Saturday, July 28, 2012

It’s Dave’s Fault (The Blame Game)

I bet you didn’t know about what Dave’s done now.

If you watch people for long enough, you start to pick up on certain patterns. That is, if you watch people for long enough and you have any pattern-recognition ability at all, you do.

I watch people a lot. I also have some pattern-recognition ability. From time to time, then, I pick up on certain patterns among the people I see.

Like I pick up on this: People love pointing fingers. Placing blame. It could be about who’s responsible for their problems. It could be about who’s responsible for your problems. It doesn’t really matter, because the Blame Game is just that fun.

Some people blame something called the Illuminati for all of the world’s problems. Others blame the Catholics or the feminists or the Latinos. And the Republicans blame the Democrats and the Democrats blame the Republicans.

And every time that something bad happens, you see them. Blaming. No matter how random the event, they will find a way to blame their favorite personal scapegoat.

It is the national pastime!

I met Dave in a coffee shop in the Heights this past week. Now, Dave is not part of any movement. He is not representing some larger interest group, and he does not even have a belief system to speak of.

But after ten minutes talking with Dave in that Heights-area coffee shop, I came to realize something.

It’s Dave’s fault.

All of it.

Dave is to blame for your problems. Dave is to blame for OUR problems.

Check it out:

That job you applied for? The one you did not get even though you were qualified? The job did not go to a black Jewish crippled gay Vet, after all. It did not go to the boss’ nephew. It went to Dave.

The cancellation of “Arrested Development”? Dave’s idea.

Dave inserted passages into everyone’s holy books that make them read as though they want you dead.

Dave has been watching you and he does not approve of what you do in the privacy of your own home.

Dave wants to force lifestyles down your throat (whatever that means).

For FY 2012, over one-third of the federal budget goes to…( You guessed it!)... Dave.

Dave cannot account for his whereabouts on November 22, 1963.

One time, Dave pulled a gun on an old lady in broad daylight. Nothing happened to him. If that had been you or that had been me pulling that gun, can you even imagine what they would have done to us? But not Dave. Dave gets special treatment.

Dave is why we cannot have nice things.

Scientists now estimate that the space heater under Dave’s desk has raised global mean temperatures three-quarters of one degree in the past fifteen years.

Dave turned me into a lesbian. It was not nature and it was not nurture. It was Dave, altering my chromosomes.

Dave’s SAT scores are single-handedly responsible for the United States slipping to 14thin the global education rankings. 

All this finger pointing? Dave started it! 

It was Dave.

It was Dave.

It was always Dave.

So the next time something happens - Like, oh, I don’t know… Maybe Texas schools eliminate History from their curriculum – I know exactly what I am going to do. I will not blame the corporations or the welfare queens or the queers.

I will wave my fist in the air and I will scream, “Da-a-a-a-a-ave!”

And you, well, you will be one of the few people who will know what it is I am talking about. Because you read this.

Help get the word out: We need to stop hating each other. We need to start hating Dave.

I hope this cleared a few things up for you. Kumbaya. 

(And now it’s your turn: What in your life can you blame Dave for?)

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Saturday, July 21, 2012

Why Don’t Mosquitoes Like Me?

Okay, why don’t mosquitoes like me? What do y’all got that I haven’t got?

Is the blood in these veins somehow lesser blood? Less good? Less desirable? Less tasty?

Do my platelets not appeal to the discriminating palate of your upscale River Oaks blood sucker? Too cold? Needs salt? Maybe a ready-made entry wound to help with easier access?

They all say I am lucky but I just feel bad because why don’t mosquitoes ever bite me?

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Dead Meat

I said, “This car is officially on fire!”  because the car was on fire.

There was nothing official about it, really. There is no process for certification of conflagration. But still, I said, “This car is officially on fire!”  because the car was on fire and also because Rufus and Ethel Bunny were too preoccupied to see it.

Rufus and Ethel Bunny wanted to frak. They were looking to hula the hoop. Probably they thought I did not notice.

I noticed.

We – I mean all of us, I mean me, Ethel Bunny, Rufus, Dummy, Star and the Glob – were supposed to be delivering the ugly sculpture that Jerry Lee had sculpted. But Dummy got called in to work and Star caught bronchitis and then the Glob wasn’t answering his phone. So then it was just me and Rufus and Ethel Bunny, and also the ugly sculpture and the car.

And I was in the back seat of the car and the sculpture was in the back seat, too, and the car was on fire, only Rufus and Ethel Bunny did not notice because they were thinking about frakking each other.

Finally I got their attention. It was nearly too late. The front seat was filled with black smoke from the ac vents. White smoke coming from under the hood made it hard to see where we were going.

We were going to deliver the sculpture that Jerry Lee had sculpted. Only we did not even make it out of downtown Houston and the car was on fire.

When Rufus pulled over and stopped the car, I said, “Help me with the sculpture.”   We had to get the sculpture out of the burning car. It weighed about the two hundred pounds. The sculpture, I mean, not the car.

The sculpture, it had a name, and the name was “A Great Moment in History.”  Which great moment was not clear. It might have been an astronaut walking upon the moon or else it might have been Washington crossing the Delaware.  I regarded the sculpture’s quality to be subpar. In this, Rufus agreed with me. Ethel Bunny said, “This sculpture, it does not speak to me.”

Jerry Lee, who sculpted the sculpture, said he would get paid two hundred thousand dollars for it. “A fool and his money are soon parted,”  Star had said when Jerry Lee told him about the two hundred thousand dollars. 

Star knows nothing about art. I know nothing about art, either. Still, I regarded the sculpture as subpar.

It was the blue time of night just after dusk. We saw flames reflecting off the pavement underneath the car. There was nothing we could do.

I said, “Rufus, let’s carry the sculpture into this empty building.”  I thought I could get us into the empty building. I could get us into the empty building, but the getting took longer than I thought.

We got in. Someone must have called the fire department. There were sirens and I said, “Rufus and Ethel Bunny, you can go back to those rooms back there,”  because Rufus and Ethel Bunny wanted to frak. They wanted to hula the hoop.

I said, “I am going up to the roof and I am going to watch the fire trucks.”

It was dark but I found some stairs. Inside the staircase, the light from my phone lit up spray-painted messages. One of the messages said this: “YOLO.”  Another one of the messages looked like a chicken. The chicken was only half done. Going up to the roof, I wondered whether the kid who painted that chicken was ever going to come back and do the other half.  

At the top of the stairs, I opened the door to the roof, but the smell up there made me want to close it again. The roof smelled of death. More than death, though, putrefaction. Death when the meat of the thing that was once alive sloughs off the bones and turns into purple liquid death. Death like the smell of the mushroom factory in Madisonville.  

“This is more interesting than fire!”  I said to myself. I covered my nose with my Mastodon t-shirt. I went looking for the death.

The death was on another part of the building. I had to climb up part of the building that stuck up farther than the rest and then come back down the other side near the birds.

In my life, I have noticed that birds do not come out at night. But here it was, night, and these birds were out and there were a lot of them. They were big birds and there were a lot of them and they were crowded around something on the roof that smelled of death.

They were eating.

I saw how one bird would come running out from the crowd with a piece of food hanging in his mouth and then another bird, who up until this point had been standing at the back watching, would chase the first bird down and try and steal his food. To steal his dead meat.

Then the first bird and the second bird, they would fight for a few moments, but it did not look to be a serious fight.

None of the birds seemed to care about me or to care about the flashing emergency lights from the street below or to care about the echo from the firemen’s radio.

I wanted to know what that dead meat used to be. I wanted to see a tail or I wanted to see a horn or a hoof or hell, I don’t know, maybe I wanted to see a tentacle. I wanted to see something that would assure me that I had not known that meat before it was dead.

“People are made out of food,” I remembered reading in a book somewhere.

“I know,”  I thought to myself on the roof. “I will come back here in the day. Maybe in three days. Maybe in four. I will come back here when it is light and when the birds have finished eating all of the meat.”

I thought to myself, “Then I will see what pieces of the thing are left, and then I will know what kind of meat it used to be.”

I went back downstairs. By that time, Rufus and Ethel Bunny had hula-ed the hoop and were standing by the front window watching the fire trucks drive away.

“Whose car was that?  I asked them, but no one knew whose car it was.

I called Dana to come and pick up me and Rufus and Ethel Bunny and the sculpture. Dana thought the sculpture was “the ugliest fucking thing”  she had ever seen in her whole life.

A week later, I went back to the building. I went up to the roof. Where the meat had been, there was nothing left but a stain on the ground.

The spray-painting of the chicken on the staircase was still only half-done.  

Sunday, July 8, 2012

The Naked Truth

“And the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized that they were naked. So they sewed fig leaves together to make clothes for themselves.”      – Genesis 3:7

“God said, ‘Who told thee that thou wast naked?’”   – Genesis 3:11


Is the little church dilapidated because the congregants can’t tell it’s dilapidated? Or is the little church dilapidated because there is just no way to work outdoors under the Houston summer sun while naked?