THE NIGHT I WENT OVER TO THE GREAT ARTIST'S HOUSE WITH THE OTHER GREAT ARTIST TO WATCH THE REPUBLICAN DEBATES

Well, what happened was, I went over to the great artist's house to watch the Republican debates. I went over there with the other great artist. There was a ton of people there which I didn't expect. You should've seen this place! He truly is a great artist. His art is brutal and impeccable, it faces death and futility head on just like I like, and he has built the most beautiful life and home around it with a calm confidence I know I will never achieve. My favorite piece was this headless little pig on its side by the door. You couldn't figure out which end was what. I laughed out loud when I saw it. I hadn't had much to drink. I ate a little. Then we watched the debates which were hilarious. But then I felt myself getting sick. I tried hard to keep it down, to ignore it. Beads of sweat kept running down my face and back. Finally, I slipped out and walked down the hill and climbed the tall fence guarding the unfinished bridge and I carefully walked across the roaring creek along a steel beam, hoping not to slip and fall and die, bleeding upon the rocks. I made it and began my long walk home through the darkness from the edge of town. I fought it off for a little while but then I surrendered. The puke shot out of me, splattering at my feet. I started walking again, but it kept coming. I puked maybe a dozen or so times. I think what had happened was that I realized nothing would ever save me from my self. The great artist possessed nothing useful for my debilitating condition. His art, his life, as amazing as it was, would be completely wasted on me. It was a terrible truth to swallow, to keep down. What the fuck have I done? I've turned my back on everything to follow this ghost, this hunch. I've put my kid's well being at risk. And now I knew even if I were to accomplish the things I wanted to accomplish, it would do me no good. There was no cure to be had. I would still wake up every morning just as I have now, frightened, weak, dumbfounded, exhausted, plagued with a brain so sickened with sadness that I doubt even the rats nor the worms would dare take a bite. GO BERNIE!

I sort of got briefly interviewed yesterday at work by a lady who remembered me from my modeling days, who used to hire me for some of my best, easiest fit work, and who's now the editor of one of those worthless parenting magazines nobody reads: "So you were living in the city, and then you and your wife moved up here when you got pregnant with your first child." "Yeah. But Sarah Bram had a broken leg too. She got run over by a car just before our wedding." "God. That's terrible! Poor thing." "Oh, it was fine. It made the wedding, her hobbling down the isle on crutches. We lived in a 5th floor apartment with stairs inside. There was just no way to do it. I kept getting flashes in my mind of her burning up in flames because she couldn't get out, my little unborn child boiling to death in her belly." "JESUS!… Um, okay, so you used to commute into the city but now you just work here. How do you like it? I mean, do you miss the city, the traveling?" "I don't know. I don't care what I do anymore or where I live as long as I'm able to write and make art." "So you're able to do all of that now from here?" "Fuck no, not at all. I can't do anything. I'm completely fucked. I have a new studio over in Newburgh and I've only been there twice in the past couple of months. I have commissions that I haven't been able to pull off. All I've got time to do is go on Facebook and make a total ass of myself and get in trouble. It's like death by a thousand cuts." "What's that?" "That's how the Chinese used to torture and kill people. They would tie you up to a stake and slice off little pieces of you over time." "Ewe… So your wife and kids are up in Canada right now. You must miss 'em." "Of course I do." "You think you guys will have any more?" "Absolutely not! No one should be bringing children into this world anymore. I will never forgive myself for having my two boys. What a terrible thing to do to somebody." "You really believe that?" "Absolutely. It's a pathetic, selfish act, having kids. But, you know, then I guess, what the hell else are you going to do? I just don't know how anyone does anything anymore. Like you work for this magazine about parenting… I mean, what's the point? I know everyone needs to make a living but… I don't know. I love my kids dearly, I love them TOO much! It's crippling. And that's what I mean. They're too good for this world, for what we've done to this world. All children are. And then what happens to them? They just become us, these flickering souls, staggering around through the fog of this horrible, horrible world we've created. It's atrocious… Hey, do you want another glass of wine? It's on me?"

THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN DO IT

Make it thin. Make it just barely there. Make it no more than a memory, a vapor already gone. Keep well out of their craw. Be gone before they ever knew you were ever there. That's how you do it. That's the only way you can do it.

FRANK

Frank awoke at 3:00 A.M.. He only looked at the clock to verify what he already knew. It was always 3:00 A.M., exactly 3:00 A.M.. He reached down and felt his cock. He thought about masturbating but didn't. The light coming in through the window allowed him to see a few things: the dresser, the door which was slightly ajar, his towel hanging from the top, the heap of the blanket which had wound up at his feet. He thought about his two little girls, 9 and 6, who were sleeping at their mother's, the filthy fucking whore. He smiled, thinking about their sweet little eyes, closed, sleeping, dreaming. What were they dreaming about? He hoped it was something good. He hated them having to exist in this ever worsening world. Maybe he would one day get rich on his writing and be able to protect them somehow? Does that even happen anymore? No, it doesn't. And even if it did, it wouldn't be enough. Nothing would be, not anymore. He heard a car drive down the street. He thought about masturbating again. He reached down and felt his cock. It was sad and limp, cold and clammy. He played with it a bit and gave up. He then felt his balls. They were uncomfortably tight. It's so true, he thought, the state of a man's cock and balls is always in direct correlation with his mind, with his spirit. Just then, an image flashed through his mind: An elephant tumbling down a cliff. It was the saddest, most grotesque thing he had ever seen in his life. The elephant kept falling, contorting through the air. Frank winced as he fell back to sleep.

THE EPIDEMIC

I think there's just not enough self hating Muslims out there. That's always been the best course of treatment for these sorts of diseases. Look at the Jews, look at all the giants of comedy, art, theater, film, literature etc,. that's blossomed out of that prickly bush. But it's definitely the comedy that's been most effective, that has done the most good. It's the pre-emptive hysterectomy or mastectomy. What they need is a modern day Muslim Kafka. Yes, Kafka. I've always found that brave little butcher hilarious. But then again, the Jews never had the bright idea to discipline their own people by publicly cutting their heads off, which I'll admit, certainly raises the stakes. But I've always felt it can be far braver to hop on that empty stage than to storm a beach. You know, unless you were to storm that beach, naked, with a big raging hard on, that purple headed thing waving back and forth like a silly stick. I would've done it. I'm serious, I would've. I don't care if you don't believe me. I know some people reading this will. I once ran naked through the streets of New York and some border town in Mexico, hurdling large cactus plants. Two of my greatest accomplishments in life. I would've done it singing "Oklahoma" or some shit at the top of my lungs because FUCK IT! Fuck all this stupid shit we do and are as humans! I resent it. It's beneath us. And I will never forgive myself for being so stupid cruel as to bring two more beautiful souls into this monstrous world. Anyway, speaking of Oklahoma and getting back to the Muslims, I just got back from Oklahoma recently, and I must say, aside from the blowing themselves up and the beheadings and shit, from what I can tell, there's just not that much difference between your average, conservative, Fox News watching Okie and a radical Muslim. Both these creatures are immune to humor. GO SOONERS! Oh, and do any of you Beaconites happen to have a confederate flag I can borrow?

TIM

Tim looked at his toes as he laid on the couch. He looked at his right big toe in particular, the one that had been giving him so much trouble. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. The toenail didn't look ingrown. There was no redness or swelling or anything. "Hmmm," he thought. He then tried to think back to a time in his life when his mind wasn't completely preoccupied with the idea of killing himself. But those days were just so long ago. So much had happened that the effort became too frustrating. He heard a text come through on his phone. He thought about getting up to see who it was but he didn't. He knew soon enough, one way or another, he would. It wasn't the sadness anymore or the pain and confusion. He had gotten used to the absurdity of life and he was truly not the least bit interested in any answers. He was simply exhausted. He was tired of all the sounds. He was tired of having to wipe his ass every morning. He was tired of lusting after women, of masturbating. Even fucking was just animalistic and stupid. He felt ridiculous eating. He hated putting his shoes on only to eventually just take them off again. He hated brushing his teeth, finding clothes to wear, finding his car keys. "Why the hell can't someone just place a bomb in my car so I can blow up?" he thought, "like in the movies". Problem solved. No more anything. He was still on the couch when his girlfriend, Kara, walked in the door. "Why won't you answer your phone? I've been calling and texting." They stared at each other for a moment. "I can't believe you're still on the couch?!" she yelled. "I know," he said, and he let out a long fart. "You're disgusting!" She went into the kitchen. "You couldn't even clean the kitchen? Jesus, Tim! What have you done all day?" Tim thought about it as he looked at his toe again. "My toe really hurts," he said. Just then, he heard the mailman lift the metal lid to their mailbox, drop a bunch of mail inside, and slam the lid back down. He cranked his head around and through the window, watched the mailman walking away down the sidewalk. His legs were skinny and white and Tim really liked his socks.

What makes me happiest is the saddest thing of all.