on having kids

I would love to have kids one day,

to take part in the great human tradition

of convincing children there are such magically wonderful things like Santa Clause.

I remember my own father

who tried so hard to convince us kids Father Christmas was real;

how he’d dress up as Santa every year

sneak through the house
just loud enough to wake us

come into our rooms
late at night
with his fake beard and bag

lay on top of us
and laugh.

Advertisements

I would love your help

Hello artists, photographers, illustrators and all of the visual people in between.

I am in need of your eyes.

I want your brains.

I want them and everything that comes with them.

I am self publishing a book called “THE CAPTAIN’S SOCIETY FOR HAPPY CANNIBALS” and I want you to do the cover art! If you are at all interested, please check out the page which can be found at the top of the browser for a sample. If you read it and want more, or you get inspired to do some art please get in touch! I will send you the rest of the book and we can become friends. Everyone likes making friends!! Let’s be friends!!! Friends who loan their eyeballs to other friends.

Here is a summary of the project: https://notesfromanarcissist.wordpress.com/2014/10/18/the-captains-society-for-happy-cannibals/

This is the direct link to the sample: https://notesfromanarcissist.wordpress.com/the-captains-society-for-happy-cannibals/

 

Thank you for your time and consideration. You are all the best.

Last Words

“… And I would like to be remembered
as a man who never discriminated
against anyone, even the severely
retarded.” the axe murderer decreed.

In the moments before execution,
he told the victims’ families
just how resilient and strong the deceased were,

later clarifying,
he meant how difficult it was
to dismember their flailing bodies.

To Describe Blow-Jobs Artistically

 

“The master of ceremonies asked people to say what they thought the function of the novel might be in modern society, and one critic said, ‘To provide touches of color in rooms with all-white walls.’ Another one said, ‘To describe blow-jobs artistically.'” -Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five.

 

Few individuals share the experience of enlightenment exactly as Oscar’s. Drunk, in the back seat of a 20-something Honda Civic, being blown ever so graciously by God-knows-what-her-dad-named-her, Oscar peered into the left tilted rear-view mirror only to see Tiny Jesus smiling and waving from the driver’s seat headrest. Thinking this was some strange, unknown hallucinatory side-effect of drinking tequila with raspberry vodka, Oscar tried to refocus on the petite, curly haired red-head slobbering all over his phallus of fluctuating firmness.

 

Yet he found himself closing his eyes. He found himself thinking about doing history homework in-between laundry cycles, his childhood go-to for erection stifling. God-knows-what-her-dad-named-her looked up and asked if everything was okay: the mast was drooping. Oscar reassured her that everything was wonderful. Everything was dandy. Tiny Jesus definitely wasn’t playing a harmonica on the dashboard.

 

In just a moment Oscar will have his mind divided from his body. He will be gone long enough such that when he returns the only thing he will see are the curly maroon pubic regions of a faceless, nameless, inhabitant of the planet who he will love and understand deeper than the man who named her. She will be completely unaware that the mind, formally attached to the body, attached to the member in her mouth, has been shown the shadow of the nature of existence. As Oscar’s mind leaves for an indescribably present  yet distant sense of time, the beast within this soulless man will occupy her with pulsating gyration of up, down and up, and she will sync up with him, her fishy lipstick going down, up and down.

 

Tiny Jesus moves from the dashboard towards Oscar in a four-dimensional trajectory. How best to describe this? At rest he is one, making a singular decision. In motion, he is many and all possibilities on a sliding scale of probability. Oscar can only perceive a kaleidoscopic view of a thousand Tiny Jesuses teleporting towards him, until one appears atop the ginger girl’s head going down, up and down, her hot, gin scented fumes of nose breath moistening Oscar’s thigh. Tiny Jesus’s little feet deform her hair,but she doesn’t seem to notice. Tiny Jesus takes out his harmonica again and blows a harsh sweep from low to high, and as the top note stabilizes, everything glows whiter, and whiter, and up, down and up again.

 

And this is what Heaven is like: Tiny Jesus is normal Jesus again, and you enter mid-stride with your eyes on Jesus’s open palm. He is offering you a handful of sunflower seeds. You walk along a river, on a soft dirt path, barefoot and surrounded by miles of plush, twig-less grass. As you know from Tiny Jesus in the car, there is no talking here; just a knowing gleam of eye contact. There is never any confusion, so there is no need to say anything. No decisions have to be made because everything will be just fine. If you don’t like sunflower seeds, you don’t have to take them, but Jesus being Jesus, he will always offer. When Jesus eats sunflower seeds, he doesn’t eat them one at a time. He doesn’t even bother to de-shell them. He throws them into his mouth a handful at a time and chews the wad like gum. From time to time, between wads, he wades into the water and takes a long drink. He doesn’t mind getting wet from the belly down. Sometimes there is a warm breeze and sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes it is a cooling wind and sometimes not. No one really notices because either is just fine. People are the same as they were on Earth, and everyone is here.

 

You walk on with Jesus, in the ever pleasant day. He spits wads of sunflower shells into the grass, and always offers you a handful. All the while, you pass by pairs of true lovers, silently engaged with an art or craft in the warmth of each other’s company. Once dead, everyone becomes a master of their art, and no one remembers why there were art critics to begin with, until they really think about it. They understand, smile, or laugh to themselves and forget all over again. A book is no better than a painting, nor worse, and a painting is no better or worse than any other painting. They are simply different. When pairs pass by other pairs, they look over each other’s work and smile with warmth and knowing. There is no need to praise, because the artist knows the work is a masterpiece, so the subject just enjoys the art for what it is, and everything is just fine.

 

You walk by Hell every now and again, and everyone in there is the same as they were on Earth. Looking from the outside in, Hell is a massive, light gray, concrete pyramid full of windows and balconies for people to smoke on, because you aren’t allowed to smoke indoors, even in Hell.

 

There was never any torture, or fire. They just prefer to be indoors, despite the ceilings being a little low, and the lighting poor. That was the only difference. Low lighting and low ceilings. People in Hell, which isn’t that bad of a place at all, would simply rather stay indoors on a perpetually sunny day, or a surprisingly warm evening. The inhabitants of Hell have the Internet, television, and bars. They will sometimes come out to an overhang, or a patio to smoke cigarettes, because even in Hell, you can’t smoke indoors. You work the same job you had on Earth in Hell, and everyone makes as much as they need to. The people of Hell pay taxes, although the tax money doesn’t really go anywhere. There is no governing body, because no one is worried about theft or murder, because everyone has all the material items they could want, but are silently uncomfortable with admitting that empty feeling associated with having too many luxuries.

 

Not too many people know how the monetary system in Hell works, but there are lots of television shows that talk about it, and everyone understands that it is meant to be confusing. There are lots of hand sanitizer stations and pay-phones that no one uses. They all have their own private space, and there is plenty of it, although the ceilings are a little low, and the lighting poor.

 

In Hell, they provide you with just enough room to be lonely in, and a cavalcade of luxuries that don’t really matter. You have the best hot tub so nice it gets just a little too hot, and the most powerful air conditioner so it’s almost always a little too cold, and most people spend their days getting in and out of really nice hot tubs and re-watching their same favorite television programs. You have an endless supply of TV channels, but you probably only watch programs on about four or five of them. You have a computer with Internet to watch the shows you watch on TV, or read the ideas of other people watching TV on a computer.

 

People in Hell still spend a lot of time on cell phones, because they aren’t comfortable with accepting the silent knowing that the folks in Heaven have. They know the same things that the Heaven folk know. They just still need someone to validate them. People in Hell aren’t unhappy at all. They just aren’t sure if they’re happy. They aren’t sure of a lot of things, like if they know the same things that the folks in Heaven know. They do. It’s just not enough.

 

There are still bar fights. There is still work drama. They still defecate in Hell because they still eat, and they eat well. But toilets still get clogged, and people still gripe as they either call a plumber or search for a plunger. They know they’ve died, and there is no real need to eat beyond pleasing the sensation of hunger. Besides, Jesus eats too. Jesus poops also. He likes to visit Hell sometimes with a smattering of Heaven folk who could be bothered, and they will go find a place to eat a slice of pizza, or a roll of sushi. No one is quite sure how it all started, but for whatever reason Jesus loves tuna salad mixed with macaroni and cheese, topped with capers, jalapeños and chunks of thickly sliced turkey bacon. No one is quite sure where he gets it either, but everyone is comfortable not knowing certain things.

 

Asking how often Jesus gets tuna salad mixed with mac and cheese with capers, peppers and bacon is a silly question for the dead because there is no time. There is day, which is always pleasant, and night, which is always surprisingly warm, but no one in Heaven pays any attention to the change for being too deep in the enjoyment of the moment, and everyone in Hell is in a perpetual state of coming out of a movie theater and being shocked by the state of the day, so they are no help at all. What can be said about Jesus’s visits to Hell is that when he walks around, everyone knows him, but they often call him by different names – again, it is mostly out of this strange need for Hellian validation despite knowing exactly who he is. They call him Buddha, Mohammad, Moses, Vishnu, Holiness, Steve and all sorts of names, and he responds to them all with a wide smile and a handful of sunflower seeds. People in Hell rarely eat sunflower seeds. They have no proper place to spit.

 

People in Heaven are allowed to stay in Hell, and people in Hell are allowed to go to Heaven, but you rarely stay in both places equally. Part of that unspoken understanding is knowing where you prefer to be, and everyone is just fine with it. No one tells people they don’t belong anywhere, they just give knowing smiles signifying an acknowledgment of a stranger or a neighbor, and there is very little difference between the two. Sometimes you see a pale pudgy Hell girl going for a run along the river, and everyone from Heaven chuckles because they forgot what being in a rush was like. Sometimes you see a person from Heaven walking dazed around a mall in Hell, sipping a Slurpee and staring at mannequins and pondering what possible good a fine Italian suit would do on a beautiful day like this. It would only get ruined in the river, so they never go inside.

 

The most overlap you see between inhabitants of Heaven and Hell is the library. Everyone likes the library. People from Heaven love fiction from Hell. They love the adventure, the noir, the mystery and excitement of murder stories, but they love it in the library, knowing that it will all go back on the shelf shortly. People from Hell love the poetry from Heaven. It helps them appreciate natural beauty in that slightly removed medium they are so used to. It is a nice break from watching nature shows on HD TV; they still don’t have leave the comforts of their home; they can still drink premium coffee that is just a bit too strong, and smoke cigarettes that are a smidgen too heavy, knowing peacefully enough, that it will all go back on a shelf.

 

You wonder the same thing everyone wonders when they take their walk with Jesus eating sunflower seeds. Did Jesus ever get blown? And knowing the “did-Jesus-ever-get-blown” look like his own reflection in the river, he smiles at you, and you realize that knowing either way would have been disappointing. For those of you who have died, everything becomes clear at this point, but for folks like Oscar, he chuckles – the only real verbalization in Heaven – and you continue on, leaving a trail of sunflower shell wads behind.

 

***

An excerpt from “The Book of Dave,” a thing by me.

I’m Eric.

The PR Campaign

Of Noah’s many achievements

his greatest is by far

purifying humanity

 

through the holy equivalent of “insider trading”

& overseeing widespread systematic incest for nine-hundred and fifty years.

 

But yeah, let’s just focus on the boat thing…

The Captain’s Society For Happy Cannibals

I am pleased to announce the forthcoming self-publication of a new 25,000 word epic poem called “The Captain’s Society for Happy Cannibals.”

https://notesfromanarcissist.wordpress.com/the-captains-society-for-happy-cannibals/                                            <—— That’s a sample!

There are so many things about that sentence which will turn you off to this book.

“self-published”
“25,000”
“poem”

Let’s start with that last one.
Poem.
I use the term “poem” very loosely.

It’s not really a poem.
It is just a normal story
that happened to be written in stanzas.

Much like this!

So don’t think of it as a poem
so much as it is a story
presented in a “speed-reader friendly” format.

But I do insist on calling it “poetry.”

Why?

In my studies of poetry in college and thereafter, I have noticed an unsettling trend among established and budding poets, which is an overwhelming insistence on taking themselves seriously, and overall being kind of a bummer.

It really must end.

I do understand that for the readers of poetry, it is valuable to have a writer be able to identify with inner turmoil and pain and to be able to express those emotions in a safe environment, & of course, people should have access to deep, thought provoking philosophies.

But I feel that many of us have forgotten that at its heart, poetry is a form of entertainment.

Here are some practical problems with what I will wrongly and broadly refer to as “today’s poetry.”

1. It asks too much of the common reader.

Poetry is written for other poets. This opinion was widely accepted as truth in my college courses. There is some truly remarkable poetry out there which is completely inaccessible unless you’ve read other completely inaccessible pieces, and even if you decode all the references to works that were not written for your generation’s mind frame, the pay-off is something emotionally draining, or leaves you contemplating the meaning of existence.

That’s not a reward, poet.

2. It insists on its own importance, when clearly it is not.

You know how you get irritated when people post pictures of their food on Instagram? Poetry is that, but with writing.

“LOOK HOW IMPORTANT THIS MINOR MOMENT IN MY DAY IS!
FEEL HOW SENSITIVE I AM.
FEEEEEEEEEEEEL.” -Billy Collins

Shots fired.
Billy Collins, lobsters are not women.

3. There are no explosions.

& when there are, the poet ruins it by making it about something serious like Hiroshima.

 

I predict The Captain’s Society for Happy Cannibals will be reviled by the poetry community, and will undoubtedly offend a portion of  readers (most likely, upper-middle class white women ages 35 and up). This is to be expected.

For nearly one hundred years now, poetry has been marred by bleak intellectualism, nihilistic philosophy & the unsolicited catharsis of negative emotions. It has made poetry irrelevant & at best a laughingstock. I don’t explicitly blame TS Eliot, but it is definitely all his fault. The most praised poems follow his formula for success: to make a work so intellectually impenetrable that one must praise it for fear of looking like fools to their peers. It teaches the reader nothing, but flaunts their ignorance in front of them. It is the tale of the Emperor’s New Clothes.
The Captain’s Society for Happy Cannibals is by no means “good poetry,” when assessed by the definition of established poets today. It does not seek to tell the truth, or present the world in a beautiful way. It is a necessary evil for our time; seeking out lowbrow humor & the deliberate misinterpretation of classics for then sake of a chuckle.
Poetry has become a city of Gotham, rotting under the weight of its own ideals. I am its Joker, & I’m asking you to light the bat signal.

(Wow, so dramatic…)

Next,

Self-publication

First things first, we must be considerate of the environment. Poetry is particularly bad for the planet because the text usually only takes up half (sometimes less) the page. Plus, we are in a draught, if you haven’t been reminded enough, and one page of paper requires more than a can of soda’s worth of water to produce. Not only is that absurdly wasteful, but it drives up the cost of books. You’re poor. I’m poor. This cuts out most of the middlemen.

Honesty time: I would really like to be able to write full-time, and it’s hard to do that making %15 royalty off a five dollar product. (That’s what traditionally published authors are currently making on ebook sales, and five dollars is what I’m thinking the eventual retail price will be. Don’t worry, if you’ve read this far, you’re totally getting a free copy)

People who visited this blog at its inception may have noticed that the section titled “This is an Experiment” has been taken down. After much help from some very good friends, I revised “The Book of Dave” a few times & have begun sending out manuscripts to publishers. (Yay for confidence building exercises!!) In researching the publishing process, I came upon a lot of research and data about the current state of the publishing industry, and things didn’t look too pretty. Many sources suggested that new authors may find success as a “hybrid-author” where an individual works on two projects concurrently, placing one egg in each publication basket.

(Note: The Book of Dave is way denser and fills fewer pages, another contributing factor)

I am choosing to self-publish “The Captain’s Society for Happy Cannibals” because I feel it more closely reflects the sentiments above. It was written with the intent to be as enjoyable and digestible as possible, while still maintaining quality writing. Here is the blurb I’ve been working on… If you have any suggestions on how to improve it, please leave a comment!

**

After surviving a plane crash on a mysterious island, the foolhardy hero (referred to as EI) preemptively resorts to the cannibalization of a deceased flight attendant, reasoning that if things will eventually come down to eating human flesh, he should do it before the meat spoils.

Little does he know that the only other survivor (and his best hope for getting off the island) is the fiancé of the woman he just ate.

Hilarity ensues as the two mismatched survivors unlock the hidden secrets to this mystical land, answering questions like, “who invented pajamas, Greek mythology and cunnilingus?”

Necrophelia, tea-cup pigs, and plenty of side boob lurk around every corner in the first dark-humor driven epic poem to be attempted, ever.

Ever?

Ever.

(Unless you want to start talking about Dante, and I do not)

Disclaimer: This piece contains explicit content and is not intended for the easily offended.

**

The Process

The first draft was composed by hand, using a fountain pen and ink well, because I’m a jackass.

This book was originally drafted as a means of practicing joke-writing. Because of this, it was written mostly without any idea of where the plot would go. I just wanted it to be as funny as I could make it. To compensate for this, I developed a sort of “Dungeons & Dragons” approach to the story. All of the characters and environments were developed first, and were then “set free” to do as they were so inclined. Actions were chosen, and their outcomes were determined by rolling various dice. This made writing the book very exciting and fun for me, and I hope some of that translates over to you.

 

If you would like to read the first 20 pages, follow the link or scroll to the top and check out the page!

https://notesfromanarcissist.wordpress.com/the-captains-society-for-happy-cannibals/

 

Update!

I will be recording the audiobook over the next month or two, while also composing some original music for the audiobook. It will be…

To cry is to poo, but from your face

In truth, there are really four inescapables in life.
Death & taxes we know,
But tend to forget or deny
Poops & weeping.

With both activities
There is an implicit unpleasantness,
A social faux pas

But you must do it
Everyone does it
& when you are backed up
Excretion feels fantastic,
During & right after

Wiping away tears & dingle-berries
& being done with both

Sometimes at the same time…

Free from that weight of poop and tears

A new You emerges

Flinging open the door
To that Outside Lands Port-o-potty
The sunset hits you
You smell fresh garlic fries
& dew wrapped beer cans

Walking away lighter,
Musing a new self
You think, confident & free:

You know what?

I am Kanye West.
I am a genius.
I’m basically mother-fucking Mickey Mouse.

AIGHT BITCHES
GET ME MY PHAROH MASK.

YEAH I KNOW IT COVERS MY FACE.

NO I DONT GIVE A FUCK.
DOES MICKEY MOUSE GIVE A FUCK?

IT’S NOT LIKE I’M OPENLY WEEPING IN THIS MASK OR ANYTHING.

Hang on, I got an idea
WRITE THIS DOWN

It’s like Disney World
But with ALL me
& Splash Mountain
Ends with Kim’s ass.

Okay, queue up “All of the Lights.”
Here we go.

Sergeant & Soldier – An Iraq War 3 Speech

Now men, we will be re-entering Iraqi airspace at 0400 hours, but before we do that I just want to clear up a few things.

As of now, it is very important for our image that when speaking with the locals you must maintain the notion that our mission was indeed accomplished, and that our presence today should be seen as a kind of “bonus round.”

Yes, Johnson,
“going for a hat trick” is also an acceptable metaphor.

No, I don’t think they have hockey here, but you’re more than welcome to try to explain it to them. They’re free hats. Who doesn’t get that?

No, O’Beid, you will not actually be receiving hats.

Moving right along,
while we ask that you continue to deliver that excellent 5 star service we’re striving for on Yelp, there are a few things I do need to go over from the higher-ups.

Firstly, and most importantly, drawing pictures of the prophet Muhammed on buildings as a means of marking air strike targets is no longer an acceptable tactic.

Did it help save valuable resources by enticing the locals into destroying their own infrastructure? Yes, but as I said before, my superiors have made it very clear that this is “not an appropriate long game strategy for developing peaceful international relations.”

Similarly, we got word back from our legal experts and apparently tattooing prisoners of war with cartoons of the prophet Muhammed, is technically “unusual” and arguably “cruel” in regards to the “cruel and unusual” rule.

Secondly, as you may have heard in the news, the armed forces has come under heavy fire from several women’s interest groups regarding sexual assault, and a generally unsafe working environment for women. This is completely unacceptable.

If I could have everyone open their mission kit, thank you. Now the ladies in our platoon may notice an extra roll of duct tape and a black plastic strap-on phallus. This is a military grade equalizer. Put it on, tape those boobs back and welcome to 1st class citizenship.

No, no, put it on now, Johnson. You’re one of the boys now, just strip down and strap on.

Ok while she is getting equalized, I do have some bad news. The drone strike app we were hoping for has been delayed, and the criteria for calling in a drone strike has been made more strict.

No, Johnson, that buckle goes around back. Really pull it tight. Do you need help? Phillips, help Johnson with the equalization package.

Anyway, “brownish skin and glaring” are no longer acceptable as reasons for deploying drones. Ok? They have to be really, really, unquestionably brown. If you have any confusion, just use the rule of thumb: if they are darker than the skin on your thumb, it’s probably okay.

Jackson, Jefferson and O’Beid, for you guys the rule of thumb is,

Lighter than the top part
Darker than your palm side.
Like in the middle.

Or, if you’re confused,
command has recommended you download the Lowe’s or Home Depot app, and use their wallpaper color finder. Anything between caramel macchiato and dark mahogany is a go.

If you’re still having trouble,
consult our legal advisor, Hernandez.
If they’re as dark as Hernandez,
Go for it.

Finally, and I cannot stress this point enough, I’ve been told to remind everyone that an IED and an IUD are completely different things and are not at all interchangeable.

Not only has that caused several catastrophic misunderstandings, but it’s a really big mess.

Yes, Jefferson, IEDs technically have the capacity to control birth, but you understand how severely upsetting that incident in Mosul was for everyone involved?

Ok, unless anyone has any questions, I would say that was meeting met.

Johnson?

Well if you have to pee, ask one of your brothers in arms to help you with the buckles. We’re all men here. No homo.

Seriously,
No homo.
It’s against the rules.