President Kennedy famously said, in his inaugural address to the American public think not what your government can do for you but what you can do for your government. While it is true that he did not enforce the mechanisms that brought about the situation we are here, we can understand that it is this ethos that has brought us here today. So in this modern time, at this defining moment, I too return a question to you America: and that is, what can your government do for you? For too long have we sat by and watched our nation erode, the middle class disappear, the very cost of existence itself fly higher and higher and higher beyond any person’s dream of ever reaching the middle class. For too long have the wealthiest and most abhorrent Americans lorded above us all in palaces of gold and silver, lined with their ill-gotten opulence and greed. For too long have we worked, and worked, and worked all based on the faith – that simple faith – that we would all like to believe: that this is a free nation, that this is a just nation, that this is a nation where everyone who comes to these shores can achieve.
So then, we must understand that this statement too is true: freedom is not free. The freedom that we enjoy was fought for and purchased by the blood, sweat, and lives of our working men and women in the military and armed services. They share their kinship with every American soldier who has fought in every American war stretching back to the formation of our nation. But all too easily to those who have most commonly used this phrase over the past eight years, all too soon do they forget the other soldiers. The soldiers who fought against them, on American soil, to afford us all the liberties that we have today.
The soldiers by the name of Rosa Parks, and Martin Luther King. By the names of Cesar Chavez and Malcolm X. Of Susan B Anthony and Gloria Steinem. Of Franklin and Teddy Roosevelt, who struck down the monopolizing interests of big business so that we today might have a middle class. These are the soldiers who have fought, and bled, and worked, and died here in America to make the world that we know today. These are the soldiers who have fallen by the wayside in the past eight years, for good reason least of all, for they are on the right side of history. You will not hear these soldier’s names come from the lips of the conservative moment. You will not hear their names invoked in glorious adulation. Because when they see these names, when they hear these names the sound that they hear calling to their ears is the million-strong voices of history calling again and again: you are wrong.
And such it is that we come to healthcare America. This which not even the 20th century’s finest president could accomplish, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. For forty years, we have felt the pinch of those who would purport to do us well. For forty years, we have felt the tightening purse strings of the moneylenders, schemers, and crooks at the heart of the insurance industry. For forty years, we have suffered under their tyrannical rule. So often do the Republicans incite the very spectre of our plan. It will ration healthcare they say, it will cause old people to die they say, it will result in care not getting to the most deserving people, at the most appropriate time.
To those who speak such words, and to those who agree with them, I will say this: Where do you live? Where do you live that this does not already occur? Where do you live where your fellow citizens are not routinely denied coverage, open to the fickle winds of bankruptcy the moment they lose their jobs. Where do you live where the majority of American’s primary health insurance is the local emergency room that will open them up to the exorbitant costs of the insurance industry? Where do you live, where the current system is fine with you? I understand why my compatriots on the right say the things they do. After all, they are in no position to suffer. They are already serviced by one of the best health insurance plans in the nation: the congressional public option. That of course, and 1.5 million dollars a day can make a man more certain to stand up for himself than stand up for his constituents. But these are the stakes America. These are the standards by which I will measure whether this succeeds or fails.
-A public option, at existing medicare reimbursement rates to drive costs down.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sing
We were poor, so poor, and no easy pablum or empty philosophy of “we were rich in music” would change it. We did play guitar, we played guitar more often than ever we did before and then we played songs that we’d heard, that we’d written, that we’d wish people would pay for but didn’t. We played everywhere. And as the hunger crept at our knotted fingers we cramped and played louder until only the vibrations of our strings kept the sallow pit of our stomachs from dropping out of our bodies.
We were so, so poor. The worst of all was that we weren’t even richer for the music. We’d written so many things, of so many broken hearts, of so many stories of love and life. But faced with the inevitable rumbling of our stomachs, they seemed sallow and empty: as significant as a steady bead of rainwater running across a drumskin. We were so, so hungry.
You wished, you so desperately wished that you could ignore yourself. You stared blankly at drugs, alcohol, sex and lies only to look away and remember all who fell before you. It wasn’t the way, but neither was this. We were drawn, almost inexplicably to the music. Or rather, I was. Joseph left. David went back to college. We were our band.
This in turn leaves only me, but. The mind moves.
I know some things: I know that this is all I own: my clothes, my guitar, a few sets of rusted-out fiddle strings, and a well-worn guitar case whose only familiarity is with coins and the faces of Washington and sometimes Lincoln. I should be gone, so long gone away from here. No broken family to head home to, no drugs to run away from. But…
Maybe just another song.
We were so, so poor. The worst of all was that we weren’t even richer for the music. We’d written so many things, of so many broken hearts, of so many stories of love and life. But faced with the inevitable rumbling of our stomachs, they seemed sallow and empty: as significant as a steady bead of rainwater running across a drumskin. We were so, so hungry.
You wished, you so desperately wished that you could ignore yourself. You stared blankly at drugs, alcohol, sex and lies only to look away and remember all who fell before you. It wasn’t the way, but neither was this. We were drawn, almost inexplicably to the music. Or rather, I was. Joseph left. David went back to college. We were our band.
This in turn leaves only me, but. The mind moves.
I know some things: I know that this is all I own: my clothes, my guitar, a few sets of rusted-out fiddle strings, and a well-worn guitar case whose only familiarity is with coins and the faces of Washington and sometimes Lincoln. I should be gone, so long gone away from here. No broken family to head home to, no drugs to run away from. But…
Maybe just another song.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Believe
What do you believe in Lyra?
I believe in a lot of things: fairies, sunsets, fireballs, I believe in what I want to believe in
Do you believe what people tell you?
Generally, yes
Well it's good. But, be careful.
Why?
The older people get the more they have reason to lie.
I thought only bad people lied.
Well yes, but the world is not filled with good people.
People are good enough.
Good enough, yes, but it might not be enough for you.
Mr. Alexander you are always like this.
He gave off a small smile.
Yes, I am. It's one of the problems of being old. Eventually you are no longer young.
He paused slightly, then bent down, cupping her hands in his own and gave them a comforting pat.
If nothing else, remember this. Believe in yourself, that there are things beyond what you know and that you can find them and understand them. Sometimes it'll be all you have. Make sure it's enough.
Lyra peered curiously at him, her eyes drifting slowly up and down. And then she nodded.
Okay
I believe in a lot of things: fairies, sunsets, fireballs, I believe in what I want to believe in
Do you believe what people tell you?
Generally, yes
Well it's good. But, be careful.
Why?
The older people get the more they have reason to lie.
I thought only bad people lied.
Well yes, but the world is not filled with good people.
People are good enough.
Good enough, yes, but it might not be enough for you.
Mr. Alexander you are always like this.
He gave off a small smile.
Yes, I am. It's one of the problems of being old. Eventually you are no longer young.
He paused slightly, then bent down, cupping her hands in his own and gave them a comforting pat.
If nothing else, remember this. Believe in yourself, that there are things beyond what you know and that you can find them and understand them. Sometimes it'll be all you have. Make sure it's enough.
Lyra peered curiously at him, her eyes drifting slowly up and down. And then she nodded.
Okay
Currently Playing
A Love That Will Never Grow Old
Emmylou Harris - Brokeback Mountain OST
Something to Talk About
Badly Drawn Boy - About a Boy OST
Just a Thought
Gnarls Barkley - St. Elsewhere
Emmylou Harris - Brokeback Mountain OST
Something to Talk About
Badly Drawn Boy - About a Boy OST
Just a Thought
Gnarls Barkley - St. Elsewhere
Personal Fridays: We're back in a big way
Yo yo yo yo.
honest to... blog (damn you Diablo Cody), I don't much like posting here. Personal things at least. But the situation warrants it so here goes.
WE ARE BACK, IN A BIG BIG WAY.
SO BIG THE SHIT WILL HIT THE SHIT WITH THE SHIT AND THE SHIT SAID ITWAS AWESOME!
Everyone graduated last june. I did not. Disappointed, but, i've been able to float since then.
Haven't moved from my room, much at all. It's okay though. I'm doing what I like:
-Writing
-Politicking
-PLaying guitar
-Stories, so many stories
this blog was never going to be well-maintained. I flitter and fleet, flutter on the wind from one obsession to the next. What's nice about this summer is that I've been able to do so, and realize at least: it's not so bad. I could be doing something I don't want to. Doing what you like for a while is nice, even if things don't quite work out the way you plan. What you can control is the now, and the now's okay. It's quite alright.
Ce qui serai, sera.
Au revoir pour le moment
(shit french, I'm aware)
-Viet
honest to... blog (damn you Diablo Cody), I don't much like posting here. Personal things at least. But the situation warrants it so here goes.
WE ARE BACK, IN A BIG BIG WAY.
SO BIG THE SHIT WILL HIT THE SHIT WITH THE SHIT AND THE SHIT SAID ITWAS AWESOME!
Everyone graduated last june. I did not. Disappointed, but, i've been able to float since then.
Haven't moved from my room, much at all. It's okay though. I'm doing what I like:
-Writing
-Politicking
-PLaying guitar
-Stories, so many stories
this blog was never going to be well-maintained. I flitter and fleet, flutter on the wind from one obsession to the next. What's nice about this summer is that I've been able to do so, and realize at least: it's not so bad. I could be doing something I don't want to. Doing what you like for a while is nice, even if things don't quite work out the way you plan. What you can control is the now, and the now's okay. It's quite alright.
Ce qui serai, sera.
Au revoir pour le moment
(shit french, I'm aware)
-Viet
Friday, July 24, 2009
Joseph and the Maunch
Joseph took pills that nobody saw and nobody knew about, that no one had prescribed to him, given to him, sold to him, bought for him, or even mentioned to him, but he took pills nonetheless. Every day he trudged the seventeen blocks it took him to walk the long poured concrete sidewalk from his apartment to his office, and every morning right before entering the office, as his hand brushed against the clamming cool of the wrought-aluminum door handle, he would quietly flip the pill into his mouth, and swallow.
He did this for a few reasons. One: because the pills were not paid for, they were not taken from his deductible, and if you had pills just lying around the house, eventually – if you lived your life as Joseph did – you got around to taking them. Two: because – unbeknowest to everyone – Joseph liked to be left alone. This is not to say that he did not enjoy the company of his coworkers: he did. However his interactions with them were small, he did not express any particular desire to engage in the usual office conversational pieces regarding reality shows and politics and other mish-mosh, but for the most part he did not find them altogether disturbing.
No, what the pills provided for Joseph was a reprieve from the maunches.
The maunches was the name he had given to the sound, given because when it had first started occurring it had been the copy machine: one day out of the blue the seams in the plastic had opened, a long gaping tear ripped apart the machine, and long jagged teeth had appeared from the gap, trimming the abyss with strange plasticine molars. He remembered backing away slowly, backing out of the room as the copier hummed along endlessly, the sterile musk of ozone in the air, and the large gaping mouth flapping in the wind, sounding *maunch*maunch*maunch*maunch*maunch*.
He scampered back to his desk, frightened, afraid, unsure of what he had seen, and absolutely certain that the machine was printing out far more than the twenty copies of page reports that he needed. His eyes darted around the room: everything there, everything normal, but still the persistent *maunch* floated to him on the air-conditioned breeze, a perpetual reminder of what was there, and how he would eventually have to go get the copies.
After several long minutes, and just as Joseph was about to will himself to brave the emanating *maunch* and go get his seventy copies like a man, the sound stopped; replaced only by the familiar hum of the copier, copying away just like any other day. This initiated yet another bout of petrified contemplation for Joseph: what was going on, why did the copier have teeth, what was he going to do with fifty extra copies of page reports, and most pressingly: was he gone? He stared at his monitor: cracked, he thought marking off a mental check. He opened the drawer, dirty, he noticed, and closed the drawer. He picked up a red stapler, stared at it intently, then placed it down marking it off mentally red. Red replied the stapler, and Joseph’s mental checklist scattered onto the floor.
He did this for a few reasons. One: because the pills were not paid for, they were not taken from his deductible, and if you had pills just lying around the house, eventually – if you lived your life as Joseph did – you got around to taking them. Two: because – unbeknowest to everyone – Joseph liked to be left alone. This is not to say that he did not enjoy the company of his coworkers: he did. However his interactions with them were small, he did not express any particular desire to engage in the usual office conversational pieces regarding reality shows and politics and other mish-mosh, but for the most part he did not find them altogether disturbing.
No, what the pills provided for Joseph was a reprieve from the maunches.
The maunches was the name he had given to the sound, given because when it had first started occurring it had been the copy machine: one day out of the blue the seams in the plastic had opened, a long gaping tear ripped apart the machine, and long jagged teeth had appeared from the gap, trimming the abyss with strange plasticine molars. He remembered backing away slowly, backing out of the room as the copier hummed along endlessly, the sterile musk of ozone in the air, and the large gaping mouth flapping in the wind, sounding *maunch*maunch*maunch*maunch*maunch*.
He scampered back to his desk, frightened, afraid, unsure of what he had seen, and absolutely certain that the machine was printing out far more than the twenty copies of page reports that he needed. His eyes darted around the room: everything there, everything normal, but still the persistent *maunch* floated to him on the air-conditioned breeze, a perpetual reminder of what was there, and how he would eventually have to go get the copies.
After several long minutes, and just as Joseph was about to will himself to brave the emanating *maunch* and go get his seventy copies like a man, the sound stopped; replaced only by the familiar hum of the copier, copying away just like any other day. This initiated yet another bout of petrified contemplation for Joseph: what was going on, why did the copier have teeth, what was he going to do with fifty extra copies of page reports, and most pressingly: was he gone? He stared at his monitor: cracked, he thought marking off a mental check. He opened the drawer, dirty, he noticed, and closed the drawer. He picked up a red stapler, stared at it intently, then placed it down marking it off mentally red. Red replied the stapler, and Joseph’s mental checklist scattered onto the floor.
My justification for beating you with a shaving pole
"My biggest fear is that these terrorists would indoctrinate other prisoners... They would probably be quickly embraced by the various Muslim prison "gangs".
That's the last thing we need... Home grown terrorists are the one thing hardest to protect against."
Dear above dumbass poster from an IGN board detailing your reason as to why it is that you don't want Gitmo detainees transferred to US Superprisons.
Allow me to explain some very basic concepts to you.
1) the fleeting nature of information
There is only a certain time frime by which the information an individual holds is useful. How much useful information do you carry? Family memories are often not useful, and even in an ideal situation, the most you can remember back is a full year of participation in an organization, and only then if you were part of it for that period of time, in leadership, and that was all you did.
These detainees have been in there for SEVEN YEARS
2) You are confusing a good portion of those who convert to Islam in prisons as equivalent to those who commit terrorist acts. It is not a disease. It is not equivalent, this above fear exhibits nothing but your blanket, unforgivable idiocy with regards to how terrorism actually works.
3) THREE! *anger down* Terrorism evolves primarily out of local concerns. Al-Qaeda co-opts local issues and promises solutions through participation in their ludicrous global campaign to transform the world into an international caliphate. Case in point: the only thing these people could probably teach their fellow prisoners (if they even speak English, dumbass), is how much they wanted to get the security in their local village better. How exactly is that going to produce homegrown terrorists?
4) FOUR: WHAT THE FLYING FUCK?! TERRORISM ALREADY OCCURS IN THE UNITED STATES. IT IS A FUCKING TECHNIQUE, NOT A FUCKING IDEOLOGY. YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER.
5)Let's state finally, for all records that crime is not about ideology. It is about intent and purpose. Even if these terrorists, or alleged terrorists, are able to convince their fellow inmates, you are reliant on multiple, highly unlikely scenarios
a) They leave prisons. See: supermax
b) They actually get in contact with the main Al-Qaeda organisation. (Oh yes, this will happen. Because it's so easy Al-Qaeda has a phone line. 1-800 Al-Qaeda. Free Shipping and handling)
c) They actually get accepted in. (American? Sure! There's no way you could be a spy!)
d) they actually make it back and forth without being checked and scrutinized having both visited a middle eastern country AND been released from a supermax.
e) They actually evade police presence in order to
f) finally pull off a successful terroirst attack, in sufficient numbers.
So THAT is your great fear? Dumb fucking motherfucker.
6) As a final note, the greatest possible scenario of any real attack occuring lie this is organic. However, largely as a result of strong efforts on the part of the Muslim-American community domestically, there are no domestic terror cells anywhere in the US. They do not find havens within the larger Muslim-American communities. They are not welcome.
So at worst, what you have is the case of the Army post bomber, who operated independently. Was caught like a moron, and showed no possible sign of ever working with anyone else ever.
In short: a crazy.
So in conclusion.
This is why I'm going to impale you with a carrotstick
Note: apologies to readers for the violent, destructive tone of this post.
It comes with the territory (politics)
That's the last thing we need... Home grown terrorists are the one thing hardest to protect against."
Dear above dumbass poster from an IGN board detailing your reason as to why it is that you don't want Gitmo detainees transferred to US Superprisons.
Allow me to explain some very basic concepts to you.
1) the fleeting nature of information
There is only a certain time frime by which the information an individual holds is useful. How much useful information do you carry? Family memories are often not useful, and even in an ideal situation, the most you can remember back is a full year of participation in an organization, and only then if you were part of it for that period of time, in leadership, and that was all you did.
These detainees have been in there for SEVEN YEARS
2) You are confusing a good portion of those who convert to Islam in prisons as equivalent to those who commit terrorist acts. It is not a disease. It is not equivalent, this above fear exhibits nothing but your blanket, unforgivable idiocy with regards to how terrorism actually works.
3) THREE! *anger down* Terrorism evolves primarily out of local concerns. Al-Qaeda co-opts local issues and promises solutions through participation in their ludicrous global campaign to transform the world into an international caliphate. Case in point: the only thing these people could probably teach their fellow prisoners (if they even speak English, dumbass), is how much they wanted to get the security in their local village better. How exactly is that going to produce homegrown terrorists?
4) FOUR: WHAT THE FLYING FUCK?! TERRORISM ALREADY OCCURS IN THE UNITED STATES. IT IS A FUCKING TECHNIQUE, NOT A FUCKING IDEOLOGY. YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER.
5)Let's state finally, for all records that crime is not about ideology. It is about intent and purpose. Even if these terrorists, or alleged terrorists, are able to convince their fellow inmates, you are reliant on multiple, highly unlikely scenarios
a) They leave prisons. See: supermax
b) They actually get in contact with the main Al-Qaeda organisation. (Oh yes, this will happen. Because it's so easy Al-Qaeda has a phone line. 1-800 Al-Qaeda. Free Shipping and handling)
c) They actually get accepted in. (American? Sure! There's no way you could be a spy!)
d) they actually make it back and forth without being checked and scrutinized having both visited a middle eastern country AND been released from a supermax.
e) They actually evade police presence in order to
f) finally pull off a successful terroirst attack, in sufficient numbers.
So THAT is your great fear? Dumb fucking motherfucker.
6) As a final note, the greatest possible scenario of any real attack occuring lie this is organic. However, largely as a result of strong efforts on the part of the Muslim-American community domestically, there are no domestic terror cells anywhere in the US. They do not find havens within the larger Muslim-American communities. They are not welcome.
So at worst, what you have is the case of the Army post bomber, who operated independently. Was caught like a moron, and showed no possible sign of ever working with anyone else ever.
In short: a crazy.
So in conclusion.
This is why I'm going to impale you with a carrotstick
Note: apologies to readers for the violent, destructive tone of this post.
It comes with the territory (politics)
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Jim
Jim pawed nervously at the hem of his coat, fiddling around for the watch he’d misplaced the night before. Before him loomed the stretching form of The First Store, on first and 9th. He gulped quietly, shifted his cloak around him and walked in. A brief wash of cooled antiseptic air later and he was inside: marble veneer and yellow-orange lights everywhere washing over decapitated mannequins in awkward poses. One particularly awkward pose caught his attention halfway down the escalator. He twisted his neck trying to look at it too long. He arrived at Diamantine’s; his neck twisted and his mind still invested in the strange contortionist mannequin, he paused right outside the door.
The interior was rich, ornate: a thick velvety purple ran all along the walls and floors imbueing the space with a regal, romaneque quality providing a pleasant contrast with the waistcotted black-and-white workers who milled behind the glass cases, pointing out favorable ornaments to rich, luxuriant customers. Jim spyed a woman in what appeared to be a mink coat and adjusted the coat even tighter around him, concealing even further his T-shirt and jeans.
Writer's note -
I am making the horrible mistake of leaving story fragments in here.
Deepest apologies to all readers. Gots to suck.
The interior was rich, ornate: a thick velvety purple ran all along the walls and floors imbueing the space with a regal, romaneque quality providing a pleasant contrast with the waistcotted black-and-white workers who milled behind the glass cases, pointing out favorable ornaments to rich, luxuriant customers. Jim spyed a woman in what appeared to be a mink coat and adjusted the coat even tighter around him, concealing even further his T-shirt and jeans.
Writer's note -
I am making the horrible mistake of leaving story fragments in here.
Deepest apologies to all readers. Gots to suck.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Mr R. Burris will speak to you now.
Editor’s note: The below text was fished out of the charred remnants of a diary lost in the wreckage of a downed Boeing 747 over Skokee, New York. The contents were transcribed into the official record in hopes of returning the diary to its owner. Richard Burris, the named party was never found.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning. This if of course absurd in its entirety, the last mirror I owned was lost several months ago, but in the upside-down view of myself in the spoon I saw a suspended man with a gaunt face, what amicably might be described as a five-o-clock shadow but in all honesty has long advanced beyond five o clock. I am Richard Burris and I write my diary entries as though they will someday be published to the greater world with a significance imbued in them that they themselves do not actually have. And so unnamed reader let me inform you that I too can see your peering eyes, your veiled and judging gazes, let me tell you too that my life is not so much different from yours. I say this not out of presumption but out of fact: most people very regularly do not move out much beyond the medical normalities of their lives. You do not break your routine, it owns you, much as it owns mine, but we shall see if this sporadic breaking of routine shall not itself become routine and the upside-down man in my spoon may yet communicate something of worth to you, to me, to us; dearest, most beloved reader, let us see if any significance will be gleaned from my words.
SEVERAL MONTHS BEFORE (scrawled in dark crayon, a title, the journal entry is still consistent with the preceding words)
Rich, the fucktwat bitch is about his regular routine, a shirt and tie, smooth, combed back hair. A dispassive smile, a nonthreatening glance towards (from here on out, the shortened words of girl… love… and despair… are only legible from the tangled mess of scrawling black lines).
I have lost something. Something I cannot describe but two weeks from this day prior, or two weeks ago, I swear I felt it disappear from my life, like the retreating of the tide from the shore I… I have quit my job, my clothes are unchanged, my legs are dry and uncomfortable with the chalked up residue of my own excrement and I am slowly wasting away in my spot without idea as to what it is that is missing.
Piece it together; find it, two weeks prior, two weeks prior, two weeks prior I was at work.
HEADER – AT WORK – INT. – DAY
TEXT – RICHARD
MAN: Could you state your name for the record please?
RICHARD: Richard Burris.
MAN: Mr. Burris I am sure you are aware of the company policy regarding tardiness
RICHARD: Yes sir, I am aware.
MAN: Well then good, I hope then that from this point on you will be more punctual to your assignments. As this was your first demerit in some years, we are prepared to let you off with… Mr. Burris?
RICHARD is no longer looking at the MAN but is instead staring intently at the disappearing figure of a shapely WOMAN IN RED.
MAN: Mr. Burris!
RICHARD shakes out of his reverie.
RICHARD: Oh, hmph! Sorry.
MAN: Now as I was saying, our company is prepared to let you off at this moment, but future tardiness will not be looked upon as kindly. Now are we clear Mr. Burris?
RICHARD peers at the man with a look that seems to say “why did you break me away from her?” but then answers slowly back.
RICHARD: Yes.
MAN: Very good, then let’s have a productive work session today yes?
RICHARD returns sullenly to his cubicle, the retreating form of the WOMAN IN RED in his mind: her hips gyrating, the subtle movement of her thighs against red satin. He sits down at his desk, puts on his headset, and presses a button.
RICHARD: Hi I’m calling to inform you of a momentous opportunity to purchase the Wonder-Vac 3000! Now…
I wait two days before I start searching for her. It’s difficult to truly find someone when all you have to work with are the color of their dress and the exquisite perfection of their ass. Try describing the above sentence to a compatriot and more than likely yours will be the name they’ll be suggesting at the week end “who’s a serial killer now?” office party. I learn small things first, her name is Julie, she works in accounting, she’s engaged to Fred, they met in the company. To the queries of who is asking I always answer “Richard Burris”. I am not Richard Burris. I am Richard Burris’s shadow, the very hollow frame of his existence, his hopes and desires, pent up masturbatory frustrations. I am Richard Burris the shell of Richard Burris fuck Richard Burris the fucker. I am a living cliché of a man entering the 32s of his life with a balding head of hair and no sex life. Too often I see myself on television and movie screens and shout – not honestly, only while drunk – at me to get off. Julie inexplicably agrees to meet with sweaty masturbator Richard Burris for a lunch meeting. I will see how this goes.
The last time I was truly Richard Burris, the true Richard Burris was when I imagined myself playing the guitar. In college, in the early morning hours, the air wet and heavy with dew chafing the raw confines of my caffeine-seared lungs I raised a vibrant and decadent air guitar up to the sky, imaginary pinstripes of purple-red flames streaming down the sides of its glistening V-form body. To the sky I would raise an undying toast, reciting anthems of Queen, Metallica, or an Aerosmith Revolution, though in all honesty it was only Queen, and only ever one song. I say the last only because it sounds nice to the ear, but in fact I played any number of songs, though most of them from Queen. But in a flurry of motion, the Richard Burris I was, the true Richard Burris: champion of the world and ruler of the mid morning dusk with his crown of sweat, fatigue-charred lungs and scepter of pin-striped flaming guitar glory, this Richard Burris would look to the glimmering wink of the horizon and call out the name of the sun, and like magic, the sun would arise from across the eastern lip of the earth to gaze upon the shuddering frame of the king Richard Burris: collapsed upon the front of his school.
I communicate none of this Richard Burris to Julie when I first meet her. She is tall, slender, attractive and sweet. This naturally makes me feel threatened, unsure of myself, and bald so the following transcribed dialogue should primarily be understood to have the intended delivery of Julie: warm and kind, Richard: sweaty, nervous, and bald.
INT – CORPORATE CAFÉ - DAY
JULIE: Hi, you must be…
RICHARD: Richard, you’re Julie, yes?
JULIE: Yes, that’s me. So what can I do for you Richard?
RICHARD: Um *beat*, okay so this is going to sound awkward but you know Ryan, 4th floor office manager? I was in there the other day and I saw you from behind and I lost my attention.
JULIE: Well, um, thank you, but …. I don’t know how to say this but… I’m kind of engaged.
RICHARD: I know
Julie looks alarmed
RICHARD: I mean, I know and I asked around and I … please don’t go, please, it’s crazy, I know I’m not going to kill you please don’t tell everyone I’m a serial killer.
Julie sits down from where she was about to leave.
RICHARD: I am turning 32, in four days
JULIE: (quietly) Congratulations
RICHARD: Thanks
*beat*
RICHARD (cont.): You seem happy.
JULIE: I am happy
RICHARD: I’m glad.
Julie gives him a look.
RICHARD (cont.): Please don’t, look Julie it’s not about you. It’s about this company, it’s about me, it’s all about me I don’t want to be me, I’d rather be you, I’d rather be Fred, your boyfriend – please don’t leave – I’d rather be anyone else other than me: about to turn 32 and going bald, and all I have is just you, as a reminder of what happy used to be.
*beat*
JULIE: I should get back to work.
RICHARD: Sorry for… this… I guess. It’s okay if you tell everyone I’m a serial killer, they probably all think it anyways
Julie walks to the elevator, presses the button, and waits for a moment as it ticks down. As the door opens, she turns to Richard.
JULIE: It was our anniversary
Richard looks up. Julie holds up two fingers.
JULIE (cont.): Two years.
RICHARD: Congratulations
JULIE: Thanks.
Elevator door closes. Richard shuffles quickly out of his seat, the cups still sitting on the table.
At this point it is a somewhat trifling point for me to make that none of this was true. Yes, there is a woman named Julie Siles, somewhere in my company. No, I do not know if she is engaged to Fred Weimar. Ryan Liu does exist, but he has pulled me into his office so many times now that our conversations take on the dull back-and-forth of a couple who has lived together for decades, arguments over tardiness and company policy imbued with the tone of participants who know both the beats and counts of the script by heart, fully knowing that the other participant will never do anything to change the conditions under which such a scenario can be enacted. But this much is true: in four days I will be 32. I am fat, I am balding, I cannot find reason to enjoy my work anymore, and the greatest and saddest fact is that even in my projected fantasies, Julie is already engaged, and I am doomed to failure. But hopefully, come four days from now when the wheels of my existence click past their thirty-second mark, I will remember what it was like as King Richard Burris, the man who might have began a sordid and adulterous affair with shapely Julie Siles, who conquered the morning dawn with his sword of Rock, Caffeine, and Queen. Perhaps in four days, I will be that Richard Burris again, but there are never any guarantees.
My name is Richard Burris and I lead an imaginary existence.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning. This if of course absurd in its entirety, the last mirror I owned was lost several months ago, but in the upside-down view of myself in the spoon I saw a suspended man with a gaunt face, what amicably might be described as a five-o-clock shadow but in all honesty has long advanced beyond five o clock. I am Richard Burris and I write my diary entries as though they will someday be published to the greater world with a significance imbued in them that they themselves do not actually have. And so unnamed reader let me inform you that I too can see your peering eyes, your veiled and judging gazes, let me tell you too that my life is not so much different from yours. I say this not out of presumption but out of fact: most people very regularly do not move out much beyond the medical normalities of their lives. You do not break your routine, it owns you, much as it owns mine, but we shall see if this sporadic breaking of routine shall not itself become routine and the upside-down man in my spoon may yet communicate something of worth to you, to me, to us; dearest, most beloved reader, let us see if any significance will be gleaned from my words.
SEVERAL MONTHS BEFORE (scrawled in dark crayon, a title, the journal entry is still consistent with the preceding words)
Rich, the fucktwat bitch is about his regular routine, a shirt and tie, smooth, combed back hair. A dispassive smile, a nonthreatening glance towards (from here on out, the shortened words of girl… love… and despair… are only legible from the tangled mess of scrawling black lines).
I have lost something. Something I cannot describe but two weeks from this day prior, or two weeks ago, I swear I felt it disappear from my life, like the retreating of the tide from the shore I… I have quit my job, my clothes are unchanged, my legs are dry and uncomfortable with the chalked up residue of my own excrement and I am slowly wasting away in my spot without idea as to what it is that is missing.
Piece it together; find it, two weeks prior, two weeks prior, two weeks prior I was at work.
HEADER – AT WORK – INT. – DAY
TEXT – RICHARD
MAN: Could you state your name for the record please?
RICHARD: Richard Burris.
MAN: Mr. Burris I am sure you are aware of the company policy regarding tardiness
RICHARD: Yes sir, I am aware.
MAN: Well then good, I hope then that from this point on you will be more punctual to your assignments. As this was your first demerit in some years, we are prepared to let you off with… Mr. Burris?
RICHARD is no longer looking at the MAN but is instead staring intently at the disappearing figure of a shapely WOMAN IN RED.
MAN: Mr. Burris!
RICHARD shakes out of his reverie.
RICHARD: Oh, hmph! Sorry.
MAN: Now as I was saying, our company is prepared to let you off at this moment, but future tardiness will not be looked upon as kindly. Now are we clear Mr. Burris?
RICHARD peers at the man with a look that seems to say “why did you break me away from her?” but then answers slowly back.
RICHARD: Yes.
MAN: Very good, then let’s have a productive work session today yes?
RICHARD returns sullenly to his cubicle, the retreating form of the WOMAN IN RED in his mind: her hips gyrating, the subtle movement of her thighs against red satin. He sits down at his desk, puts on his headset, and presses a button.
RICHARD: Hi I’m calling to inform you of a momentous opportunity to purchase the Wonder-Vac 3000! Now…
I wait two days before I start searching for her. It’s difficult to truly find someone when all you have to work with are the color of their dress and the exquisite perfection of their ass. Try describing the above sentence to a compatriot and more than likely yours will be the name they’ll be suggesting at the week end “who’s a serial killer now?” office party. I learn small things first, her name is Julie, she works in accounting, she’s engaged to Fred, they met in the company. To the queries of who is asking I always answer “Richard Burris”. I am not Richard Burris. I am Richard Burris’s shadow, the very hollow frame of his existence, his hopes and desires, pent up masturbatory frustrations. I am Richard Burris the shell of Richard Burris fuck Richard Burris the fucker. I am a living cliché of a man entering the 32s of his life with a balding head of hair and no sex life. Too often I see myself on television and movie screens and shout – not honestly, only while drunk – at me to get off. Julie inexplicably agrees to meet with sweaty masturbator Richard Burris for a lunch meeting. I will see how this goes.
The last time I was truly Richard Burris, the true Richard Burris was when I imagined myself playing the guitar. In college, in the early morning hours, the air wet and heavy with dew chafing the raw confines of my caffeine-seared lungs I raised a vibrant and decadent air guitar up to the sky, imaginary pinstripes of purple-red flames streaming down the sides of its glistening V-form body. To the sky I would raise an undying toast, reciting anthems of Queen, Metallica, or an Aerosmith Revolution, though in all honesty it was only Queen, and only ever one song. I say the last only because it sounds nice to the ear, but in fact I played any number of songs, though most of them from Queen. But in a flurry of motion, the Richard Burris I was, the true Richard Burris: champion of the world and ruler of the mid morning dusk with his crown of sweat, fatigue-charred lungs and scepter of pin-striped flaming guitar glory, this Richard Burris would look to the glimmering wink of the horizon and call out the name of the sun, and like magic, the sun would arise from across the eastern lip of the earth to gaze upon the shuddering frame of the king Richard Burris: collapsed upon the front of his school.
I communicate none of this Richard Burris to Julie when I first meet her. She is tall, slender, attractive and sweet. This naturally makes me feel threatened, unsure of myself, and bald so the following transcribed dialogue should primarily be understood to have the intended delivery of Julie: warm and kind, Richard: sweaty, nervous, and bald.
INT – CORPORATE CAFÉ - DAY
JULIE: Hi, you must be…
RICHARD: Richard, you’re Julie, yes?
JULIE: Yes, that’s me. So what can I do for you Richard?
RICHARD: Um *beat*, okay so this is going to sound awkward but you know Ryan, 4th floor office manager? I was in there the other day and I saw you from behind and I lost my attention.
JULIE: Well, um, thank you, but …. I don’t know how to say this but… I’m kind of engaged.
RICHARD: I know
Julie looks alarmed
RICHARD: I mean, I know and I asked around and I … please don’t go, please, it’s crazy, I know I’m not going to kill you please don’t tell everyone I’m a serial killer.
Julie sits down from where she was about to leave.
RICHARD: I am turning 32, in four days
JULIE: (quietly) Congratulations
RICHARD: Thanks
*beat*
RICHARD (cont.): You seem happy.
JULIE: I am happy
RICHARD: I’m glad.
Julie gives him a look.
RICHARD (cont.): Please don’t, look Julie it’s not about you. It’s about this company, it’s about me, it’s all about me I don’t want to be me, I’d rather be you, I’d rather be Fred, your boyfriend – please don’t leave – I’d rather be anyone else other than me: about to turn 32 and going bald, and all I have is just you, as a reminder of what happy used to be.
*beat*
JULIE: I should get back to work.
RICHARD: Sorry for… this… I guess. It’s okay if you tell everyone I’m a serial killer, they probably all think it anyways
Julie walks to the elevator, presses the button, and waits for a moment as it ticks down. As the door opens, she turns to Richard.
JULIE: It was our anniversary
Richard looks up. Julie holds up two fingers.
JULIE (cont.): Two years.
RICHARD: Congratulations
JULIE: Thanks.
Elevator door closes. Richard shuffles quickly out of his seat, the cups still sitting on the table.
At this point it is a somewhat trifling point for me to make that none of this was true. Yes, there is a woman named Julie Siles, somewhere in my company. No, I do not know if she is engaged to Fred Weimar. Ryan Liu does exist, but he has pulled me into his office so many times now that our conversations take on the dull back-and-forth of a couple who has lived together for decades, arguments over tardiness and company policy imbued with the tone of participants who know both the beats and counts of the script by heart, fully knowing that the other participant will never do anything to change the conditions under which such a scenario can be enacted. But this much is true: in four days I will be 32. I am fat, I am balding, I cannot find reason to enjoy my work anymore, and the greatest and saddest fact is that even in my projected fantasies, Julie is already engaged, and I am doomed to failure. But hopefully, come four days from now when the wheels of my existence click past their thirty-second mark, I will remember what it was like as King Richard Burris, the man who might have began a sordid and adulterous affair with shapely Julie Siles, who conquered the morning dawn with his sword of Rock, Caffeine, and Queen. Perhaps in four days, I will be that Richard Burris again, but there are never any guarantees.
My name is Richard Burris and I lead an imaginary existence.
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