday, March 31, 2006

From A Computer, Darkly

I've been trying to post, and I've had a little trouble getting around to it. First, as always, there's the question of volition; maybe it's just the weather, but I've been in a very talkative mood lately, and so volition hasn't been a problem. So what, then, could my problem be?

Something has been in my room, chewing things. First to go was my ethernet cable, which got chewed through sometime before Tuesday night. Then, after Alan agreed to grant me wireless access through his room, I finally got onto Blogger and put a solid hour into a post. I was maybe fifteen minutes off of finishing when Elucubro (my laptop, and a Latin word for "the light by which one writes") got cranky and started complaining about a low battery. Given that I was sitting at my desk, able to visually confirm the power cord's attachment to the computer, I thought this odd. Thrown off by this peculiar turn of events, I decided to close the computer until I could figure out what the problem was. And, in closing El I, by means that I don't fully comprehend, managed to destroy all that I had written.

The power cord had been chewed through, also at some point before I discovered the problem. Being without a second power cord, Elucubro is in a prolonged sleep until I go shell out for another one. So I'm writing from the Artsci computer lab.

This doesn't suit me, I think. I've got my music playing, but I can't ignore : how terribly uncomfortable this chair is; the fact that I'm surrounded by people looking at eBaums world; the keyboard is filthy with the finger-dirt of countless hundreds of students.

After I buy a new power cord this afternoon, I'm going to move my furniture away from the walls and see if I can figure out how the sharp-toothed menace is getting in. If I find the bastard himself, I have every intention of eighty-sixing him, minus one.

-Alfonzo

Monday, March 27, 2006

Guts

It's a feeling from the deepest parts of my intestines; something very wrong has been allowed to happen, and I feel that this is my fault. Or, at least, I'm the only person who could have done anything (Fuck towels. Don't forget to bring a flashlight). Vlad made off with a handcart full of biochemical engineering, to do with as he wishes. If his target is the Food Court in Mallinkrodt, I hope he doesn't hit the wrap station; I'd hate to have to give those up.

In other news... let's see... what other news is there? The door of the DeLorean has shut and we're all rocketing towards Graduation at 88 miles per hour; they've got us planning out our futures before we've even finished our future past. I'm fortunate that the English major, even when combined with a Writing minor, is not particularly difficult to obtain. As long as I don't fail anything, I could graduate early. Only a semester early, but it's nice to know that my hard work and planning (LOLOMGfuckingROFL) have actually expanded my options. I try to think of what I'd do with a semester to myself, and I think I'd probably commit suicide; not in the depressed or self-punitive sort of way, but only because I imagine anyone would kill me if they were trapped alone with me for four months. Thoughts? Comments?

I keep getting Facebook messages from this guy I hung out with last year, back on Beau 2.
Don't seem so surprised to learn that I had a life before Suite 3100. Not everyone finds their prime group of friends right away; even so, looking at the way this year is going with the three Dwarves (Mopey, Stocky and Russky), maybe I switched doors when I should have stayed. Fuck you, Monty Hall. Fuck you, smartest woman in the world.

Maybe I should give ol' Skimmy (the guy from Beau 2, for those of you who can't maintain multiple lines of context) a call, drive to the Steak and Shake instead of walking there (oh, being a Freshman sucked). It's not like I'm, somehow, above my Beaumont floormates, though the same is not true of those fuckers on Beau 1. I swear, if Pre-med classes and food were made available on Beau 1, nobody would ever leave, not even for a fire drill.

-Alfonzo

Monday, March 20, 2006

Cold War

3/9/06
With a little help from my good friend Vladimir, I've infiltrated Monsanto Hall. I've only been inside Monsanto once before, with Alan, to check out the basement entrance to Hilltop Campus' underground tunnel system. The building, itself, is a terrible place that smells of either Ether or very potent alcohol. It is a soulless building, probably as a result of the things that go on inside. I don't know anything for sure, but the building was bought and is funded by Monsanto Chemical, a company which has a less than spotless reputation. I planted my new toy in the dirt of a potted cactus. After class, tomorrow, I will set up camp 150 ft to the South, on the fourth floor of the Psych building. Alan shouldn't miss his ID card in Florida.

3/10/06
Alan's card did the trick, as I'm now safely inside his fabled Rat and Pigeon lab. If not for his stoner's memory (and, consequently, the section of post-it note with his PIN for the lab door, stuck on the front of his ID) I never could have gotten in. I've brought my equipment (camcorder, headphones, reciever) and a week's worth of hummus and chips. The research buildings on campus are too well protected and patrolled for me to risk coming in and out all week; my understanding is that there are motion detectors, and perhaps a few security cameras, and I know that the WUPD keeps records of any ID card swipe.
My cactus cam works! A little wireless spy cam from RadioShack is broadcasting to me across the 150 foot gap between Monsanto and Psych! The box said it had a maximum of 300 ft, and I'm here in the only location available within range! (Excuse my excitement)
Still, there's nothing to see at 6 PM on a Friday. Everyone has gone home for the day, or for the weekend. The R&P lab has an armchair I can sleep in, and from the looks of the cushion, someone of about Alan's weight and girth has slept here on more than one occasion.
I went into the animal holding rooms and met the infamous Rat #85, whose cage has been marked with a black X. I paid my respects.

3/11/06
"What would you like to become, Vladimir?"
"Better."
The mentor and his apprentice started work early today, so I've had a few hours to get up to speed. The abili-compound exists in a functional form, a slightly improved version of what Vlad was exposed to. They are working on similar compounds that enhance more than just the mind, but it does not seem to be going well; a number of test animals have died. Just from listening in, at least 3 rats and a possum have died. It sounds like they're just grabbing animals off the street.
The secondary project is perfecting the delivery of the existing compound. It attaches itself readily to protein, so it seems like meat is the ideal delivery system (notes : the compound has to be added through meat processing, and so most chicken and fish, and basically anything that isn't ground up, doesn't work). Vlad calls this delivery method "unsatisfactory" because of something to do with cooking. Maybe the compound is mostly destroyed when the meat is cooked?

Vlad has been using syringes on himself, but only when he is alone. What is he doing?

3/12/06
Some sort of breakthrough, it sounds like. Vlad had to have a concussion before his brain could reboot. The test animals only need to fall asleep before the abili-compound takes effect. It seems like they've found, or are on the verge of finding a way to trigger the effects in humans without head trauma. There is some talk of human subjects, but that sort of thing should be impossible; there's too much red tape involved with human testing, and it should take years.
They're working on some trigger medium, but there's no mention of what it might be. Maybe another chemical?

8:03 p.m.
Vlad has remained in the lab, several hours after his mentor left. He has injected himself twice, and he's otherwise spent his time watching a TV. The screen is out of view, but the sound is like white noise with short interspersed tones.

3/13/06
The mentor found Vlad asleep in the lab, and there seems to be some tension. Is Vlad doing something in secret, some third project?
I think I underestimated what a week's worth of hummus looks like. I may have to ration the rest to avoid trouble.
1:13 p.m.
Vlad has revealed his secret! A protein which attaches itself to the abili-compound which makes it water-soluble. The mentor seems less than thrilled, or maybe just flustered.
Another rat died in the first project.

3/14/06
I heard footsteps approach the lab door, followed by a sort of fumbling at the door. I grabbed the equipment and ducked into an empty cabinet. Within a few minutes, the door opened and the footsteps entered. They stopped at the center of the room, then moved in the direction of the animal holding room. I wasn't sure if one of Alan's higher-ups had come, or a cop or the janitor or somebody else, so I just crouched and watched Vlad's empty lab. A minute later, the footsteps returned, accompanied by a sort of metal rattle. The main door opened and clicked shut, but I stayed put. Three minutes passed, and Vlad appeared on-screen with a cage in his arms. One of the rat cages. I popped out of the cabinet and ran to the holding rooms. Rat #85, along with his cage, is now gone.

1:36 a.m.
Vlad has added something to #85's water-bottle.
1:45 a.m.
I think he gassed the rat or something. It looked like some sort of gas, and it came out of a hose on his lab bench.
2:10 a.m.
The rat is now out of the cage and acting quite docile on the lab bench. Vlad is speaking to the rat, but I don't think the rat has learned language or anything bizarre like that. It seems more like an endearing thing. Still, isn't this rat supposed to be hell on paws?
3:23 a.m.
After some number of tests, none of which I could see from the cactus, Vlad put the rat back in its cage and left with it. He has not returned to the R&P. If he lets that thing loose in the suite, I'm going to kill him.

9:00 a.m.
Fucking Russians. How does he wake up at 9 on a Tuesday when he was up until 3:30 the night before? I need more sleep than this.

6:51 p.m.
Vlad and his mentor left two hours ago, and now Vlad is back with some girl. Looks like a freshman, but I've never seen her around before. He's brought booze with him.
7:32 p.m.
He drugged her! He got her nice and loose and then he poured something into her drink and damn it, she's drinking it. He turned the TV on and sat her down in front of it. She laughed like a drunk and tried to kiss him, but he moved her head to face the TV again. Same white noise as before, and I still can't see the screen.
7:35 p.m.
She fell over. She fell off the chair she was in and onto the ground. Vlad is bending over her, but I can't see what's going on.
7:37 p.m.
Vlad helped her back into the chair and turned the TV off. She complained of a terrible headache, and Vlad offered to take her home. They left. What the hell did he do to her?

3/15/06
Around noon, Vlad showed up with his freshman floozie on one arm and the rat cage under the other. Vlad showed his mentor something that he taught the rat to do, and Mr. mentor seemed impressed. By the end of this display, the rat was perched on Vlad's shoulder.
He then did some sort of memory task on his floozie, the results of which also seemed to impress the mentor. The floozie gave Vlad a kiss and left, at which point the mentor started shouting about ethics and lawsuits and possible side-effects and death. Vlad said something about Monseiur Broca knocking off a few patients, to which the mentor replied "Unacceptable!"
I hoped that this was the end of the whole project, but my hopes were defeated. They detailed a cover-up, "the girl must never know what has happened," and the mentor left in a huff.
Vlad worked peacefully for the next few hours, occasionally feeding the reformed Rat #85.
I'm officially out of food, and the water cooler in the R&P is getting low. I may have to be hungry for a while.

3/16/06
Nothing outstanding today. No new breakthroughs, no mention of the floozie, and the rat seems to be doing fine. Vlad spent most of the day filling jugs. Maybe his mentor has demoted him, or restricted him to menial tasks or something. It all looks pretty boring.

3/17/06
More of the same, really. Just mixing, stirring, and filling jugs. All of the animals in the first project are dead, having died off throughout the last few days. Vlad was instructed to take the bodies to an incinerator.
I found a bag of peanuts in a drawer in the R&P lab. They've got a fridge, but it's full of Diet Coke.

11:36 p.m.
Vlad came onscreen with a wheeled cart, loaded the jugs onto it, and left. I've been watching out the window of the R&P lab, and he hasn't left Monsanto. There are no lights on on this side of the building.
11:43 p.m.
I called Maggie, who bailed on the last 15 minutes of her shift in the ARC to tell me that no lights are on on the far side of the building. I'm certain he hasn't left the building.
The basement.

3/18/06 (reconstructed from memory)
I grabbed my equipment and made a run for it. I dumped it all into a bush and tried to card into Monsanto; red light. I tried using Alan's card; also red light. I took off across campus, to the manhole beside Louderman. Down into the tunnels, without a flashlight. I couldn't see anything, but I could hear the slow cycle of a squeaky wheel coming from my left. I tried to suss out a path with my hands, only to burn my middle finger on a pipe. Shuffling slowly, I tried to move in the direction of the sound. A voice called out, "Who's there? This area is off-limits!"
I shouted back, "Vlad, I've been watching you. I know everything that you've done and I've come to stop you."
The squeaking wheel stopped. There was silence and darkness, save for the pish of steam and the dripping of water. I shuffled back towards the manhole and burned my elbow a little bit in the process. I climbed back outside and was greeted by flashing lights.
The cops. The fucking cops. I didn't even try to explain it to them. They wouldn't have believed a word of it, and I would have gotten in even deeper shit. In the end, I got off with a warning and a promise that if I was caught trespassing again, yada yada, WUPD-fucking-doo. I collected my equipment from the bush and went back to the suite. I raided the fridge and left Vlad a message on his door. In bloody, reeking ketchup I wrote, "I Will Destroy You."

-Alfonzo

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Gal Müeller

For the purpose of review, go back and read the first half of "Collision", and then stop before you read the second half; you don't want to read that again.

So, apparently I was right. I had a shot, opportunity coincided with desire, and I shared a bed for an evening with the intriguing young Freshman girl from Maggie's party. You know, the 17-year-old social mastermind in demi-punk attire, the one you read about when you clicked back just a paragraph ago. You didn't click back? Tsk-tsk.

Gal Müeller. Subconsciously, I've always had a rule against girls of German descent; it's never really come up before, all two times I've been close enough to one to enforce such rules. This third time around, I see how quick I am to abandon my own internal moral caveats. It's pretty much okay, though, because she's Jewish.

Oh, the joys of a Jewish girl. It's always been a secret wish of mine to get involved with a Jewish girl, though I'm not sure why. Their black hair waves at me, too proud to curl outright. Their rich culture wafts to me like baking bread, whispers of "Challah, Mitzvah, Mazel tov". Pale skins take refuge from the sun over a coffee and a conversation,and Woody Allen drools from the corner.

So it finally happened. You may have noticed that I'm being rather ambiguous with regard to the details, and that's no mistake. I won't say anything about the nature of our relations, not for reasons of discretion (when have I ever shown discretion?) but because I don't want to jinx it.

I'll say that the furniture in my room appreciates their additional utility, as well as the scent of more than my ass and sock-feet. I'll say that Johnny-5 appreciates having a regular passenger to shuttle. I'll say that it's better to leave the window open just a little bit, so there's an excuse to cover and curl up. I'll say that getting less sleep never felt this good.

I'm holding my breath for the statement of terms. One of the remarkable things about it is that, so far, no terms of engagement have officially been stated. Perhaps one could call it a marriage of temporal convenience, but that would undermine the spirit of it. There's a genuine spirit of enjoyment, without the sense of expendability that comes along with one-night stands.

I'll be honest! I wasn't expecting anything more than a one-night stand. I counted myself lucky that I'd had that much, and figured I'd just chalk another name up to the past. But when the phone rang on Sunday.... Sunday, for God's sake! Sunday isn't just a throwaway day that you give to anybody, is it? Sunday is the Lord's day (though some guy with a billboard in Georgia thinks something else), after all.

But what does any of that have to do with me? And how can we explain her return the very next day?

No, I won't say any more about it, lest I tempt fate. It's strange to think that the fates have never been on my side before, or I never thought they were before. This "sunniness" lodged in my disposition is covertly integrating itself into me, becoming less of a nuisance with every passing day. Could Gal's appearance mean that there are some benefits to not being stone solemn all the time?

Gal Müeller... it makes the tongue dance. Just follow your tongue when you say it: the back of the tongue touches the back of the roof of your mouth, then the tension slides from the cheeks to close the lips for just a moment, before the tip of the tongue bounces off the alveolar plate. Gal Müeller.


Enough! Before I go, I'll say that I, like Vladimir, will be staying in St. Louis for Spring Break. There's information that needs collecting, and I may have to kill a few people in thr process. Such is the life of an espion, it seems.

-Alfonzo

Monday, March 06, 2006

Placeholder

I'm posting this to make sure that I post tomorrow.

-Alfonzo

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Able Young Burgers

The din of evil rings out from the Abili-Burger; there are too many things wrong with this idea, though I'm not sure why; I'm not an ethicist, apparently.

It has a great potential for abuse; imagine American soldiers fed on abili-MREs for strength enhancement, visual acuity or mental prowess. Who's to keep these soldiers from deciding that they're God, or some demigod, and then exacting their wishes on the world? And how do we combat them? With more super-Whoppers, and more mentally deranged men and women?

Worse still, what's to prevent Disadvantageaburgers, designed to lower the metabolism of the consumer and ruin the efficacy of his body? Is there a difference between a posion which kills you outright and a compound that turns your genes against you? Does it matter how the poison works, if it kills you in the end?

And worse still, why does it have to be a burger? Has McDonald's bought MacDonnell Hall? Has the Beef Industry got a steak in this (har har)?

This will never make it past the review boards. No chance in hell.

-Alfonzo

Oh, Post-Scriptum : I recieved one reply to my recent offer from a very kind woman to whom I owe much respect. I'm still thinking about everything she wrote to me, and I hope to reply to her (in private, you voyeurs) by the end of the week. Nobody else has taken me up on my offer, which saddens me. Some may say that they haven't got time to waste coddling some eugenisist college student, but they've obviously got the time to hunt down and frequent an obscure, unpopular blog; I don't see the difference in time commitment, but I do see the difference in emotional commitment.

-Alfonzo ('cause nobody ever minds seeing my name twice)

Sunday, February 26, 2006

An Offer

Just as I haven't, and will not, delete any of the comments left on the blog, I similarly refuse to delete my initial offending post. I will consider, however, removing or amending my most recent post, "Ex-Post Asshole" because of Lesley in Arkansas's very wise and reasonable treatment of this issue. But those are just logistics; here is my offer :

Lesley in Arkansas, my e-mail address is respectthefringe@gmail.com. I'd like to initiate some sort of conversation that does not go through the blog, and I'd like to do it for three reasons : 1. I think I could learn some things from you. I say this both because you possess wisdom--certainly wisdom beyond my own--and because you speak with moderation--I listen very poorly to people without it.
2. The blog is, necessarily, public, and I think a public conversation would be less meaningful or effective than a private one.
3. A conversation through e-mail is more mutual than one through the blog. Within "Go West, Young Man," I speak to a number of people on a number of subjects, whereas your comments are directed mostly towards me. I'd rather speak only to you, again for the sake of efficacy.

Any and all aside from LIA who read this and would like to engage in some sort of one-on-one correspondance, I'd be more than happy to. I won't respond to threats, whether active or passive, and I won't respond to attacks on my integrity. What I'm looking for is a discussion of morality and ethics.

-Alfonzo

Saturday, February 25, 2006

Ex-Post Asshole

I recieved some seriously backdated comments just a few minutes ago, and I wanted to clarify the motivation behind my early January post, "Offend Everyone".

But first, let's go line for line :
"I am STUNNED at how you think your right to free speech means that you don't claim responsibility for upsetting people with your words."--Part of my intention in writing this post was, actually, to bring some of that responsibility onto my own head. The whole Angelman's fiasco was getting far too much attention, and it was becoming an emotional burden too heavy to bear. I aimed (and failed, I might add) to attract some of the attention away by writing an even more venemous and blindly ignorant rant. Is this not claiming responsibility? Was I not fully aware of the potential negative effects?

"Right to say what you want does NOT give you immunity from criticism."--I didn't say, or even imply, that it did; nor did I say or imply that the Angelman's fiasco was undeserving of criticism. What you may not know is that the Angelman's parents group went through three stages : first, they harassed and threatened; second, they petitioned the school to revoke student status and/or scholarships; third, they tried to inflate the issue further by getting a pointy-headed Post-Dispatch op-ed columnist to write about miscontextualized quotes. By all means, what is said can and SHOULD be criticized, but the behavior of the Angelman's parents goes far beyond mere criticism. Or wouldn't you agree?

"I find it funny that you and you fellow bloggers aren't making racial slurs, or slurs against ethic minorities, or slurs against homosexuals or any other marginalized group. Why?"--This is actually a sore point for me. I had intended to "Offend Everyone" but the process was so long and tedious (and, at times, heartwrenching) that I gave up on my greater goal and stuck to the birth defects. If you'd like me to write a post full of racial slurs, slurs against ethnic minorities, slurs against homosexuals or some other marginalized group, I'd be glad to do so, you nigger kyke fag with a lisp (just a guess).

"Yeah, the KKK marches in my town. That's their right. So does Fred Phelps and his bunch of idiots. That's their right.
And yes, I lump you into that group."--Who, me?

" Just because you can say something doesn't mean you should. And if you do, well, be prepared to deal with the consequences, which include pissed off people."--I beg to differ on the first line; I think no stone should go unturned, no hateful thought should be supressed, no inkling of resentment for another should go unexplored. If we give in to the society of political correctness, we'll reach a point where nobody can take a joke, or where there are certain colors of people who you feel you aren't allowed to criticize. If you keep all of your worst thoughts inside, they begin to rot and cause damage, and that's where the truly troubling thoughts come from.

You can hide your explicit thoughts, but you can't hide your feelings. I, for example, have a latent fear of African-Americans; the truth of my fear is that I feel guilty for being white, and I am constantly afraid of being criticized for the sins of my people (and myself. We all perpetrate these crimes, no matter how small). But, if I hide that thought away, don't allow myself to think about it, then I'll just be left with a fear of black people and no way to explain it. Sooner or later, I'll rationalize my fear with some ludicrous theory about the width of their noses being intimidating, or their preternatural strength being a constant threat to my well-being.

All of the worst, most misguided and irrational ideas come from not saying what you really think. If you get your tiny, stupid little hangups out of your system, then they can't grow up into bigger, more vehement ones. For everyone's information, I haven't had a malicious thought about the genetically disadvantaged since writing my post, where I used to be a strong advocate of late-stage abortions and post-natal euthenasia for socially non-functional genetically disabled children. Who knows what latent hate I had in me towards these children, but it seems to have been flushed out.

*Sigh* Another anonymous comment. I wish you people would at least use a pseudonym. Otherwise, you just come across as a torso with a metal rod up your ass.

That is all.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Collision

I can't explain the subject-line. I suppose it's because the entire week since I last posted will collide in this one (hopefully monstrous) post.

Taking time out from the quest for melancholy, I spent an awful lot of time in Maggie's apartment over the weekend. For those of you thinking, "But wait, I thought Maggie was Alan's friend," I point out that Alan has not been at his most social lately(though to say he's been completely out of touch would, as of Saturday night, prove false); Maggie stopped by for a sanity check and, gregarious and magnetic as she is, invited me to a small gathering for the purposes of getting stoned and watching movies. I suggested a film that I recently acquired, Wizards and, after hearing the plot, she quite enthusiastically accepted my film nomination. I met all sorts of dark and stormy individuals, many of whom are into BDSM-type stuff, and many of whom offered to try their best to make me hate life, if it should ever come to such a desperate stage. I had such a good time (who is this typing? is this even me?) that I came back the next night (third in a string of parties, the first two being goodwill appearances) and met even more great people. By the end of the night, I had invited Maggie and her boy, Grace, to see Sigur Rós with me this week, as I had four tickets but only one body. They agreed, and we recruited a fourth from the ranks of the party.

I have a habit, though, of fixation. If I see a girl often enough, I'll start to fixate on her. I find out her name, then periodically check their Facebook information; finding the name seems easy enough, but I do it without ever speaking a word. Well, eventually my fixation dwindles and I move on to another "lucky" lady. This is what I substitute for actual interactive relationships.

So, Saturday night, I met this freshman girl at Maggie's. She's hyper-socialized, the kind of girl who's an absolute social genius, only second term and she's already got veins of influence running all over campus. She's only 17, but it seems like she's already been around the block at least once, if not many many times. Kind of a goth-esque outfit; maybe more punk-goth, or just plain punk. Or maybe she was just.... cute. And she seemed like she was into me, maybe, just a little...

(..........fuck)

It's been five days, and I figured out that I've checked her facebook profile more than five times since meeting her. This does not bode well, as they say. If, and that's an if of a magnitude that Atlas could not comfortably bear... if I've got a shot at something, here, I really don't want to come across as the brooding narcissistic writer/stalker-type, but I don't know if I can lie well enough to come off as anything else. Agh, never has angst felt so.... spritely?

And so, Sunday and Monday preceded Tuesday. Tuesday was a plagued day, during which none of the small things that I take for granted worked properly (it's funny, because I just read a short story by a guy in my Fiction Writing class about a person who lost his mind under the same conditions) : My alarm clock reset itself during the night; not just the sort of reset that could have easily been my mistake, but a full blown memory wipe. By god's grace (Fuck You, Capitalist Deity), I woke up in time to get to class, but it was closer than I like to cut it. While scrambling to get my clothing on and properly adjusted, I realized that my driver's license had gone missing. I knew that my "wallet" (see, four plastic cards in my back pocket) had fallen out the night before, and I found every card but the license. I checked my pants and my room over three times, eventually shaking the pants upside-down before throwing them across the room.

After my long day, I was reminded that the door to the stairwell which leads to the suite doesn't like me. I swipe once, and the door won't open even though the light is green; I have to wait for it to turn red, then swipe again. It always works the second time, and never the first. I crumble into bed and unwind by playing SNES roms (Fuck You, Naysayers) until I get a phone call from the fourth Sigur Rós attendee. She tells me she is too sick to go, and makes mention of the concert being that night, Tuesday the 21st. Now, within the walls of my brain, every piece of paper or website or schedule I had seen had informed me that the concert was on Wednesday the 22nd. Even my memory of the tickets told me that the concert was in 25 hours and not, in fact, in 1. I checked the tickets again, just to be sure.

(........fuck)

Of course, at this point, I really need my driver's license. I overturned a chair in the hunt for it, and still couldn't find it. While resting from the frantic card search, I called my freshman fixation to ask her to fill the fourth position, but she didn't pick up. I was out of time, so I left without the license and immediately ran into the freshman on the way out of my building. But, alas, she was busy! I continued running, convened with Maggie and Grace, and made tracks to The Pageant. And though we had to stand the whole time, it was absolutely thrilling (with the notable exception of the opening group, the female string quartet that plays behind Sigur Rós).

I wasn't done with my homework until 2:30 a.m., at which point I stepped into the bathroom to have my pre-sleep piss and, lowering my pants, I heard the tap of plastic on the floor behind me. I turn to find my driver's license, fallen from some hidden inter-dimensional space within my pants. I think it would have benefitted my sanity more to have simply lost the license, rather than finding it where I looked most extensively. Though, with that done, I passed out and got a much-earned five and a half hours of sleep.

I'll keep you posted on the freshman. Cross your fingers, I guess.

-Alfonzo

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Debris

I have a fluctuating ability to become invisible; not invisible as though I could photograph myself and I wouldn't appear, but in the sense that people who know me well can walk within a few feet of me without ever realizing that I'm there. Perceptive people. People who can't eat a meal on campus without stopping to talk to everyone they know. People who relish the opportunity to leap onto me.

It's not merely that I stand in the shadows, or that their opportunity to notice me was too brief. It happens even when people are walking directly toward me for hundreds of feet.

I've tested the degree of control I have over this ability: three months into a 5-day-a-week class, with 22 students packed into six columns and four rows of desks, the professor going systematically up and down the rows with his questions, jumped from the person behind me to the person in front of me. I had counted out the questions, and realized that I was to be asked one for which I had no answer. Rather than using my confirmable abilities to figure out the answer, I concentrated on becoming invisible. And it worked. I have no other postive confirmations of this ability.


I have a strange relationship with signal-recieving electronic devices. In High School, my "atomic clock" (which recieves a signal from the National Atomic Clock in Texas) gave me a series of strange omens. At around 11:45 PM, in March of 2002, it displayed the date "7/18". I marked my calendar accordingly, and around 11:45 PM on July 18th, it displayed the date "10/26".
I, of course, being the fractured soul that I was in High School, took this to mean that something big was going to happen on October 26th; my leading suspicion was that either I or the entire world was in mortal peril.

Then, on October 26th, around 11:45 PM, it displayed "d.34". That was, as they say, where I got off. If I had been less in-tune with reality, I might have sought some sort of psychotic interpretation of the mysterious letter and numerals, but even I wasn't crazy enough for that.

The other device which gives me pause is my cell phone. All last year, my cell phone would occasionally display phantom calls; a number would appear in my recieved or dialed calls list that I had neither recieved nor dialed. I made a point of confirming these phantoms by calling those who I had apparently been in contact with to make sure that no contact had actually been made. The most frequent phantom was a friend from Junior High, Noah, who I had all but abandoned by the end of High School. It was, of course, awkward when I called him up, after years of only minimal communication, to ask if he'd called me or if I'd called him. He said "no" every time, and the conversation was over.

A less frequent, yet repeated phantom is the little brother of my friend, Muriel. Upon upgrading my phone this Summer, the phantom Noah disappeared and was replaced by Muriel's little brother. He, too, awkwardly confirmed that our phones had not actually connected. I think these people must think I'm nuts.

Today's phantom was a new one, and by far the strangest. My phone was on silent at the time it occurred, but I so wish it hadn't been. The phantoms occur silently, showing up without ringing, but part of me wonders if this one would have rung.

I keep my own cell phone number stored in my phone, an artifact from a time when I couldn't remember it, under the name "Me". You can imagine my surprise when I saw I had a missed call from "Me". What's even stranger is that the number listed has a digit wrong; area code "504" instead of "404". I checked, and the listing is correct in my phonebook. So...well, that's odd, isn't it?


I don't know if other people's lives are haunted by technological spectres, but I believe I am a minority in my experiences. In searching for an explanation, I look to my ancestry. My mother's father was a farmer, a man of few words and simple means. And every watch he ever wore stopped dead within a few days.

I don't know if there's a connection, or even a rational explanation for these strange happenings, but I like to believe that there's something extraordinary going on.

-Alfonzo

Saturday, February 04, 2006

No, Jesus, I Don't Want Your Card

I have been, as of my last post, seeking spiritual and philosophical guidance in the various nooks and crannies of Wash U's campus. For the most part, my pleas have fallen on deaf ears, with all the philosophy majors busy developing theses and wallowing in pits of self-loathing. However, I managed to find one second-year grad student willing to humor me. He prescribed a regimen of "smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and staring off into the distance." It sounded simple enough, at the time, but a man searching for nothingness is like a beacon to the harpies of embraced existence.

Yesterday, I found a bench in the Brookings quad, sipped my mocha and took two drags before the pillars and stonework began to melt out of my consciousness. No sooner than the sky began to slip away, I was confronted by two young men; a skinny white boy and a chap who looked, for all the world, like a Philipino. They wanted to know if I would take their survey. Descending back into the cave of shadows, I said yes.

They asked me what three words I would use to describe my life : "Surprising," I said, digging for any other neutral adjectives at my disposal. "Perpetual," I said, again, aiming to outline the aspects of any life, not specifically my own. But I was out, strapped for neutrality. Instead, I let slip a tiny ember to fuel their fire. "Promising?" I said, shamed.

They asked me something I intend to do before I die : "Visit all 50 states," I said. The white boy asked if I'd been to Montana, his hailing peak, and I said no, but asked if he lived in the half that Ted Turner owns. Apparently he lives somewhere near the Ted-line. The Philipino then revealed that he was, in fact, Russian, which led me to amend my previous assessment and place his area of origin in Southeast Russia, near Mongolia.

They asked me what I believe exists after death, and still I remain oblivious to their aims : "I don't know, but if there isn't a hot tub, I'm not interested." The white boy laughed at this, but the humor was lost on the Russian. Perhaps his ancestors were the victims of an obscure genocide in which they were boiled alive; I didn't dare ask.

They asked me, if a friend of mine approached me for advice about becoming a Christian, what would I tell them. Their agenda revealed, I inadvertedly snapped my cigarette in half. They had trapped me : "I would tell him to make sure he was fully aware of the moral and ethical codes that he was agreeing to." This answer led the white boy into a monologue about how, to an outsider, it may seem that Christianity is forbidding and full of rules, but that the truth was in Christ's sacrifice; though there are plenty of rules, Christ martyred himself so that his followers could be forgiven for their trespasses. I listened, only so I could smile and nod at the appropriate places. His pupils were the smallest I'd ever seen, and I began to wonder if the spiritual ecstacy of Sunday Services was the only thing that dialated those pin-pricked eyes of his.

Finally, they asked me, on a scale from 1 to 10, how important it was for me to find God : "Seven has always been a good number," I said, and took a drag off my new cigarette. Though my answer had no hooks, nothing explicit to respond to, the white boy took off again on a rant about his courtship with Christ. Smile, nod, sip, drag, sip, smile, drag, nod, sip, nod, drag, smile. The Russian's name was Uri, and the white boy's name escapes me, now. They walked on, satisfied with their attempt to penetrate my soul, and I sat smugly, reinforced by the knowledge that one doesn't need to stare off into the distance when there's a perfectly good intellectual void right in front of you, singing the Gospel.

Still, I am afflicted by my reckless enjoyment of life, but I am beginning to see that it is not by isolating myself that I will escape. No, the best way to become disillusioned with humanity is to look it in the face, and listen to it prattle on about all the empty vessels it worships.

That is all.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

In Des Peres

I need help, of the clinical variety, and soon.

I didn't know what to make of it, when I arrived in St. Louis; I assumed that it was just a passing thing, nothing to worry about, part of the ebb and flo of my tattered psyche. A week later, I see that I've got a problem that only drug therapy and the medically trained can solve. But who, among them, will listen?

Yes, since arriving in St. Louis, I have been trailed by the one thing more ominous than a dark cloud. I find myself under no cloud at all, and it disturbs me. Happiness (shudder) has crept into my life, and I don't know how. I don't think I've let my defenses down, nor have I introduced myself to any new things. All week, I've done nothing but homework, taking breaks only to brood in my room. I've rejected social engagements and spited those that made attempts to reach out to me (behaviors which have reliably supplied me with the bitterness and bile that keeps me going), but instead of self-righteousness, what do I feel? Regret?! Hells bells, you greasy-fingered blog-biters; have I lost my knack for unsolicited hatred?

I went to my fortress of solitude this afternoon--Westfield--and was yet uninspired to hate. I sat and watched hundreds of bubble-headed consumers float from store to store, consuming and constructing a better self out of manufactured wares, but I felt nothing. I could talk your ear off about how their conspicuous masturbation is slowly killing them inside, but it would be without feeling. The fire is gone, or, at least, dampened.

I expect that the University psychiatric department will cast me aside, so I've begun looking for the school's best and brightest young philosophers. This is something that only a healthy dose of nihilism and existentialism can cure. Who could smile, after all, knowing that there is nothing more than that smile's physicality, and whatever arbitrary meaning I may attach to it?

But my philosophical knowledge is too shallow for my purposes. I'm looking for a man who has stopped shaving, bathing, eating and sleeping; and I'm looking for him to imbue me with whatever has destroyed his will.

Until then, who knows what I'll do...

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Prodigal Son-Of-A-Bitch

And so, I return. I return in many ways; to the blog, to St. Louis, to the suite itself... forced into a double room, as a freshman, I did not have the pleasure of returning to a room which had been undisturbed for nearly three weeks. Opening the door to my Suite 3100 single (Room 3102) was like entering a hotel room that had all my things in it. It still smells like me, though I hardly spent any time here during finals.

The holidays are hell for me. Thanksgiving clear on to New Year's just seems like everyone else's party, while I sit and gnaw on cold turkey. I hate holiday food, with a passion that consumes my very vitals. I get no relief until New Years' Day, on which my mother serves a pork roast, collard greens and black-eyed peas; this is, apparently, a Southern superstition that claims a meal such as this one wards off bad luck in the coming year. Though fattened and spoiled by her wealth, my mother retains some traces of her rural roots. I don't scorn her for it; where she came from is better than where she is.

I spent my New Year's Eve, to employ a terrible cliché, cold and alone. I hate everyone I knew in high school, and my overarching apathy kept me from looking for places to go. I sat in my room and watched TV. As a side note, Dick Clark's post-stroke countdown was one of the most horrifying things I've ever seen. There he was, in stunning high-definition, mumbling and prattling on about how great it was to be there, how many people were in the crowd... anyone else who watched already knows that he botched the countdown. "10, 9, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New Year!" In Dick Clark's oxygen-deprived mind, 2006 rang in a whole two seconds early, this year. I pity him, honestly I do, but the walking dead should not be allowed on TV.

My drive back to St. Louis was peaceful, which is a new thing for me. I took a picture of a bridge that I go over every trip. I once took a picture of the same bridge while chauffering a stuffed skunk from Atlanta to St. Louis (a sort of bizarre gift to my freshman floor RA, Ruby).

Somehow, it's good to be back. It's good to be anywhere at all, after being nowhere for the last three weeks.

That is all, I guess.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Hell On Wheels

It figures. It just fucking figures. The first time all break that I went downtown, I hit one of Atlanta's famous metal plates and got a flat. Middle of the fucking afternoon, and I hadn't even gotten to where I was going. So I rode Johnny-5 over to Kaufman Tire, took the necessary photographs, and turned my boy in blue over to the greasemonkeys.

"Two hours," they told me. I gawked. What did they expect me to do with two hours?



I found myself in the worst shopping establishment in the world. If you'll all please look at the sign, I'd like to note that almost every store that could concievably have reason for a drive-thru window, had one; I was stranded, on foot, in a place where people will only leave their cars if they absolutely must.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the intersection of Cheshire Bridge and LaVista, please consult my bird's eye illustration of the area :

I surveyed my options, and found only disappointment. I could eat lunch again, seek employment, get my nails done, buy beads (BEADS! FUCKING BEADS! Why is this a store?), or get my hair done; tempted as I was by Rey Ronaldo, I bought a pack of cigarettes at the CVS and started sifting through my phonebook.

The simple-minded might say that I "don't have many friends." I wouldn't expect them to understand that it is quite the opposite; not many friends have me. Semantics aside, most of the people in my phone live far, far away, in places where they fill in potholes, instead of covering them with sharp metal rectangles. I called Alan, who doesn't live too far from there, but he didn't answer.

My options were depleted. I called Carl.

I don't hate Carl. This is, maybe, the highest compliment he can hope to recieve from me as long as my frontal lobe remains online and unaltered. He was a good sport about everything, said he'd pick me up and I could loaf at his apartment until the car was ready, "as long as you don't mind video games." I gagged a little, but he wasn't there to see it.

Just as I sat down in Carl's apartment, Kaufman called to tell me the rim of the wheel was bent, and it would take a day to replace it. I gawked, while Carl and his roommate, Zak, tried to guess what the bad news was.

I don't blame Carl, and I don't blame myself. I blame the City of Atlanta. It's their fault that my tire got popped, my wheel got bent, I got stuck in a mongrel excuse for a shopping center, had to hang out with Carl all afternoon, and couldn't get picked up until 11. I hold Mayor Shirley Franklin personally responsible for my hardship, and I will demand full retribution.

I knew I never should have left Alpharetta. It just fucking figures.

That is all.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Offend Everyone

This is not a demonstration of free speech. My right to free speech need not be demonstrated; it is immutable.

Let’s start at the beginning of the alphabet, shall we?

Amniotic Band Syndrome : This is an ugly one, everyone, but it confirms my suspicions about women and the vagina dentata. Basically, ABS occurs when mommy’s womb tries to eat baby. “…believed to be caused by entrapment of fetal parts (usually a limb or digits) in fibrous amniotic bands while in utero.” Nobody tell the Chinese about this one; they’d be binding feet in utero before you can say “That’s just wlong”.
Anencephaly : Easily my favorite flavor of disabled infant. Of course, anencephaly is more complicated than simply having no brain, but it seems moot for me to spend much time explaining it, given that an anencephalic infant will be born and die in the time it takes you to read this post. But why are they my favorite? Because these babies accomplish what the ban on stem-cell research has hindered--infants with anencephaly are good for two things: donating organs to kids that have half a chance, and making me looking pretty.
I’ve got serious qualms with most parents who take non-functioning children to term, but parents of children with anencephaly have my blessing and encouragement. It’s all about utility, folks.

Barth Syndrome : First, the logo for this website just breaks my fucking heart. I wonder what percentage of “My Kid’s Broken; Where’s The Warranty” websites have a logo made to look like the half-hearted scrawl of some poor child with a cleft middle finger. But Barth Syndrome isn’t about being mentally deficient. The characteristics are described as “Weakness in the immune system…heart muscle weakness…. General muscle weakness and fatigue… and failure-to-thrive”. The invention of syndromes like this drives me absolutely mad. Fifty years ago, peditricians would have diagnosed a Barth kid as “a terminal pussy,” recommending that instead of playing outside with the thriving little boys, that perhaps he should get used to playing with dolls and wearing dresses. Many millennia ago, a Barth kid would have been dead, plain and simple. I’m growing increasingly convinced that “syndrome” is a word meaning “It’s not really a disease. It seems to be a strong indication that my child was not meant to live, but since I have enough money to keep his weak little heart muscles pumping, let’s go ahead and make up a syndrome.” I wonder if doctors only name syndromes so that they have something tangible to put on the bill.

Bloom Syndrome : I aim to cover not only perverse genetic disorders that result in horribly malformed or non-functional children, but also the minor disorders. It’s likely that these “higher-born” mutants wouldn’t have made it in a pre-civilized setting, so they make it onto my “not meant to be” list. Those suffering from Bloom syndrome, for instance, is characterized by growth delay in-utero, as well as a predisposition to cancer and infections in life. Wikipedia claims that, despite the best efforts of modern medicine, most baby-Bloomers die of cancer by age 30. Wikipedia fails to mention, of course, the average amount of money spent to keep the Bloomers alive that long, and how many better places that money could go. Bloomers, seriously, you’re just a cancer-ridden balloon, waiting to pop; why should the world pay to keep you alive if you are going to die before you’ve paid your dues? To be fair, it’s conceivable that a person with Bloom Syndrome could live and hold a job long enough to actually give something back to the economy that paid for their lifetime of surgeries, examinations and antibiotics. No blame to the parents on this one, because the syndrome is entirely recessive; no way of knowing what’s lurking down there, right? Regardless, genetic tests are available, so get your genetically predisposed ass to the clinic before you make a Bloom baby.

Cat Eye Syndrome : NT.net says this comes along with abnormal obstruction of the anus (read : every month, Bobby gets rushed to the hospital because he hasn’t crapped in a week and he’s going septic), absence of tissue from the colored part of the eyes (the namesake of the syndrome, which apparently only happens in half of them), cardiac defects, missing, extra, or undeveloped kidneys, short stature (Randy Newman said it all), skeletal problems, mental retardation (fairly light in this syndrome. It’s like saying “well, your son won’t be a physicist, but he’ll probably be competent enough to clean cafeterias and bag groceries. Have a cigar!”), a smaller jaw, hernias, the classic cleft palate (historically, people with cleft were shunned and burned, thought to be instruments of Satan—the biggest clefty of them all), and “rarer malformations” that can affect almost any organ.
So half of them have cat eyes and cleft palates. Tell me, would you want to shake hands with that guy? Would you want to walk on the same side of the street as that guy?
Also, I hate to come back to money, but it really does run the world…. We know how to repair cleft palates nowadays, so that’s some money spent for an aesthetic improvement on somebody who may or may not even appreciate it. Also, probably hernia repairs, and therapy and pills for the skeletal problems. Will a Cat-eye kid ever be the President? Of anything? He’d be lucky if he was the President of his club of imaginary friends, looking like that.
Cat-eye syndrome? God said no.

Now for a brief transgression, so that I might offend those not suffering from birth defects and disorders.

Vietnam Veterans : The ultimate boo-hoo crew. We’ve got the crazy ones, who never got around to figuring out that they perpetrated one of the most hideous crimes in history; America will fall out of the limelight, and history won’t favor your village-burning, child-raping crusade anymore. The future will look back and wonder what extraterrestrial race gave you apes your weapons. Where were the tribunals? Where were the trials? None of you bastards even got the chance to say “I was just following orders”.
And then there’s mister “Ahh, no! I’ve got no legs! You should pay to have me sheltered, clothed and fed until my miserable life winks out.” So you got a Purple Heart? So what? I bet there’s a 3-legged dog somewhere with a purple heart (my research reveals that this is not true. Please visit here to pay tribute to brave "Dogs Of War").
And don’t try to tell me you didn’t want to go. “It ain’t me. I ain’t no fortunate son!” Fuck you, asshole. What about the people who are even less fortunate than you? The sort of guys who were homeless schizophrenics before the war? Do you think Hobo Steve bought a round of drinks for his Vagrant Posse when he saw your birthday picked from the bucket? Do you think he cackled maniacally while you boarded that plane? (Well, nevermind the laughter) But do you think his maniacal laughter was at you, Mister “I Ain’t No Senator’s Son,” and not at some schizophrenic auditory hallucination?
No, you haven’t got my sympathy because you haven’t got it bad enough. If you want to feel better, why don’t you go molest a 12-year-old (girl or boy. I don’t judge). If you’re lucky, you’ll get a nice submissive preteen. If the world is lucky, you’ll get an Angelman’s brat who will bite your dick off. Then you won’t be so pissed about Charlie taking your left eye, you fucking fractured soul.
(And now back to our regularly scheduled program)

Conjoined twins : I put these people in just for shits and giggles. I have no problem with conjoined twins, as they pay their dues in comic relief. About one in every 400000 births result in a living conjoined twin pair, and there must be hundreds of conjoined twin jokes. This is just a guess, but I’m willing to bet that there are as many conjoined twins as there are jokes, gags, skits, or movies that make light of them. That sort of payback doesn’t tickle my threshold for biological inefficiency, so live on!
Cystic Fibrosis : Oh yes, Cystic Fibrosis, the saddest little boys and girls on the planet have it, and I don’t care. These little snotwads wouldn’t last a second in any sort of real world. In high school, I used to drive by a CF clinic on my way to school, and the sight of it just made me feel ill. Just thinking about the kids in there who wouldn’t really experience the outdoors, or walking through Los Angeles in the Summer. The clinic even had its own special ambulance (very expensive, and dedicated to those that shouldn’t be alive). The severity and prognosis varies from cysto to cysto, and there’s actually an Ironman Triathelete with CF (bravo. She beat the curve. She's king of the mucus hill), but it’s usually pretty grim. These kids just get all clogged up, go septic, and tank.
I’m torn on my judgment of CF; a few of them make it, and live relatively normal (if slightly more expensive) lives. A ton of them don’t make it, living short, abnormal, and incredibly expensive lives. I’m going to guess that Cystic Fibrosis is a net negative influence on the world, so fuck you, and fuck those who pay for you.
Hold up. Cigarette break (heh heh heh).

Here’s a big one… Down Syndrome : With such rich documentation and support out there for Down Syndrome, I don’t know where to start. They used to be called Mongoloids, I’m told. That term is now considered “offensive and medically meaningless.” Aside from some minor anatomical defects, Down Syndrome is basically a form of mental retardation. Wiki tells me that “the commitment of parents, teachers and therapists, to individual children” can produce a Down syndrome child who can earn a college degree, but so what? You’d be amazed what a team of people, armed with money, is capable of producing. A team of people built a rocket that brought human beings to the moon and back. A team of people can design a more efficient method of fuel combustion. A group of people can do a lot of spectacular things; so when I see a group of hard-working people step back from their finished product, and find that that product is a single individual capable of getting a college degree, I wonder what else those people could have accomplished. Perhaps if the battalion of educators started a school and taught a gaggle of giggling normals. Or what if they split up and went to teach in a deprived neighborhood full of normal kids with shitty prospects and no government funding for schools? When a genetically normal child goes to a good school and is taught by good teachers, that kid grows up and learns normally. If a team of teachers and counselors team up on a kid with Down Syndrome, how many kids still don’t turn out a college degree? How many never pick up spelling, or grammar, or multiplication? It’s a fucking shot in the dark, and a waste of human resources.
Fetal Alcohol Disease : this is a fucking travesty. We’ve known for years that drinking while pregnant causes trouble. Hell, it’s now pretty much known that alcohol really is a form of mild poison. So why should FAD exist? It’s bad enough that you can’t keep yourself from getting pregnant, and worse still that you fail to abort a child you are unprepared to raise, but to guzzle booze while the fruit of your loins spoils inside you… that is inhuman. The effects of Fetal Alcohol Disease are : mental retardations, facial deformities, stunted development, behavioral problems (so, what? Doing things like getting pregnant and drinking in term?), memory and attention deficits, impulsiveness (after this, they really start to get good), an inability to reason from cause to effect, a failure to comprehend the concept of time and an inability to tell reality from fantasy. It sounds like FAD sends your poor child on a lifetime drunk, wandering about with no sense of causality or temporality. They’ll either die in the throes of some tard-trip, or grow up to have more babies. Society, and myself, applaud parents who drink while pregnant. Great job letting your own personal satisfaction interfere with your only biologically meaningful contribution to the world (aside from rich, fertile fecal matter).
Holoprosencephaly : this is another freakshow, everyone. It has to do with malformation of the forebrain (the part that makes us human); there are three types, differentiated by the varying degrees to which the fetus’ brain divides into lobes. The malformation of the lobes results in facial defects. The chance of survival is directly related to the severity of the affliction.
The most severe degree involves, “serious malformations of the brain, so sever that they are incompatible with life and often cause intrauterine death.” I love how they sugarcoat the terminology, when it really should be a big red stamp that says “Your Kid Got Cooked On Its Side”. I mean, honestly, “Incompatible with life”?! How steeped in innuendo will we become before we finally start saying what we really mean; “Probable death”. Wiki adds, “Seizures and mental retardation may occur,” as if these poor little fuckers didn’t have enough to worry about.
Imperforate Anus : I really feel sorry for people with this, but it’s too rich with comic material for me to pass up (pardon my tease). Three types, again : “Low lesion, in which the colon remains close to the skin. In this case, there may be a narrowing of the anus, or the anus may be missing altogether, with the rectum ending in a blind pouch.” “High lesion, in which the colon is higher up in the pelvis and there is a fistula connecting the rectum and the bladder, urethra or the vagina” and “A cloaca, where the rectum, vagina and colon are joined into a single opening.”
This disorder is clearly just one of Mother Nature’s fuck-ups. She’s throwing human beings together, left and right, body parts coming down the conveyor belt ala Lucille Ball, but when the pace picks up a little bit (all those damn Pan-Asians, filling up the world with short people), she makes little mistakes here and there. Ears missing, only one nostril, intestines connect to the vagina instead of the ass. You know, little things.
Jacobsen Syndrome : I got excited when I found this one, but it was a false alarm. This is one of what I’ve come to call “Ugly Kid” syndromes, where a known genetic defect turns out to only have aesthetic effects with minor functional repercussions. “Closely-set eyes,” “short, upturned nose,” “displaced receding chin,” “permanent upward curvature of the pinkie and ring fingers,” and Hammer Toes. I was excited by the sight of “Hammer Toes,” but it seems that this is nothing more than one or two toes permanently bent downward. Way to go, Jacobsen Syndrome. Way to let everyone down.
Karsch-Neugebauer Syndrome : also known as “Lobster Hand,” in which the middle finger and knuckle are missing, leaving a cleft between the two fingers on either side. It’s deeply sad that people with Lobster Hands probably want to flick people off more than anybody in the world. Look for this disorder on Google Images sometime. Also, I’m pretty sure The Penguin had Karsch-Neugebauer in the second Batman movie.
Lissencephaly : or “smooth brain”. People my age may remember a point in elementary school when it was common knowledge that every time you learn something, you get another fold in your brain. Well, the elementary school buzz was wrong, but the folds to help you think. That’s why lissencephalic children don’t have what it takes to do fractions. It’s an interesting idea for a case study : watch a lissencephalic child it’s entire life, and try to determine how many times they have a thought. Then, at the end of the afternoon, you cut open the cadaver and count the wrinkles to see how close your guess was. It’s kinda like guessing the number of jelly beans, or maybe just counting the number of times your cross-eyed dolt thinks “jelly bean!” before he falls over and dies.
(And now, another break, to further the range of my grand offense)

Katrina Victims : Get Rich Or Die Swimming.
I hope you enjoyed this chance to be on television, because the next time you’ll see your shiny eyes reflected off a lens will be when COPS busts in on you beating your wife. Before Katrina, we were a nation in desperate need of absolution; four years since 9/11, hundreds of thousands of foreign soldiers’ lives on American hands…. We needed something to make us the victim again. We needed something to make us feel like our lives are difficult.
So Americans get a good three weeks of Red Cross donations in, and their conscience is satisfied until the New Year. I’m sorry the relief money is drying up faster than your city, but never fear, Nawlins; the Holiday season will bring a whole stew of donations given in other people’s names. Oh, and don’t let our unabated holiday celebration get you down, because there is a silver lining : Odds are there’s a tree floating in your house right now, and when you finally get home, you can trim and decorate to your poor heart’s content. In fact, the glass shards from the window it came in through will add an element of skill to the tree-trimming process. IMPORTANT NOTE : If your child has Angelman’s syndrome, I highly recommend removing the glass shards for the safety of your vegetable; or maybe you should leave it and let nature take its course.
Neurofibromatosis : Here’s another freakshow syndrome. Type one is characterized by the growth of multiple neurofibromas, which are benign tumors on nerve cells. They pile up on the outside of the body, and produce very unsavory looking individuals; kinda like an early Dali painting, or maybe just a kid who got stung by the fifty angriest bees in the world. Type two is the scary one, though. It seems like the tumors just pop up all throughout your body, until you fill up with them and die. By age 20, patients lose hearing because of the tumors in and around the hearing centers of the nervous system; they are, literally, up to their ears in tumors. I imagine that dying of Type 2 Neurofibromatosis is like drowning in the ball pit at McDonalds.
Prader-Willi Syndrome : feeding difficulties in early infancy, excessive eating and morbid obesity in later infancy, mental retardations, and the lack of function of the gonads. Every symptom is a clear sign that this child was not meant to live. It won’t eat as an infant (Mother Nature’s failsafe, sometimes the broken babies won’t eat), it eats too much as an older infant (next failsafe, the kid does bad things that deteriorate its health), and its reproductive organs don’t work (final failsafe, if some sick fuck keeps this kid alive, at least the kid can’t have another kid getting his/her Wednesdays on. The fate of this child is, obviously, to die. Let it die.
Rubinstein-Taybi Syndrome : I’ve figured it out, everyone. I’ve been “researching” all sorts of genetic disorders and syndromes, and I’ve noticed that many of them seem to be named after the Jewish Doctor that wrote the best case study on it. Perhaps this is some sort of semitic footrace towards monetary gains; maybe there’s a contest to see who can make the most money off of parents, dead-set on making their broken child look and sound normal. Happy Hannukah, by the way.
Schizencephaly : I love these encephalies. None of them have a hyphen, or some Polish doctor’s name in them. Schizencephaly is exactly what it sounds like; there are abnormal splits, or clefts, on various parts of the brain. Prognosis depends on how many schisms one has, as well as on the size of the schisms. I imagined a bunch of tiny eye-like slits all over the brain, but I found an X-ray that shows the dark side of this disorder. Reminds me of Finneas Gage, who had a metal pole blown through his head. The metal pole in the case of schizencephs is exposure to toxins in the uterus. I hate to scold twice, but any pregnant women reading this should drop the box wine and lock it up until labor pains kick in.
Triple X Females : The Wikipedia article from which I got my list of disorders features “Triple X Females” as a link on the list. I, weary from many hours of cripple-bashing, thought this might be an unlikely oasis of pornographic pleasure. Instead I found this : “Triple X syndrome most often causes no unusual physical features or medical problems. Females with this condition are usually taller than average, may have menstrual irregularities, and, although rarely exhibiting severe mental impairments, sometimes have an increased risk of learning disabilities and delayed speech and language skills.” This is not nearly as enticing as “XXX Females” should be. I think I might actually be more interesting in the anencephalic kids than these tall, menstruating mutants. Squick away, I like to say.
Usher Syndrome : “a genetic disease causing deaf-blindness.” I stopped reading early into this one. I’m pretty sure this syndrome was named for pop songwriter and singer, Usher, who appears to be deaf. I had not known that Usher was also blind, merely assuming that his house was devoid of mirrors and his fashion sense could not be helped.
But really, this syndrome is an express-train to deaf and blind station. The article mentions cochlear implants, which are basically a hairy wire shoved into your cochlea which picks up sound vibrations and transmits them to your brain (really cool, isn’t it?). In an intro psych class I took, they told us that many deaf people oppose the use of cochlear implants, considering the gift of hearing “culturecide,” or the intentional destruction of some, supposed “Deaf Culture”. I mean, I remember watching kids shows when it was hip to have a deaf kid on the cast; the brief rash when half of my friends picked up rudimentary sign language, only to forget it by the time Pogs were released. Culturecide my ass; let the deaf hear, even if it’s only a slight improvement.
Wolf-Hirschhorn Syndrome : characterized by “profound mental retardation, microcephaly, seizures, hypotonia, and cleft lip and/or palate…. They are described as happy, loving children.” It’s a saving grace of W-H Syndrome that the children are happy and loving; I think it’s really, like, lame when retarded kids are misanthropic and self-centered. Fucking autistic kids, man. I swear, autism is just introversion running rampant. Anyway, Wolf-Hirschhorn is just another in the long list of “Donkey Door” children; Dad opened Mom’s door #3, and all he found was a donkey, a dud child, a blank, a waste of space, a drooling (yet happy and loving) idiot. Didn’t you know you’ve got to get your genes tested before you play The Price Is Life?

Angelman Syndrome : a “neurological disorder in which severe learning difficulties are associated with a characteristic facial appearance and behavior…” Characterized by “feeding problems, delay in sitting and walking, absent speech, poor attention span and hyperactivity, severe learning disabilities, epilepsy, unusual movements, affectionate nature and frequent laughter, wide-based stiff-legged gait, below average head size, often with flattening at the back, poor sleeping pattern, 40% chance of squint, and 10% chance of scoliosis.” This is where Wikipedia leaves us.
Angelman Parent’s Syndrome : characterized by “heightened sensitivity, met dangerously by a tendency to seek out others of their kind.” In some cases, Angelman Parents have exhibited “delusions of grandeur” and “a poor grasp on causality; they suffer under the belief that if they protect their Angelman child with enough zeal, the syndrome will disappear and they will lead the happy, relatively normal lives they grew up dreaming about.” See also : “Cocksucker”, “Motherfucker”, “Cunt-whistler”, or “Asshole”.

So what's the lesson? What is this angry, misanthropic fucker trying to say? Does he want parents to be more conscientious before concieving children they will later refuse to abort? Does he take a more radical view, in favor of killing or abandoning terminal or worthless children after they are born? Would he kick a retarded child, if given the chance, or would he show as much love and compassion for it as the next human being? If you read this entire 13-page atrocity, feel free to judge me, to attack me, to persecute me for my words, but you'll have to live with the knowledge that you are only attacking my words. What actions I have completed in my life follow a path completely separate from this rant. To persecute someone for what they have said is un-American, and downright shameful. Even more shameful than what I have just written?

I'll say maybe.

-Alfonzo