Innocent Abroad

It was just a little tidbit that sparked my outrage this morning—the byline to a crappy article stub about British model Naomi Campbell. Just to give you a cursory background on the subject in question, she is certainly no stranger to the legal system.

And now she’s back in court, this time for attacking her maid over a pair of missing jeans. Not that I give a shit about the actions of an uppity and violent supermodel. What I do care about is that perennial purveyor of media drivel CNN didn’t even bother to mention her long history of alleged and confirmed assaults in their original piece, yet did mention what Naomi was wearing as she arrived in court to plead guilty to yet another assault charge.

No less insulting was the brilliant inclusion of a three line summary for an eight sentence article:

Thankfully, some time later the genius ‘news’ service decided to add a couple lines about her criminal past, but not before saying “Some 100 members of the media were there to cover the event”. Event? Are you fucking joking? Is it too much to ask for some actual news– perhaps an update on the situation in Fiji after the military coup some weeks ago? (come on guys, I’m sure you read all about it) What about some reporting on health care or public education or maybe more coverage of the Democrats’ progress on their ‘100 Hours’ program? We all know a bill has been passed barring Congressmen from receiving their lifelong pensions if convicted of a crime; are we equally aware that this will only apply to future disgraced legislators, which means that sick fuck Mark Foley and ass hat Randy Duke Cunningham will take home about $60,000 of taxpayer money plus benefits every single year for the rest of their miserable lives? How is this not more newsworthy than Naomi’s latest scuffle and leopard-skin pill-box hat?

The fact that Miss Campbell has never been actually punished for her crimes is yet further proof that the uber-rich and famous face a different justice system than the rest of us– if she were Jane Hoe from the trailer park charged with half a dozen assaults, you can be damn sure “community service” would only be the beginning of her problems. But far from punishment, the dumbass legal system and dumbass media corps instead give her a free round of publicity and top it off by focusing on how damn good she looks. I can’t wait to see Joan Crawford at the age of 130 waiting outside random courthouses to talk to criminals about their fashion sense—and you know it will happen. Hell, Queen Bee Michael couldn’t make it a day in court over allegations of doing the nasty-nasty with little ones without some asshole reporter mentioning his outfit.

I’m used to poorly veiled media bias and stupidity, from FOX News ‘mistakenly’ labeling Republican pervert Mark Foley a Democrat on their ticker and then not bothering to post a correction, to CBS and CNN covering the car-bomb of the day in Iraq and ignoring anything resembling encouraging news on economic, political, and social development there. I’m used to all media outlets offering god-awful polls that magically align with their point of view, or ninja tactics like only showing Pope Mediocre in a dignified way yet choosing the most extreme and violent of demonstrative acts against his comments to photograph (ignore the peaceful masses with the signs, focus on fire and violence), but CNN just stooped to the level of fashionista rag magazine—PEOPLE with a degree in journalism.

I know you can’t just ignore the world of entertainment, but don’t all news organizations have some sort of obligation to present relatively important news most of the time? Fine, show Britney Spears’ walrus-skin woman-parts and question her motherhood. But dishing on celeb break-ups? Giving run downs of what they wear to court? Fuck you, CNN. Fuck you, FOX. Fuck you, Naomi Campbell: I hope before long you’re rocking an orange jump suit and only fighting bitches to avoiding being raped.

The parade of indecency just gathered a few more marchers. From now on I only get my information from online comics and books with titles more than twelve words long.

Adam

P.S. Combing my bookshelf, here’s a quick list of good books with long titles.

What Is Marriage For? The Strange Social History Of Our Most Intimate Institution – E.J. Graff
The Way We Never Were: American Families And The Nostalgia Trap – Stephanie Coontz
How Wall Street Created A Nation: J.P. Morgan, Teddy Roosevelt, And The Panama Canal – Ovidio Diaz Espino
The War On Our Freedoms: Civil Liberties In An Age Of Terrorism – Edited by Richard C. Leone
No God But God: The Origins, Evolution, And Future Of Islam – Reza Aslan
We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families – Philip Gourevitch
The United States Of Europe: The New Superpower And The End Of American Supremacy – T.R. Reid

Let me say right away that I have never been a big fan. I’m familiar with most of the material but it doesn’t grab me like so much other music, which is perfectly okay. You’ve written a lot of beautiful songs—I’m not here to attack your talent. But one thing does need to be said:

YOU ARE NOT PHISH! STOP RELEASING LIVE ALBUMS!

I get it—you fancy yourself a rockin’ jam band. You and your cronies love nothing more than getting fucked up and playing three hour concerts for hordes of Patchuli-soaked hippies in Upstate Washington. That’s hot shit– I love bands who feel free to mold and craft their art depending on the feel of the crowd, the mood of the night and whatever opiates populate their brain stem. Your band can play their asses off (especially Boyd Tinsley) but the fact of the matter is you put out WAY too many live albums.

A good rule of thumb: for every 2 studio albums you release, you are allowed to put out 1 (yes, ONE) live album. If a DVD is included, the ratio jumps to 3:1. I know you’re trying to do your own thing, and good on you for trying, but for fuck’s sake, this is getting absurd– bands that have been playing continuously since you were scampering around South Africa in newspaper diapers have tried to shove less live albums down our throats than you have.

Let’s go to the list:

Live At Red Rocks (2 CDs) October 28, 1997
Live in Chicago (2 CDs) December 18, 1998
Live At Luther College (2 CDs) January 19, 1999
Listener Supported (2 CDs) November 23, 1999
Live At Folsom Field (2 CDs) November 5, 2002
The Central Park Concert (3 CDs) November 18, 2003
Live At The Gorge (3 CD/1 DVD set OR 6 CD set) June 29, 2004
Weekend on the Rocks (3 CD OR 8 CD/1 DVD set) November 29, 2005
Live Trax Vol. 1: 12.08.1998 (2 CD set)
Live Trax Vol. 2: 09.12.2004 (3 CD set)
Live Trax Vol. 3: 08.27.2000 (2 CD set)
Live Trax Vol. 4: 04.30.1996 (2 CD set)
Live Trax Vol. 5: 08.23.1995 (2 CD set)

And the brand spanking new 4 disc Live at Fenway Park!

THAT’S OVER 40 FUCKING DISCS OF LIVE MATERIAL!!!

Six and eight disc complete sets? Are you joking? Come on, Dave, are you honestly pompous enough to believe that your every hash-addled rambling about ‘all the lovely ladies’ between songs is worthy of release? Just because you’re friends with Trey Anastasio does not give you the right. Maybe I’m naïve or completely out of the loop, but as an artist, don’t you release albums primarily so the world can hear your music? Of course you’ve got a mortgage to pay, and probably an expensive drug habit (I’m not judging, I would drink myself to death if I ever went on tour, and everyone knows it) but I’d like to think that even if you weren’t world famous you’d still write and perform and release because that’s what artists do. You release a live album so the world can hear your craft and skill and you release another when you have a lot of new material to jam on, or you do a benefit concert for AIDS or Tsunami relief. But no artist releases a new live album every six months unless their ego or NPO has grown far too large.

Please continue to tour and perform how you see fit, continue to make my ex’s wet with your mumbled slurs, continue to record every concert for posterity, but in the name of all that is good and decent, STOP RELEASING THEM. It’s unnecessary and, what’s more, it makes you look like a total dick. For a ‘rage against the machine and the war in Iraq, and support Greenpeace and small business and clean up the Chicago river’ liberal who caters to the disenfranchised pseudo-hippie segment of society, you’ve become as corporate as Jesus Christ. Who are you releasing these albums for? Certainly not your die-hard fans that consistently pay $40+ a ticket to see you live— those people bootleg your shows and share them on the internet. If it was for the true fan and not an attempt to keep your name and face in Tower Records while feeding more gobs of middle-aged white folks’ money into the machine, you’d probably just release the occasional live bootleg through the Warehouse to keep costs down and diehard fans would buy it. The dozen live albums I find in Wal-Mart are for people who don’t know any better, who aren’t astute enough to realize most of those albums feature the same songs in similar arrangements (Two Step, now with more solo!!).

I’m not accusing you of being a knowing corporate shill. I’m sure your intentions are nothing but artistically pure, but then again, Bush honestly believes in what he’s doing too. You’re not killing children for profit (not yet) but I trust you see my point. Maybe it’ll take someone without corporate sponsorship and a massive fan-base of Bay Area pot-heads to keep you honest.

See you at the Gorge in September, and on the subsequent DVD,

Adam

It started off so promising a day—my normal charge was out sick, presumably from eating too many salt and vinegar Pringles and having a massive seizure— and looked to consist of filling out paperwork and sitting on my ass, chatting up one exceptionally hot co-worker. I even got to wear sandals, which is a luxury in my line of work. It should have been a breezy day in the world of SpEd, but God must have a vendetta against me because things went downhill in a very bad way: kids had melt-downs on par with Chernobyl, aides went home sick, chairs were thrown, and suddenly I found myself in charge of the largest and angriest kid in class, the one whom I usually make a special effort to avoid.

As it turns out the sandals were a bit shortsighted because by noon the little fucker had trampled all over them in miniature Doc Martens with the force of any 120-pound infant throwing tantrums over a Tickle-Me Elmo. The afternoon passed in the same way arthroscopic surgery on your urethra might, but eventually it came time to hit the bathroom once more and give the old heave-ho to the kids for the day. I informed the little punk what was going down but he was having none of it; instead he screamed in my face and threw himself on the floor. Patience not being one of my more generous virtues, I felt the blood slowly coming to a boil at my temples as he flailed about, smacking me repeatedly and defying my every attempt to move, motivate, or subdue him.

Snagging a handful of gummi bears from the cabinet, I enticed him to his feet and led him haltingly into the bathroom. After several exhausting minutes I got his pants down and seated him on the toilet, his face scrunching up in anger and disgust but keeping a watchful eye on the bears in my hand. “Just go and they’re yours,” I told him, waving them close to his face, popping a couple orange ones into my mouth for emphasis. As he sat there drooling and moaning I continued to munch, and this may very well have been my downfall.

Now I don’t care what anyone says: the most retarded of retards—The King Of Durrrr Mountain— still knows what the fuck is going on, and knows especially when he’s being screwed out of a treat. And here was dipshit I doing just that, crouched in front of the toilet a mere foot away, trying some highway bribery to get the most intransigent of children to take a simple piss. With a mighty grunt and the energy I don’t expend in the average week, my vindictive little friend got his dick to half mast, leaned back, and unleashed a stream of rank urine so dark that was it damn near orange arcing through the air. I leapt back, narrowly avoiding a full stream to the face, and instead received a streak of liquid revenge that trickled from my chest all the way down my shirt, puddling finally on my white shorts, leaving a small pool of yellow and the faintest smell of Cheerios. As I stood in outrage he let loose one more blast for good measure that caught my leg just above the knee and sent a torrent of piss flowing through my leg hair at random, like water off Jeff Goldblume’s hand in Jurassic Park.

And then the coup de grace: he looked directly at me and laughed as he stood up, pants still around his ankles, reaching for the bears clenched in my shaking fist. Before he could reach them I laughed back, dumping them into the toilet and flushing as he sobbed anger and betrayal all the way to the bus.

I had a good time explaining the “water” stains to my co-workers, who probably had a good laugh at my expense later on. Three showers later and I swear I can still catch the slightest whiff of Cheerios in the afternoon air. This kind of filth just won’t wash off.

But that’s nothing—remind me sometime to tell you how I got shit on my face.

Fuck this job.

Adam

“Sleeping with a whore, breathing right in her mouth, endlessly listening to her pissing, putting up with her stupidity and never moving a step away from her—where’s the sense in that?”—Anton Chekhov

Alli always said if you fucked a girl more than three times, you’re dating her. Apparently your average twenty-something, modern, independent woman’s brain is wired so that a couple solid fucks can still fall in the ‘hooking up’ or ‘one-week stand’ categories. But somehow that fateful third act kicks a gear in her brain and suddenly any further sexual contact constitutes both ‘longevous interest’ and the dreaded ‘intent to date’. Sleeping with her beyond that point is a recipe for disaster.

I have, as I’m sure many of you have, fallen prey to the perfect hookup going terribly wrong. It starts with innocent flirting and suggestive language that erupts into wild simian sex, but soon that morphs into dinner and bottle of wine, then to meeting friends for lunch sans alcohol. Suddenly you wake up and realize that you’re dating her, and for us males indoctrinated by the ethics of a disposable economy, that’s a frightening prospect. We want our women like we want our cars and computers and iPods—easily exchangeable and always new. Losing her can be really messy—we’ve all known that one girl who could go from sweetheart to raging cunt at the drop of a tampon and throw phones, scream obscenities, or leave dead animals on your doorstep. No guy wants that, but many men simply don’t know how to keep such attractions from forming, or how to keep a young lady from keying their car or jumping off a balcony when the realization finally dawns that her snatch is just another temporary oasis and your dick is a very thirsty camel. So read on, children, and learn how in 3 simple ‘dates’ you can go from casual acquaintance to hot fuck partner to faded memory…

So you meet the new brunette from accounting and build a rapport. You don’t want to date this girl—she laughs too loud and listens to terrible music. She’s a “devout” Catholic and you’re certain the combined IQ of all her friends is lower than the proof of liquor you prefer. But she’s hot and, what’s more, she’s willing. Your budding beer gut and bad posture from too many porn-and-sock nights at the trusty Dell can’t afford to be choosy, so you decide to sleep with her.

The first thing you need is a set-up. This can take the form of an extended lunch or quick drink. Hell, in a pinch any phone call over ten minutes can accomplish the same thing. You just want to establish that you’re single (enough) and she’s the same way, and there’s ‘something’ between you that you’d like to explore. This whole charade is solely for the purpose of providing a smokescreen of respectability and setting a time/place for a real encounter— the digital age’s version of dragging her back to your cave by the hair.

The first ‘date’: Ideally this is getting together for the sole purposes of knocking boots. A few deft texts after the bar could lead you to her apartment could lead you to her bed, and you know what to do from there (you do know, right?). At a stretch this could happen in public and resemble a real date, but don’t wear a collared shirt, don’t go for more than one activity, and don’t go home empty handed. If you don’t land in her bed, or get her into yours, all is lost.

The second ‘date’: now you’ve fucked her. It wasn’t great but neither is she– the fucking matched the personality, and there’s something to be said for that. The time around it’s definitely just for sex, and you should do as little work as possible. Make it happen at your leisure, make her do all the work, and push boundaries—get a little rough, don’t cuddle afterwards, and if she tries pillow talk either laugh at her every word or just roll over and start snoring loudly. She’ll quickly begin rethinking her attraction to you.

The third ‘date’: now comes the hard part— you want to get laid one more time, but also want to make sure this is the last time. Once again, make it happen on your terms. If she refuses and demands something more equal, just stop talking to her because Alli’s Law is still in affect and she can’t go apeshit just yet. If she persists in being a bitch about it act hurt—girls understand low self-esteem and will buckle faster than a choir boy’s knees in the rectory. If she assents and you get to stick it in, be smart: BE A DICK. If she goes down on you, try shoving your prick through the back of her neck. When you start knocking boots it needs to be even dirtier than the last time; thrust violently, pinch a nipple, spit on her twat and try all the porno moves you know. Then the coup de grace: without a bit of warning, stick it in her ass. That should be quite enough to convince any potential stalker that you don’t give a shit about her and once the night is over, don’t expect another invitation to ‘hang out’.

After that it’s a cakewalk. You’ll talk once in a while, maybe. She won’t make eye contact for a while, and she’ll be so disgusted by your antics (especially if she went along with them) that she’ll never tell her friends. She’ll feel stupid and wonder why she was ever attracted to you in the first place. All you have to do is smile congenially and start working on the new blonde in HR.

See? Psychology can be fun. Take that, Freud, you fucking idiot!

Adam

Apparently, song-writing, dope-smoking and tax-evading aren’t the indomitable Willie Nelson’s only talents—now you can add ‘Horse Advocate’ and join me in a concerted ‘whaaaaa?’ I guess Willie put down his joint long enough to realize that 100,000 horses are being slaughtered in America every year to be exported as food to foreign countries. And despite the fact that a percentage of the horses slaughtered are old or sick, to Willie this is some sort of genocide that makes Darfur look like two fats kids arguing over a ham sandwich.

Just consider the excerpts:

• “Horses are all the things a truly evolved human should be.”
• “Humans abuse their power while horses use theirs only for good.”
• “There are countless examples of their innate ability and desire to heal people.”
• “I’ve always thought that the horse should be our national emblem.”
• “I’d rather be a horse.”

Wow. Compelling stuff, Willie. Actually, rather fucking insane if you ask me. Not that I’m for killing horses or any other animals (like cows… delicious cows), but the argument sucks. Every animal is therapeutic in some way or another, hence countless national programs bringing dogs, mules, giraffes, bears (okay, maybe not bears) into children’s hospitals and respite homes. Distraction and empathy are powerful tools, but in that regard I can’t see much difference between Timmy the horse and Apples the marmoset.

But horses use their power only for good? They have an innate desire to heal? I was kicked by a fucking horse when I was seven—I hope that cocksucker ended up the main course for some Chinese businessman. Elephants can also be extremely gentle creatures despite their strength, but no one is claiming they’re ‘superhuman’ because of it. Pimps are the same way. Even those bitch ass rattle snakes often bite without injecting venom, intentionally discriminating between shit they want to make go away and shit they want to kill. Electing to not use your full force all the time is smart, but not super-fucking-human.

This is the same bullshit we heard about dolphins for years, until further research showed that dolphins could actually be rather savage, and the only other species on record to gang-rape for fun. I sent an editorial to CNN the day after the Duke Lacrosse scandal broke out demanding they rename the team the Duke Dolphins as a punishment, but that damn Nancy Grace has a terrible sense of humor.

Maybe Willie has a point though, the national emblem should never have been the eagle, or the turkey (Ben Franklin, you fat douche). Neither of those creatures truly embodies the American spirit—but neither does a fucking horse! Sure, the horse played a large part in human development, but so did the chicken once we learned how to cook his ass. So what animal truly signifies the USA? Not a snake, though I like how evil they look. Not a bear; we’re too busy clobbering brown people to hibernate. Maybe the ferret—he’s a crafty little bastard. Let one pregnant bitch loose and soon you’ve got hordes of ferrets all over the place, eating your crops, taking your jobs, demanding to vote in their native language. Okay, we’ve found Central America’s national animal, but that still doesn’t solve our dilemma.

What about the shark? Nobody fucks with the shark, at least no one with any sense. The shark’s not too smart, but then again he doesn’t have to be with about eighty million serrated teeth in his mouth. The shark smells opportunity from miles away, kills indiscriminately, never sleeps, fears nothing, and thinks the entire world belongs to him. Yep, that sounds about right.

But a horse? C’mon, Willie, you wrote Red Headed Stranger, what the fuck are you doing trying to sell legislation? I suppose it is one step up from doing Taco Bell commercials, but I wouldn’t be surprised if your nachos bellgrande is what became of Mr. Ed once he was ‘retired’. But don’t take offense, man, I’m just horsin’ around– you know I still love you.

Proud to be a shark,

Adam

So I was hired at Consumption Junction to write articles for their home page– signature graphic, email address, hate mail, the works (CHECK IT OUT!!!). It was a trip, though regretfully short-lived. Soon after I was fired from Consumption Junction, kind of… wanna fight about it? Actually, for the first time in history the phrase “creative differences” might actually apply. The powers that be felt pressure from other sites that were gaining popularity and only had one daily writer. Another factor was the wild influx of new writing talent which left the CJ crowd in confusion, wondering where Thomas and Patrick and Danny had fucked off to. The answers were jail, the bottom of a bong, and the grave, respectively, but the fact remained that there were something like a dozen writers clogging the pipes and Phil, our brave new editor, was charged with the task of turning 12 regulars into 3. New guidelines were handed down, deadlines were given, more hurdles were put in place, and I didn’t agree with many of them. My beloved site was in danger of becoming a one-dimensional party site that featured nothing but silly, lighthearted tales of debauchery. My idol Thomas had departed to clean up his act, and I felt that given my move to the land of Oz and intense misgivings about the future of CJ, it was time to say goodbye. My biggest regret was that of the three editorials they published, two of them were stripped down versions of AtomicWorkshop pieces, and none of the four newest pieces I submitted– all brand spanking new– ever got featured. Resolved not to let them go to waste, I’m going to post them here, one every few days, in a transparent effort to get new content up and buy time to write something that’s not a terrible 13-day novel.

So enjoy, dear children, as I am off on another adventure.

Adam

It’s been a rough few weeks.

For the past month I’ve become mist, and an explanation must be given. My life since mid-October has been an unbelievable, roiling mess and while I could not be more engaged, my ability to regularly write short pieces and possibly post them here has been extremely limited. I’ve been eating too little and drinking too much. I’ve been gaining and losing, writing and sulking. It’s NaNoWriMo time and though I’m “done” technically speaking, I don’t feel anywhere close to finished. Phil is pissing me off. Kaitlin is breaking my heart. My grandmother hovers on the edge of death and my apathy burns. Australia seems farther and farther away even as I pay my tuition piece by piece and go into massive debt. My job has devolved from the borderline education of that awful kid in the helmet to refereeing scuffles in the sandbox. My mass market writing hopes have evaporated even faster than they appeared and tonight I’m sitting here solemnly listening to The Decemberists and missing the anonymity of foreign cities. I almost hope Adelaide falls through so I have an excuse to disappear again and live amongst the refuse for a few more months, like Superman—except my Kryptonite would be abstinence and sobriety.

It’s really not fair to paint such a bleak picture—fundamentally I’m happy, but I’m a lost soul. I’m well aware that I used the term “soul” which I despise passionately, but tonight it feels right. Everything will work out, as it always does, and I never stray too far from the facts: I’m young, white and male. I live in one of the richest suburbs of one of the richest parts of the richest country in the world. I have a couple of friends that entertain me to no end and a partner that loves me even as I smash her hopes with a sledgehammer. I’m just afraid, and that sensation doesn’t lend itself to cavalier acts or good writing. The future is a turbulent shadow from which there is no real escape, but isn’t this the joy of living in the first place? On the other side of that vortex could be a calm, pristine beach, a fiery inferno, a field of flowers, or a troupe of dancing midgets fist-fucking and sucking their way into infamy. You never know, and it’s what keeps this silly little experiment afloat.

At least the Rocky Horror Halloweekend was hilariously distracting, and all you lovely people deserve just the slightest taste.

Who’s hotter?

That’s right, mother fuckers, she is…

Adam

My brother got married.

I know what everyone who knows us is thinking– ‘how could the guy who wants to write an anti-marriage book go and get hitched?’ The answer to that question is 1) I don’t know, and 2) you sorely misunderstand the purpose of our non-fiction tome-in-planning Marriage Is Dead. Suffice to say that the ceremony was beautiful.

We were beautiful.

Favorite Cousin Nathan was beautiful, er, handsome.

The bride was beautiful.

My date was especially beautiful.

I was moderately attractive, but mostly drunk and excited about my new toy:

AND WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS ABOUT????

I’ve had several requests for a transcript of the ceremony, which I wrote back in April specifically for Brandon and Janelle. A ‘traditional’ ceremony wasn’t going to fly, and considering that their friend Tannan was administering the vows, it seemed right to make it a family affair. It was truly an honor:

************************

Welcome, friends and family of Brandon and Janelle. I am honored—SPACE FOR TANNAN TO BLUBBER ABOUT HOW HONORED HE IS. Some of you are probably skeptical as to whether they are actually going to be married today. However, I can assure you of two things. First, Joseph Addison was correct when he said “Those marriages generally abound most with love and constancy that are preceded by a long courtship.” I mean, it has been 7 years, 5 months, and 22 days for those of you who weren’t counting. And second, I have been officially ordained. Brandon and I checked with the highest authority, and if everything goes as planned, Brandon will be able to claim Janelle on his joint tax return next year. The bride and groom would like to thank all of you for being here, and with their permission we will begin.

Victor Hugo once said ‘The supreme happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved.’ We are gathered today to celebrate love in all its simplicity and splendor, in all its universal, non-denominational glory as Brandon and Janelle embark on an unparalleled adventure in their lives. Most of you have been able to watch the love between them as it has grown and deepened over the past seven years, immeasurably enriching their lives. This is why Brandon and Janelle are not going to drone on today about how much they care about each other, how they promise to do this and not do that— they assume that you all already know how they feel—that’s why you’re here. And it takes a lifetime, not twenty minutes, for two people to define for themselves what the word “marriage” means. Your presence here is simply to witness their commitment to undertake such a definition. In their hearts they have long since committed themselves to each other for the rest of their lives, and when such a bond exists, it is fitting that an outer acknowledgement be made.

Though often presented as the most venerable outcome of love, marriage is nevertheless an institution that is not entered into lightly. It represents the highest form of legal and social commitment between two people—one that requires continuous sacrifice, unconditional support, and mutual respect. It means accepting each others ideals and values, not to mention families. It represents the implied trust of loving; and the intrinsic freedom of being loved. Marriage does not mean a loss of identity or the end of individuality. Marriage does not subtract from those qualities that make you such outstanding people on your own—rather, marriage is an opportunity to expose yourself, take risks, and grow because you have been promised a friend and partner for life. In marrying, you not only say “I love you today,” but also “I promise to love you tomorrow.” And you will change because of this promise. You will re-shape yourselves according to it and live differently because of it, but in turn you will feel protected by it.

In the future, happy occasions will come as surely as the morning. Difficult times will come as surely as the night. To say the words “love and compassion” is easy. But to accept that love and compassion are built upon patience and perseverance is not. But it is love, after all and before all, that has brought the two of you to this place. Love is what brought you together; love is what will keep you whole. And so, being fully aware of the significance and the importance of this pact, your dream has already been realized.

Have you brought a token of your love for each other?

We will now watch as the best men fumble to get the rings out of their pockets.

It is often said that the ring is a circle— a shape with no beginning and no end to symbolize unending love and commitment. In fact, it’s a circle because that’s the shape that fits the finger best. But these rings do say something. These rings say that even in your uniqueness you have chosen to be bonded, to allow the presence of another human being to enhance who you are. Your rings carry a potent double message: We are individuals, yet we belong with each other; we are not alone. These rings represent something precious, something significant, something priceless. May they always remind you of your intentions and inspire you to act toward their fulfillment.

You may now present your rings to each other.

Brandon and Janelle, you have committed a bold act today. May your boldness bring you all the courage, sacrifice, and magic you need for the fulfillment of your dreams. In the company of your family and friends, you have declared your love and your intentions to be life-long partners in marriage. Therefore, it is my privilege and pleasure to declare that you are:

1) now husband and wife
2) forevermore stuck with each other
3) no longer living in sin

Janelle, you may kiss the groom.

***********************

It turned out perfect with a huge laugh at the end, though I would have loved to take one more pass at it sometime between mid-April and September. One of my many ideas that will never come to fruition is a web-based service whereby I write custom wedding ceremonies for couples, for a nominal fee. I can write any theme from ‘Genocide Around The World’ to ‘18th century French literature’, whatever they’re into, and it would be a blast. Mostly I just want to be invited to see my work performed (laziest playwright ever) and take advantage of the open bar and misty bridesmaids (Hey, options are options– by the time this might actually happen, who knows?).

In other news, I’m swamped and haven’t been writing much–at least not anything I feel compelled to post here. Patience, darlings, I’ll be back shortly with big news and a leaking pen, I promise.

Would this guy ever lie to you?

Adam

Last week one of my dreams came true.

I’ve been a loyal fan of Consumption Junction for nigh on 8 years now, and unlike 99% of the people who peruse said site, I’m there primarily for the editorials. CJ has amassed a collection of brilliant writers, sharp wits, dodgy characters, and social outcasts to shine a little light on this depraved world with their pens. And considering that on any given day a million or more people pass through the flagship of the sick site armada, it’s no internet backwater. And on Wednesday, September 13, those million human beings were greeted by the words of none other than yours truly.

It’s not much: nothing that will win me any acclaim, certainly, but I’m still riding the elation of seeing my own words there, and the dozens of hate/fan emails I received. For several weeks I’ve been withdrawn artistically and have been looking for something to reinvigorate my pen. I think this was it.

Unfortunately my piece wasn’t archived in the normal way so it’s lost and gone forever, but the best news came in the form of a follow-up email by Marc, founder of Consumption Junction, saying “btw, if you’re interested in a more regular spot, let me know.” I almost shat myself when I read that, and while I have severe doubts about my ability to run in circles with Thomas and Danny and the like, I’m not about to quit in advance. “More humorous, more outlandish” is the charge, and if I could just write the way I think this would be a fucking cake walk.

Wish me luck, kids.

Adam

Come whatever may, this is what is: static shock and foster homes, 15/16 scale models of every significant sickness. You stare at your hand for an hour or two and pray for movement. The numbers won’t line up or tell their secrets and certified mail stubs only gawk at you from their position above the Earth’s mantle. Suddenly there is no air in this room and the clock spits violently at the fan before blinking itself into submission. Tokens of affection litter the imagination: a fantasy of veins and accidents; unspooling cassette tapes with a pencil; counting to two billion in an arrhythmic cadence. The cosmos part for angled handrails and your chest just hangs open, creaking on its hinges. You dream of passing the apartment but those people are gone for good and it’s best to leave them wandering their backwards alleys– still, a walk would be nice. Learning to cook would be a change from holding miniature UN meetings from the comfort of a darkened floor when everyone forgot their headsets and communication is pointless. Instead, scratch and sniff and rock incessantly. Eat some chips. Think about another bottle of water but don’t move. If feeling sane felt this bad we’d all choose the short jacket and consoling walls of white so you crouch in the corner and press your head to the floor and take deep breaths, losing count for the ten thousandth time and almost not forgetting. This emptiness is not comfort, no matter what the wizard promised, so you fantasize and theorize and contemporize your look, your waist line, reforge some connections as you calculate the loss of others without much severity. Some snow might be healthy—a tsunami would certainly wash this feeling away. Water up to the waist is always a way of half drowning and a decision must be made before that door can be opened again. ‘What’s that?’ you say to the grasshopper on the window sill, stretching its viola legs out to the setting sun. ‘Some air would be good for me?’

Well, good for me.