Why I Love the Library

I love books. I love the weight of a good hardcover and the casual air of a light paperback. There's something about looking at words in print, on paper, that makes me feel I'm made of flesh and blood. There's something tangible in turning a page that I cannot get with a Kindle. It's funny that there's an electronic device for reading with a name that sounds so much like kindling. I imagine "kindle" as the verb for kindling: "To collect twigs and dead leaves for starting a fire." I'm not sure if there's an irony there or not. You can't really use a Kindle as kindling, but you could use books in print. Doesn't the idea of burning a book send a chill up your spine, though? I feel evil lurking nearby when I think about books being burned.

Please don't jump to conclusions, though. I think the Kindle and other electronic devices have a place in the world. I think they're excellent for reading newspaper and magazine articles, essays, blogs, and even some short stories. But a novel? I'm sorry, but I can't imagine reading 350 pages on a computer screen. I mean, I want to get lost in a novel and I can't imagine being able to do that on an electronic device. I've tried; it doesn't work for me. The words begin as lies and as I read further the characters, the plot, the imagery, and the drama die before they're born. The novel is dead before it begins. I can't explain it. It might just be that I grew up reading books in print, but I think it's more complex than that.

Holding a hard plastic object is excellent for sturdiness if you're hitting buttons really fast while playing video games. It's good for scrolling through tons of posts on social media sites. It's good for data entry and programming software and many other things. But my senses require a malleable material for reading. I cannot get deeply into a story without the tactile sensation of pages, touching them, turning them, making marks on them with a pen or pencil, folding a corner of a page to mark a page I want to go back to later, and placing a well-designed bookmark to save my place. There's no mistaking what a person is doing when they are holding a book in their hands. If you are sitting in a coffeeshop you can even see what others are reading if they have printed books on them. The design of a good book cover is worth something. The font and color of the title tells a story as well. You know whether or not you want to strike up a conversation with a man or a woman when you can see that they are reading either Ayn Rand or Tom Robbins. If they're holding a Kindle or, anymore, their phone, you have no idea what they're doing; it's not even possible to tell whether they're reading let alone what they might be reading. Where's the fun in that? If you don't want others to know what you're reading then you may want to reconsider your reading choices.

Admittedly, some authors deserve to be read on electronic ink screens. John Grisham comes to mind. Jackie Collins. Danielle Steel. Dean Koontz. Michael Crichton. Tom Clancy. Harold Robbins. Sidney Sheldon. James Patterson. There are undoubtedly many others. But I don't think Tom Robbins should ever be read on e-book readers or a tablet. Haruki Murakami? Sacrilege! Charles Bukowksi? Seriously? You would read the grisly down-and-out fiction of the working man's working man on an electronic reading device?! I think Bukowski would piss on you if he was alive and saw you reading his works on an e-screen. The man was impoverished most of his life, part of the working poor, and you're going to read his words on an electronic screen ... to understand the words he wrote you need to have a dog-eared paperback that's just about ready to fall apart. If it's got duct tape and paperclips holding it together then all the better.

You could probably read Hunter S. Thompson on a Kindle, though. I don't know why, but I think it works with HST. Maybe it's because you could chop up lines of coke on the e-screen when you weren't using it for reading. Cormac McCarthy? Uh, no. Books and plays considered classics like those written by Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Austen, Shakespeare, Ibsen, Chaucer, Garcia Marquez, etc.? Maybe some, but probably not most. You could read F. Scott Fitzgerald on a Kindle. He was a narcissistic jackass and I can't think of a better medium to read The Great Gatsby than on the most garish electronic device imaginable.

The bottom line is that if the writer's words are alive then they should be read in tangible form. The printed page. If you could find hand-written novels then all the better. The point being that the books themselves fade and crumble and become soiled; wine has been spilled on pages, jam has stuck pages together, fingerprints of other readers can be seen. The words printed in books have a lifespan; they live and then they die--no matter how much Scotch tape or duct tape or staples you might use. And they should die. If the words are alive, truly alive, then they are mortal, just as the writers and readers are. To digitize is to immortalize. Nothing should live forever. Things should be forgotten so that they can be discovered again.

All of this brings me to the library, bricks-and-mortar buildings located at specific geographic spaces. Bookstores are wonderful as well, but they are dying fast, precariously close to becoming as extinct as Blockbuster. The quirky and eccentric little bookstores like those found in Portland, San Francisco, Boston, and other cities will probably live longer because those cities harbor writers and lovers of reading (I don't know what's happening world-wide; I know there were still bookstores in France, Germany, and The Netherlands a few years ago but I haven't been recently); in fact, there was a poll in Portland a year ago about what women found sexy in a man and reading was near the top of the list. Women in Portland, at least, like well-read men. They're better in bed ... or on a beach ... or wherever and whenever. Guys who read get creative; it's in their nature to be curious, playful, and adventurous.

Outside of the cities like Portland and Berkeley the bookstores are dying if not already dead. What is one to do if one wants to read a novel on the printed page? Amazon? Yes, ordering online is a possibility. It has been done, is done, and will be done. But good libraries, like really great bookstores (I'm thinking of you, Powell's), offer rooms and rooms and rooms filled with shelf after shelf after shelf all filled with books. Some books are short and stubby, some are wide and skinny, some are thick and weighty, some are cute and dainty. The color of the covers span the range of the rainbow. The subject matter is vast, everything under the sun, every subject you have even heard about is located in some room on some shelf somewhere in good libraries.

I'm sure some of you are thinking, "Yeah, but the Internet is far more vast than any single library and, possibly, all libraries combined." Undoubtedly true. But just as the printed page gives you tactile sensation as well as the smell of the book pages (new book smell or musty old paperback smell?), the library offers the added attraction of movement through three dimensional space. Your browser can transport from site to site, but in a library you get to transport from subject to subject, from author to author. And there's always a chance of meeting someone extraordinarily special at a bookstore or library. You're into science fiction, particularly Ursula Le Guin, and you walk down the aisle to where her books should be and ... who is that hunky guy standing right ... in ... front ... of ... Ursula? Takes your breath away, doesn't it, meeting a stranger who happens to not only love the same genre as you but also considers your favorite author his favorite author? Before online dating, meetings like that started rewarding relationships. Can you put a price on seeing the look in a stranger's eyes when they're considering a book? Hell, that's as fulfilling as reading a great novel! Even if you never say a word, you're witnessing one of the most intimate moments a person will show to strangers in public.

Libraries are sexual. Curiosity fills the air and there's as much creativity in the search for books as there is in the books themselves. Why ... why would you want to avoid being immersed in an environment like that? Going to Amazon may be convenient, but you're not going to meet anyone you don't know, you're not going to accidentally bump into a long lost friend, you're not going to witness the wonder and surprise on the faces of those who have found the book they wanted ... or the book they didn't know they wanted until they saw it!

I have lied down in aisles of libraries reading books. People don't even become alarmed. In the past, they just stepped over me on their way. Occasionally I'd have to roll out of the way or sit up if someone wanted to look where I was lying. But that was always cool because if they were looking right there then chances were that they were interested in the same stuff I was. I met many a friend that way, a couple of intimate relationships, and one hot, sexy one-night hookup. Obviously, the library isn't strictly for meeting people. That's just gravy on top. The main point is to commune with the books, to flirt with those that catch your eye even though you know it's never going to go anywhere, and to sigh deeply as you discover a new author.

It was that way for me when I first picked up Murakami's Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. By the end of the first page I was in love. I thought to myself, "How come I've never heard about you? You're amazing!" I checked out the book, went home, started really reading. I looked him up online and of course he was well-renown. He was one who slipped by me. I was so happy that he had, though, because he had a bunch of other books in print! I knew I didn't have to fret as I neared the end of Chronicle because Murakami left other gifts for me as well. I have felt for a long time like I should write him a thank you note. The man opened up avenues of thought in my mind I did not realize could exist on this plane of existence: "Oh, hey, there's this whole other part of my brain that's been completely dormant. I didn't even know you existed. From the other parts of my brain you just looked like a broom closet I never needed, but there's a damn treasure chest in here! Holy Shit, how fucking cool!"

Murakami's trademark is a sort of postmodern magical realism. Call it what you will, though, the words fuck with your brain and if you allow yourself to really fall into the worlds he creates it's inevitable that your perspective on what you considered reality will change. "Learning" Murakami was like learning a new language or advanced mathematics. My thought has never been the same after reading him. I never would have found him online; I wouldn't have been looking and I wouldn't have seen the book binding jumping out as more grand than the others around it; I wouldn't have held the weight of the 500+ page book in my hand or read that first page in that special silence that can only be found in a library.

Dating Advice

“Haven’t you been sleeping with a lot of men who don’t really care about you?”

That’s probably not something you should ask a woman on a first date … unless you want to have a rollicking good time! Go for it! It ain’t gonna work out anyway so you may as well have some fun. Here are few other things you might want to say or do:

Ask her for a list of references.

When she’s talking to you make eye contact and then slowly lower your gaze to her mouth. Squint your eyes a little and then widen them while opening your mouth slightly. Do this repeatedly until she asks, “What?” Look back into her eyes and then quickly look away. Tell her, while looking away, “No, no, there’s nothing wrong.” Glance back at her mouth again and wince. If she does nothing and you happen to be at a restaurant yell out to the waiter, “Check!”

Refuse to speak … at all. Never break eye contact or change facial expressions. If you begin by smiling, remain smiling; if you begin with a blank expression, then continue holding that blank expression. When she threatens to leave or begins to get up to leave, start laughing and say, “No, no, no, stay, please. I was just fucking with you. I’m sorry, I made a bet with my friend about how long it would take you to get frustrated or freaked out by me. You did pretty good, a lot better than the last woman I dated. I mean, we still had sex that night so, trust me, the date’s not a bust yet.”

“Could you unbutton your blouse a little more? I’m not getting any cleavage from this angle.”

“You’re incredibly beautiful, way out of my league. So … what’s wrong with you? I mean, you’re out on a date with me and, by looks alone, you could do way better than me. Are you an ex-con or a drug addict? Do you think I have money and will spend it on you? There’s gotta be a catch here somewhere.”

“I know this might seem a little unusual, but could you take off your shoes so I could look at your toes?”

“Hi, I’m Chad. My cock is huge.”

“You don’t really look like the type of woman who would go out with a guy.”

Conversely, if you’re a woman, “I’m sort of getting an ‘I’d rather be sucking dick right now’ vibe from you.”

“To become one, one must start with we; to become we, one must start with one. Wait a minute … oh shit, that doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s sort of like a chicken or egg thing, I guess. What I meant to say was ‘Do you wanna fuck?’”

“I don’t really like women, but you’re even worse than the others.”

“I’m like, totally flexible. I can toe my asshole while standing on one leg.”

“Do you want to have children some day? Before you answer that question let me just say that I think you would be a horrible mother.”

“I’m looking for a woman who is willing to breast feed a grown man. I don’t mean me; I have a mongoloid brother and he only takes milk from the teat. Momma died last year so it’s been a while since he’s gotten any calcium.”

“I have AIDS … no, no, I’m kidding! Ha! Sorry, thought it was funny. But seriously, I have AIDS. Ha! Got you again! Whew, that never gets old.”

“I don’t think you’re attractive at all. I’m willing to have sex with you tonight, but strictly out of pity.”

“You may think I’m immature, but you should meet my parents. Oh, yeah, they’re sitting over there at the other table. They're watching us date tonight. Hi, Mom! Isn’t she hot?”

“How often do you think about death?”

“Are you open to abortions? I only ask because I hate condoms.”

“I believe in being open with women I’m dating so I’m just going to let you know that once I have you hooked I’m going to stop bathing and brushing my teeth.”

“Do you mind if I smell your armpits?”

“I like a woman with large areolas. I’m a trusting guy so I’ll take you on your word, but I’d like you to tell me roughly what your circumference is. I find circumference is a better measure than diameter because of the possibility of oddly shaped areolas. I found out the hard way one time when a woman gave me the diameter of the largest distance between one side of her areola with the other, but when she took her bra off they were misshapen and it was pretty obvious she’d given me the maximum diameter measurement rather than the minimum or an average. So, yeah, I go with circumference now. I’m into math, too, just in case you didn’t notice. Means I’m smart.”

“At what age can I expect your breasts to sag?”

“You seem really nice. ‘Nice,” by the way, is a euphemism for ‘boring.’ Seriously, pick it up because I’m about to fall asleep over here.”

“You know how they say ‘nice guys finish last’? I just want you to know that I will treat you like shit cause I know women like that sort of thing.”

“Are you into rough sex? I don’t mean rape … unless you’re into that.”

“Do you trim or wax? Personally, I like a really hairy bush. I mean really hairy, like, if you got extensions that would really turn me on.”

“Do you expect orgasms during sex? If you do we may as well just call it a night.”

“I’ve never seen a woman eat like you do. It must be a cultural thing. Do you come from a third world country?”

“You’re not my dream girl, but I’d enjoy fucking you until I meet her.”

“Personally, I think giving women the right to vote was a huge mistake.”

“Judging by your character, I think you probably evolved from dung beetles.”

“You know, I was just looking around the room and I realized that I’m with the ugliest woman here. Hey, at least you stick out, right?”

“I don’t really think kicking puppies should be considered animal cruelty. What is the definition of ‘cruelty,’ anyway? Pretty subjective, right?”

“I don’t think anyone will ever love you.”

“Oh, wow, that waiter behind you just made a gagging gesture and pointed at you. I’d kick his ass right now if I really liked you. The truth is, I kinda agree with him.”

Surprisingly, some of these approaches work. If you’re single, what you’re going to want to do is find a woman with low self-esteem. She’ll be easy to manipulate. Believe me, the last thing you want in your life is a strong-willed woman with a lot of confidence. If you go that route you’ll have to step up your game because she’ll be expecting you to perform at a certain level. I don’t mean sexually (although, yes, sexually). No, I mean you’re going to have to constantly work to retain her affection for you. She will not give it to you willingly. Strong women are modern women and they expect you to earn your keep—your keep in this case being care and affection, sex and fun. You will not have care, affection, fun, or sex unless you make her happy in all of the ways she wants to be happy before she will throw you a scrap of gnarled meat she was going to throw in the trash. The strong woman is like a CEO at a multinational corporation. Unless you’re constantly increasing revenues and providing record profits in relation to the things she likes you are getting bubkis. She will not willingly give you anything … except an ulcer.

You want a passive women who is looking to please you. If you want to be challenged try mixed martial arts or a triathlon. Do not look for a challenge from a strong woman! She will kick your ass at everything! I don’t care how tough a guy you are, a strong woman will eventually break you. It’s as inevitable as the sun rising.

If you’re a strong woman, you want to look for a man or a woman with low self-esteem. You do not want to go toe to toe with your own kind. You can try the challenge if you like, but as it is when two alpha males enter a competition, only one remains an alpha. You could come out on top of a relationship with a strong woman, but you may not be stronger for it. Even if you win, you will likely take some punishment in the process. That will weaken you the next time you get into a relationship. And if you lose, well, be prepared to join the ranks of the weak. Expect to be serving dinner every night when your man or woman comes home from work, expect to be put down on a regular basis, and expect your pride to completely vanish. No, you won’t be humbled; you’ll be humiliated.

It could be said that strong women are at the top of the evolutionary food chain. It could be said, but that would be wrong. No, up at the top are gay men because they don’t have to worry about these things at all. A gay man knows what another gay man wants: a lot of sex. Gay men are the only truly compatible partners in the human race. Lesbians? Please. I just relayed the Theory of the Strong Woman as developed and explained by Luce Irigaray, Joyce Carol Oates, and Gloria Steinem. What, you thought those were my ideas? Are you kidding me? You think I want strong women coming after me to kick my ass verbally, legally, socially, and in all the other ways they could kick my ass? No way! I believe the Theory of the Strong Woman is correct. I don’t want to fuck with strong women. I know strong women; I’d be a fool to trifle with them! Please, strong women of the world, have mercy on me. It is not I who gave away your secrets, but your own kind, the alpha women of the alpha women! Please, spare me!

That’s it. I’m becoming a gay man. I could inadvertently date a strong woman without realizing it—strong women can be clever, deceptive, and manipulative … according to the Theory! Not my words!—and then suffer immensely for the rest of my life. I can’t chance that. I may not be innately sexually attracted to other men, but I’ll make it work. It’s worth the effort … according to the Theory, of course.

Travel Diary of 2014

January 1: Arrived in Morocco by yacht. Anchored. Slept in sun.

January 2: Set sail from Morocco to west coast of Italy.

January 3: Sailing.

January 4: Arrive on coast of Italy. Anchored. Went to shore in Napoli.

January 5: Stayed with poor family in slums of Napoli. Washed clothes in lieu of payment.

January 6: Fell in love with neighbor girl, a sexy Italian woman with long auburn hair.

January 7: Gisella, my Italian love, invited me to leave Napoli. I rode on the back of her Vespa through the hills of the countryside.

January 8: Gisella and I let the wind whip through our hair, our hair which became one head of hair. We are in love.

January 9: Gisella and I arrived in a small hill town in central Italy. The townspeople welcomed us and celebrated with a festival.

January 10: After a night of revelry with our new friends, Gisella and I awoke to discover we had been formally married by a shaman ordained by the Universal Life Church.

January 11: We participated in rituals involving dancing and twirling. We spent the day in another realm.

January 12: We awoke refreshed and ate heartily thanks to our hosts. We rode north out of town on Gisella's Vespa.

January 13: In Bologna we stopped at a bed and breakfast. An elderly couple made us pancakes that tasted like steak and potatoes.

January 14: We spent the day with the elderly couple and learned how to knit sweaters.

January 15: We were asked to leave Bologna by ominous men dressed in Armani suits. I rode on the back of the Vespa as Gisella drove into the cold of Switzerland.

January 16:We stopped in Zurich. Children sprinkled rose petals at our feet as we ate fondue.

January 17: Gisella told me she no longer loved me. She left on her Vespa. I wandered the streets lonely and cold.

January 18: I awoke in a public square. The streets were empty. I was cold and alone.

January 19: I bought some warm clothes and returned to the square. I contemplated my experiences. My thoughts were dead weight.

January 20: I sat next to a statue in the square most of the morning before getting a bite to eat. I returned to the statue early afternoon. Pilgrims came to me in the evening to pray for healings. I stared absent-mindedly and waited for them to leave.

January 21: I awoke next to the statue. There was a large group surrounding me, all of them holding lit candles and chanting.

January 22: I yawned a lot throughout the day. Witnesses interpreted my repeated yawning as a sacred ritual.

January 23: At noon I stood and walked through the crowd; they gasped in awe as I left the square.

January 24: I wandered out of Zurich, down snow-covered dirt roads. I slept in a ditch. It was wet and cold. I shivered all night.

January 25: I woke to a dog licking my face. A teenager helped me to my feet. He invited me to his family's home and they gave me food to eat.

January 26: I ate well at the country house. The family put me to work milking cows on their farm.

January 27: The cows died during the night. The family chased me with pitchforks until I was a half-mile down the road. I was saddened; I didn't do anything wrong.

January 28: I hitched a ride to a town called Baden-Baden in the Black Forest of Germany. A wealthy couple welcomed me to their hotel. We bathed together in the hot baths.

January 29: We bathed together in hot baths.

January 30: We bathed together in hot baths.

January 31: I left Baden-Baden and headed east. I hitched a ride to Neuschwanstein.

January 32: I was told there would be an extra two days of January this year by a farmer who told me he knew me in another life. He spoke only in Deutsch but I understood him perfectly even though I only speak and understand English, Spanish, and a little Dutch. He invited me to sleep in his barn.

January 33: I awoke to discover I spoke fluent German. The farmer stood in the doorway with his arm around an elf who wore a suit made out of marbles and goat hair.

February 1: I played with the elf in the barn. I could still speak German.

February 2: I left Neuschwanstein with the elf. We took a train to Salzburg.

February 3: My elf friend and I signed up for a Sound of Music tour. We tied up the tour guide and I filled in for him. I made up stories about the Von Trapp family.

February 4: My success as a tour guide led to a job offer. I accepted and led another tour.

February 5: I was fired as a guide after having sex with a Russian tourist at the Mirabell Gardens. I said goodbye to my elf friend and took a train to Vienna.

February 6: I checked into a posh hotel and spent the day in the bar. I espoused Frankfurt School critical theory to Japanese business travelers.

February 7: The Japanese business men asked me to teach them more about life as they had only ever known about financial markets.

February 8: I led the Japanese business men by train to Berlin. I found an empty apartment and we squatted in it that night.

February 9: As squatters, we began networking with other international squatters and vagabonds. We rummaged through garbage for food.

February 10: I told the Japanese men that they had snatched the pebble from my hand. I left them to fend for themselves.

February 11: I hitchhiked to Köln. I went to the Cathedral. I stared in awe at the ceiling 400 feet above.

February 12: Enraptured, I remained in communion with Köln's Cathedral ceiling. I saw myself in another life.

February 13: I dug a hole in the floor of the confessional and began tunneling to The Netherlands.

February 14: Tunneled.

February 15: Tunneled.

February 16: Tunneled.

February 17: Tunneled.

February 18: Tunneled.

February 19: Tunneled

February 20: Tunneled.

February 21: I tunneled to the surface. I was in Arnhem. I mourned the dead from World War II.

February 22: I swam in a canal. It was freezing. A boater picked me up.

February 23: I took a train to Amsterdam. I ate bitterballen at Cafe Molenpad on the Prinsengracht.

February 24: A fire-haired woman briefly fell in love with me until she realized I wasn't Greek. She slapped me and told me I was despicable.

February 25: I wandered through the Van Gogh Museum and got lost in a field of yellow ochre sunflowers.

February 26: I am in sunflower bliss.

February 27: I am in sunflower bliss.

February 28: I am in sunflower bliss.

March 1: I awoke in Frederiksplein. I sat on a bench most of the day.

March 2: Left Amsterdam by bus to the small town of Edam. Children filled the streets skipping, singing, and laughing.

March 3: No one in the town is older than 10. There is an even split between boys and girls. They all smile happily and care for one another.

March 4: I awoke in Edam as a fresh, spritely 10 year old boy. I had a younger sister who was six years old. We sang and skipped about the streets with all the other children.

March 5: When I arose I was no longer a boy. I was a middle-aged man. The streets were filled with middle-aged men and women. They slumped about town frowning and complaining about being neither young nor old.

March 6: Same as the previous day.

March 7: Everyone in town began aging incredibly fast. I bought a wheelchair and left Edam.

March 8: On my way to Den Haag, a Moroccan immigrant stopped to give me a ride. He laid hands on me and I could walk again. I then remembered I could always walk. I thanked the gentleman and told him I would walk.

March 9: I walked.

March 10: I arrived in the resort town of Scheveningen. I drank champagne with a white-haired woman in her 20s. She invited me to her hotel room.

March 11: The white-haired woman could not speak. She blinked to communicate. Her eyes changed colors after each blink.

March 12: I loved the white-haired woman. She kicked me out of her hotel room.

March 13: I caught a bus to Den Haag. I put all my belongings, including the clothes I had been wearing, in a locker. I walked naked to the International War Crimes Tribunal to make an accusation against every U.S. president throughout history. Each of them had committed crimes against humanity during their respective administrations. I was summarily dismissed by IWCT functionaries who escorted me off the premises. I reclaimed my clothes and belongings from the locker.

March 14: I took a train to the Rotterdam airport and stayed in a boring hotel.

March 15: I flew to Rome.

March 16: At the airport in Rome I met a woman who claimed to be Gisella's cousin. She wore a white dress and had the same beautiful auburn hair as Gisella. Her name was Calista. We went club hopping all night

March 17: Calista and I awoke in a comfy bed in an apartment. We pulled sheets around us and walked into the kitchen. The residents did not know us and wondered why we were there. We told them we were still tired and would leave in a few hours. We went back to bed and made love. We slept the rest of the day, woke, and made love again before falling asleep for the night.

March 18: I woke alone in bed. I took a shower. Calista was in the kitchen making omelets with Gisella. We ate together and while Calista was cleaning the dishes Gisella led me to the bedroom. We made love. The apartment residents came into the bedroom to ask us when we were going to leave. Gisella threatened to kill them and they left. We made love again.

March 19: I awoke in an alley, alone and cold.

March 20: When will it be spring? It's cold. I move from my spot in the alley to warm myself in a half-filled dumpster.

March 21: I woke up and everyone else in the world had died. That was the sense I got. I walked to a cafe and discovered I was wrong. I went home with the barista.

March 22: I slept with the barista's wife. He asked me to do it. I obliged.

March 23: I woke with the barista's wife's head resting on my chest, heaving up and down as I breathed. I never left bed.

March 24: I left bed. I kissed the barista's wife as I left the apartment. I wanted to see if there were other people in the world still alive outside Rome so I went to the airport.

March 25: I flew to Vancouver, British Columbia. A Chinese man talked me into his cab and we drove around the city in silence all night.

March 26: The cabbie dropped me off at customs at the U.S. border. I was allowed to cross into the U.S. but only after being strip-searched and verbally harassed.

March 27: I took a bus to Seattle. I met a fishmonger at Pike Place. He gave me a job scaling fish ... with my teeth.

March 28: Scaled fish with my teeth.

March 29: Scaled fish with my teeth.

March 30: Scaled fish with my teeth.

March 31: Scaled fish with my teeth.

April 1: I played an April Fool's Day joke on the fishmonger. I gave the fish to the poor and the poor multiplied.

April 2: I was fired as a fish scaler. The fishmonger went out of business as I had given away all his fish. The poor were still eating well, though.

April 3: I left the city. I "borrowed" an Oscar Meyer Weinermobile to drive to Portland.

April 4: When I arrived in Portland a skate rat slashed my tires. He screamed, "Stop driving and save the Earth!"

April 5: After sleeping in the Weinermobile I woke and went to a vegan restaurant. I ate lentils and dirt scraped from the hooves of dead swine.

April 6: I hung out in a dumpster behind the Belmont Inn. I ate stale fries and onion rings.

April 7: I walked toward Mount Tabor with some empty cigarette packs I had found in the dumpster. I hung out in the park pretending to smoke until I fell asleep.

April 8: A young woman with dreads stood within four feet of me all day but refused to make eye contact or talk with me.

April 9: I left the park on Mount Tabor with the woman in dreads in tow. I walked into a house that was unlocked and made some coffee. I set a cup in front of the dreadlocked woman. She stared at it for hours.

April 10: We slept at the empty house. When a family of four came home we left.

April 11: The dread woman and I hitched a ride to Salem. She still wouldn't talk with me but she accidentally made eye contact on the drive down and shrieked. The driver almost lost control of the car.

April 12: We petitioned the state government to abolish the need for breathing as a means to live. The clerk who took the petition told us we had to get signatures for the petition to be effective.

April 13: We bathed nude in public fountains.

April 14: After spending a night in jail for bathing nude in public fountains, I took a bus south toward California. The woman with dreads refused to leave her jail cell.

April 15: I arrived in Berkeley in the morning. I caused a commotion at the Boalt Hall School of Law by refusing to enroll in any classes for the following semester.

April 16: I woke on the grounds of the University of California campus. A professor of literature gave me a vegan sandwich.

April 17: I met John Yoo, the former Bush administration advocate for torture. He was passing himself off as a professor of law. He propositioned me for sex.

April 18: I spent the night with John Yoo. His house was covered with photos of himself with his cats.

April 19: I woke up at John Yoo's again. I noticed that there was a photo of a young John Yoo at a bar with Jeffrey Dahmer. They had their arms around one another's shoulders. They were smiling. I was creeped out so I left.

April 20: I walked to the hills of Berkeley and met a guy driving an art car, a VW van. It was painted orange and encrusted with diamonds. He told me they were real, that he had worked in a diamond mine in the 70s and had smuggled thousands of diamonds out of Africa when he left. He said he'd been on the run from the Jewish mafia for decades. I privately wondered how driving around in a diamond encrusted van helped his cause.

April 21: I stayed in the diamond VW and when we awoke the next day, the "Magic Man," as he called himself, drove to L.A. He parked outside a movie studio and we slept in the van again.

April 22: I woke up and the Magic Man was dressing in a 70s-era orange suit. We got out of the van and walked onto the studio lot. A security guard saw the Magic Man and waved at him. We walked to a trailer and he knocked. A woman's voice said, "Come in!" We went inside and the Magic Man introduced me to Natalie Portman. I was surprised to see that she was less than two feet tall. She smiled at me but I could only tell when I looked through the magnifying glass the Magic Man had given me.

April 23: Natalie asked me to take her out on a date. I said sure. I took her to Davendra Banhart's pad and we all ate chick peas.

April 24: I slept with Natalie. The sex was awkward as we were of incompatible sizes. Natalie later kicked me out of the house after I made out with Davendra. I thought it was unfair; we were the same size.

April 25: I took a bus to Phoenix, Arizona. I slept in an abandoned lot next to a Mormon church.

April 26: I woke and looked at the nearby church. There were men dressed in black suits and dark shades. They had ear pieces. I wondered if they were part of the Secret Service, if the U.S. president was coming for a visit. When I asked a plain clothed man walking by on the street he informed me that they were Mormon security guards. He didn't seem to think it was unusual that they were dressed like the U.S. Secret Service. As I stood watching the ominous men I thought how weird it was that no one ever questioned the name "Secret Service," as if it was totally reasonable for an organization to be named the "Secret Service." I felt a chill run up my spine.

April 27: I married a Mormon's daughter. Technically, I was still married to Gisella, but I figured she was a Mormon so it was okay. After our ceremony, she converted to despondency to demonstrate her fealty to me.

April 28: I divorced the Mormon's daughter. She was becoming giddy with excitement and I wanted nothing to do with it.

April 29: I went to the airport and flew to Denver. I went to a restaurant and ordered the omelet named after the city.

April 30: I flew from Denver to Mexico City. I was elected mayor and sworn into office by midnight.

May 1: My first act as the mayor of Mexico City was to declare war on the War on Drugs.

May 2: I began planning strategy with local law enforcement for the War on War on Drugs. Meanwhile, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency had declared a War on War on War on Drugs.

May 3: I held a press conference. I said, "This is silly. While I want to declare a War on War on War on War on Drugs I think that both sides will begin to become confused. Ten days from now we may have a War on War on War on War on War on War on War on War on War on War on War on War on War on War on Drugs. Who will know which side is which? How many departments and agencies will we and the United States have to develop to conduct all of these different wars? There would be conflicts between those fighting the War on War on War on War on Drugs and those fighting the War on War on War on War on War on War on Drugs. We can't have that. I am calling off the War on War on Drugs." The DEA continued its War on War on War on Drugs. They received a very substantial budget increase to fight a war against a fiction.

May 4: I resigned as mayor of Mexico City. I told the people, "My work here is done. Everything's going great. There's no need for government any more. Have a nice day."

May 5: I watched Cinco de Mayo celebrations with an orphan. He was 36 years old, but his parents were dead.

May 6: I flew from Mexico City to Reykjavik. I thought the city was lovely. I decided to call the city my home.

May 7 to now: I have been living in Reykjavik. I have not traveled since May 6. That is why I haven't made any new travel journal entries. The journal is over. I am happily living in Reykjavik. I am writing another journal about my life in Reykjavik ... so this journal is finished. Why are you still reading? It's over! Geesh.

Sprinting through Forest Park

I was relatively new to Portland. I wanted to go for a hike, but I didn’t know my way around the area. I found I-5 easily enough, but decided I didn't want to take it. I roamed through residential streets for miles on end, occasionally hitting a commercial area. I finally wound up in the northwest hills and zig-zagged through hillside mansions. I rode through woodlands, found a hiking path in Forest Park--the largest urban park in the U.S.--got out of my CR-V, walked for a bit, stretched, walked some more, jogged at a leisurely pace for a mile, then sprinted, really hauling ass on a very slight downhill grade, almost flat but not quite, the weather still warm enough to really loosen my muscles and joints so that I could maximize flexibility, torque, agility, and dexterity in all of my muscles, loosening them enough to get at the extremes of their limits and into muscles that were all-but-impossible-to-activate before I really kicked the physical activity up a notch.

I could feel the tiniest knots of muscle I hadn’t even realized had been stressors, extending or flexing them just right to open capillaries that may never have had such a volume of blood cells per second flowing through them, the feelings like tiny explosive bubbling sensations, a release that started in one area, perhaps my shoulder, and then radiated a sensation of warmth and the feeling of being loved down my arm, across my chest, into my neck, creeping along sinewy fibers of muscle, rippling them into looser, stronger, and healthier muscles, until my awareness of myself as an independent entity separate from the earth and my surrounding environment ceased.

My perspective in those moments: I am panther, I am devourer, I absorb everything, the intricate patterns within individual leaves on a tree illuminated by sunlight from a specific angle in the sky telling most people "what time it is" but telling me, because I'm listening, why that leaf is fluorescent yellow at this moment from my specific position in relation to it as I'm running and then why it has a deeper green within it a few strides later, strides lasting less than a second, all the while paying attention to what is in the path in front of me, whether my hips, knees, elbows, neck, and other joints are a aligned or not, whether my heart rate is reaching a maximum level, and whether I should try to push to that level or change speeds in any way, if I should grab that branch "coming at me" as I run toward it, if I should say “Hi, beautiful” or blink an eye or smile wryly or do a cartwheel or look into the eyes of the sexy young woman jogging slowly toward me from the other direction on the path.

I do them all—in my head—and enjoy each one thoroughly before deciding, within a second, to look smilingly into her eyes as I run by at a slightly slower pace, just slow enough to soak up her beauty, and as I pass I look back up into the trees, the endlessness of trees along the paths up and down hills widening and narrowing here and there while straightening and curving everywhere. I look up to see not particular leaves but a fuller expanse of the canopy, shifting my focus down to a single leaf and then broadening it back to the widest possible focus including my peripheral vision, seeing the path ahead in focus while somehow still being a blur, eyeing the dense and varied green vegetation on either side of the path, and noticing the blue sky peaking through like irregularly-shaped pin holes while the whole of the experience continues in the most spontaneous ways yet always within my control.

I listen to my body. My body speaks to me. It tells me how it's feeling and it responds engagingly to the movements I choose and create. I am autonomous because of these things in ways I wish I could share with others. I have my own past for comparison of these experiences and they are shouting out something more extraordinary than any of the other exceptional experiences I've had. Everything is coming together. My understanding of everything—everything I need to understand for now—is accelerating in accordance to the acceleration of the intensity at which I am pushing my body. The processing of thought accelerates as greater levels of oxygen reach the brain and if the body is in alignment the possible thoughts that can be reached are beyond what I am currently capable of imagining. I can’t even see the beginning of the endless horizon. Then again, few ever reach their potentials of body, mind, and emotion. In the scheme of things, I’m just trying to head in the direction of the endless horizon. It feels like I’m running the right way.

This is what I mean when I say that the body determines the nature of one's thoughts, the rhythms, and even the content. If I am looking at leaves, I am thinking about leaves; if I am moving my legs and arms while running and am feeling the intense sensations then I am thinking about my arms and legs and how they are moving. The thoughts and actions occur simultaneously or in such a rapid-fire sequence that I can only perceive them as occurring simultaneously; they blend so fast that they form a flexible web in flux, a web I can seemingly touch and see and smell and taste and hear; the web is my nervous system, my body’s mind, sensory neurons firing at alarming speeds, speeds I cannot control, speeds that open pathways to speeds greater still, and when I sense and perceive this acceleration through thought I expand and contract simultaneously becoming the smallest particle dancing along a singular wave, a wave flowing along a string toward the unknown and unknowable, my being as particle appearing perceptibly in another universe during a momentary eclipse of its laws without ever exiting the space I occupy in this here and now.

Having exhausted my hunger for devouring the path and sucking in the light and colors penetrating my eyes, I slow to a walk. I’m breathing deeply, panting even, physically spent, entirely light headed, and feel like passing out. I might need to puke, no I think I'm okay; Oh My God that was intense! I stand up straight, blink my eyes, suck in a dee-eep breath, hold it, and then arch my back into as-close-to-perfect-alignment-as-I-can-get, pushing my shoulders down and back as far as I can while keeping my spine straight from the top of my head to the tip of my tailbone, my abdominal muscles tensed just enough to balance the position with the complementary help of my lower back muscles while my hips, knees, and ankles shift slightly into better alignment as I flex just the right combination of muscles … until I accidentally activate two muscles adjacent to one another when I only needed the one on the left before consciously willing the other muscle I did not intend to flex to relax while maintaining the same tension in the muscle I wanted to flex.

Time elapsed? About thirty seconds. I’m loose enough to balance myself quickly and, as I do, my breathing, heart rate, and blood pressure lower to healthy, relaxed-state ranges. My body feels as if I had never moved at all except for the sensation of perspiration and the wonderful feelings of euphoria, the oxygen flooding my blood stream creating tender aches in my muscles, telling me through emotion and thought that they adore me for giving the gift of those movements, perceptions, and sensations.

I stand still, straight as an arrow, feeling my body, all of its parts tensing and relaxing in a flow and rhythm that gives me a sense of the whole of my being within myself almost as if my body was disappearing from the surrounding environment, almost as if I was separate from me. I shift consciousness from specific thoughts to the web of my thoughts to the dissolution of thought to a fulfilling emptiness.

The light of my being comes back in fragments, breaking through the darkness just like the blue sky broke through the trees in the woods all around me, my being just a canopy shading me from the light before becoming the light, the light forming crystals, the lines of the crystals curving three-dimensionally into a cubist montage of colors with shocking geometrical shapes, myself forming in front of my eyes, the world part of me and I a part of the world. Neurons fire again full-throttle and I gulp in air, more gluttonous than desperate, smiling open-mouthed while swallowing and keeping my nostrils open to snort up even more of it. I smell the trees, the grass, and the dust from the path. My sweat smells sweet and sour. I can’t explain it.

That's when my imagination went to play. I thought of my sweat as Teriyaki sauce and pineapple juice then coconut oil and black moist soil before settling on malt liquor quacamole butter. I could harvest the flavor, soak some potato chips in it, and sell it at an organic food store. I could excrete strawberry jam in August, vegetable oil in September, caramel in October, lavender in November, Clamato juice in December, jenever in January, shark blood in February, rattlesnake venom in March, penicillin in April, chicken satay in May, bellini in June, and the blink of an eye next July.

There’s nothing like sprinting on a dirt path in the nether regions of Forest Park.

Purple Moesha

Jeff and Laura, two early thirties well-educated stoners, are sitting on the shore of Lake Michigan on Montrose Beach in Chicago. The noise of Lakeshore Drive traffic is drown out by the sound of the wind and waves beating against the shore.

"Jeff, do you know what a purple moesha is?"

Yeah, it's a magic jellyfish that exudes confusion."

"Is it purple?"

"Yeah."

"Hmmm. Yeah, I guess it would be."

They sit in silence for several minutes simply looking out at the lake.

"Jeff, how come you never called Kirsch?"

Jeff, agitated, says, "You know, I knew … I knew you would bring that up. Fuck!"

"It’s not a big deal. Why are you all," Laura gesticulates wildly, “I’m a little bitch, waaa waaa waaa?”

Jeff casually says, "Fuck you."

"No, Fuck you."

Jeff scoffs and exaggerates his speech: Fuuuuuuu-uuuuuuck youuuuuuuu ..."

Laura laughs and then says very softly and sweetly, "Fuck you."

Jeff becomes visibly more romantic and says much more passionately,"Fuck you, baby."

Laura is swept up in the moment, "Let’s fuck."

Jeff and Laura fuck.

 ...

I imagine exploding stars are galactic synaptic interactions and the boundless universe is a type of brain. Are we, as humans, but a type of bacteria on a tiny mineral deposit floating about like so much flotsam until we are metabolized by galactic cellular digestive processes? What is our role as this bacteria? Are we supposed to strip the earth of its finite resources, burn them, convert them to energy, release the carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, melt the glaciers, raise the sea levels, flood the coasts, storm the deserts, dry up the rain forests, overgraze, overdevelop, over-over-over-? Are we part of the metabolizing process? Are we “friendly” bacteria playing its part in breaking down a planet-molecule to be divided into nutrients and waste? What happens to the waste? Released back into galactic space as cellular fluid? Is our atmosphere a type of cell membrane? Are there structural similarities between atoms, cells, individual organisms, the earth as an ecosystem, solar systems, and galaxies?

My thoughts just keep coming around. Wave after wave. Thought after thought. Never ending. Waves of thought. I love it. I do. I really, really do. I cherish it. I revel in it. I devour thoughts, put them under a magnifying glass, angle the lens in the sunlight to burn right through them, get them all crispy, then I pop them into my mouth by the handful, chew on them, draw out all the flavors, let them mix and mingle together, form a tasty revolutionary assembly fomenting an oral rebellion, cease control of all bodily functions, override all systems, allow a hostile takeover of thinking by invading marketers, public relations pirates, spurious spokespersons, formulaic romantic comedies, and pernicious pundits. Dread, woe, evil or terror, the terror, Orange Alert, economic crisis, escalating gas prices, impending doom. Then come flowers, birds, bunnies, sprites, gnomes, hobbits, fresh breezes, aromatic tinglings, effervescent wondering, jubilant ebullience, exuberant gratuitousness, repetitive inconsistencies, erratic lovey, divine radicals, French conspicuousness, jocular dynamos, orgasmic wastefulness, Quixotic toxicity, prolific weirdness, unusual idiocy, wicked whispering, hushing blushing touching, crushing driving arching … all-encompassing life.

...

I met these artists in Portland a couple years ago, an amazing group of women. I was out with them one night and I was talking with one woman who worked as a Web designer, asking her if it would be possible to create a Web site that goes on endlessly, without clues as to how to make decisions about which link to follow, to create a maze that makes it all but impossible to find the desired destination. She didn't know, but she was intrigued. I also said that the site should create amazing trees of links that lead to surprisingly fascinating pages that are, in the scheme of things, superior in every way to the originally desired destination. In fact, what would be most disappointing, once enmeshed in the maze, would be finding the original link. It would be anticlimactic. If all other possibilities exist then being limited to discovering only one’s original desires could seem like a sort of hell, a damnation, an unfair punishment in the sense that one shouldn’t be given what one wants!

Reads like a Biblical condemnation, an Old Testament rant against the excesses of possessive expectation. Hey, we’re life! What we do is devour resources beyond each of our respective bodies, we devour air of one sort and exhale a new molecular compound into the space around us. Crazy shit like that. We’re crazy! We’re transformers of matter into different forms of matter! We do it all the time! But we’re not getting paid for it! Unpaid labor! This is fucking unfair! I demand compensation for my efforts, for the transformations I have created!

I have consumed water and food and excreted sweat, urine, and feces. I mean, come on, that’s a net gain for civilization right there, huh? Yeah, that’s right, I am entirely ordinary, just like every other human being. I consume things and leave the world in a state that is worse for the wear I’ve caused it. It’s by design, though. Evolutionary design.

Even when I’m in love or generously giving I am consuming valuable nutrients and exuding toxic waste. There is no time in which I am creating a better world through my presence. Well, unless I’m considered to be a valuable part of the world in my own right. In that case, then all is in balance as I am receiving the proper resources from the planet. But at the moment the planet fails me I will rail and wail and scream bloody hell. I already have and so have millions upon millions of others with much louder voices than mine ... to little or no avail.

And so it goes, the cycle of life.

...

Bob and Gary are walking down a street in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago.

Bob asks, "Did you?"

Gary says, "Yeah."

"How could you?"

"I just did."

"Well, why?"

"I don't know, Bob."

"Hmmm."

"What?"

"Fuck." Bob looks exasperated.

"Sorry if it upsets you."

Bob sighs. "It’s okay. Well, not really, but how could you have known that was going to happen?"

"Oh, I knew."

"You knew?"

"Yeah."

"What the fuck, Gary? How could you?!"

"It was easy. I just did it."

"You’re a prick!"

"Maybe. Depends."

"On what, Gary?"

"On who you ask."

"Well, I’m asking me and my answer is yes, you are a prick!"

"That’s fair. Now what?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, does that change anything for you, Bob?"

"Hmmm. A little. I thought you were a prick before, but I guess I didn’t think you were this bad."

"I don’t think what I did was bad."

"How could you not?"

"Well, if I thought it was bad I wouldn’t have done it."

"But you did it, Gary!"

"I know I did it. I just don’t think what I did was bad."

"You’re insane. Or a psychopath."

"How do you figure?"

"You stabbed a guy in the neck with a ballpoint pen!"

The Joy of Thought

I've been thinking about my life and because I do not experience my life independently of space and time I have come to the definitive conclusion that my self does not end at my skin. I've been saying this in myriad ways for years but I realize I've never been entirely clear. Nor have I given it proper thought in a way that is reflective of my experience. The challenge is to use words in an order directing you to think in a way that allows you to consciously experience what I experience while exploring thought. Once thought processes begin, though, they may find other thoughts more interesting than those I intend to convey.

Do you know the reason why humans can beat computers in chess most of the time? Because while there may be a factor between 10⁴³ and 10⁵⁰ for possible legal moves on a chess board, the combination of "legal" thoughts a human can use is infinite—or, at the least, immeasurable. The "legal" combination of words in the English language may be infinite as well. Still, even if thought is infinite it is only infinite within itself and the "location" of this infinity exists within a consciousness capable of thinking an infinity of possible thoughts.

If I was asked if I could live forever would I answer "Yes"? Yes. The way I experience thought is often curvilinar rather than linear. I declare this partially to point out that I do not think of my past as a timeline in a history book nor do I think of the future as tomorrow. I sense my thought as a spiraling outward expansion from an originating thought. If I existed eternally my thought might orbit its origin elliptically at differing angles in such a way that the ellipses might eventually extend so far from the core that it loses gravity and eventually drifts aimlessly through the space of the universe of mind until possibly being brought into the orbit of a distant star billions of years in the future.

I do not think exclusively in that way. I also use a progression of thought. A progression can bring to mind a linear, two dimensional path or, if three dimensional, allowing about as much freedom to change directions up, down, sideways, or backward as an interstate highway. To limit thought to a singular path on a line that allows no decisions to be made? As if thought could possibly be happiest if it progressed like a can of soup on an assembly line without any possibility of flying out the window at the speed of light throughout the galaxy and beyond, within the infinite smallness of any location of thought, or into a black hole of thought so dense that it sucks all surrounding thoughts into an absolute absence of thought. Progressive thought has its uses as a practical tool that can solve particular types of problems, but it will never be a primary mode of thinking because its applications are so limited.

Thought has infinite potential to direct itself anywhere. It can be directed in an outwardly-expanding ellipsis, a quark popping in and out of existence anywhere within the universe of possible thoughts, a laser creating its own wormholes to disappear from one arena of thought (existentialism) to another (postmodernism) to another (literary theory) to another (sexuality) and on and on, an infinity of arenas, none of them isolated from others. There are possibly infinite thought processes, like elliptical thinking or linear thought or comparative thinking or stream-of-consciousness thought or analytical thought or poetic thought, each thought process encompassing an infinity of possibilities within themselves.

So, yes, if I could live forever I would. Of course. I won't. But thoughts about the end of consciousness are a waste of awareness, an unnecessary narrowing of attention on one matter that seems of no more consequence than any other matter that hasn't yet occurred. It's useful to think about only to the degree that it leads to the expansion of consciousness into new forms of thought or the further mastery of practiced ways of thought.

In the same vein, the only reason to think about systems is to determine whether thinking about them improves the experience of living. If it is decided that thinking using a particular type of logic is the best way to think about x, y, or z to achieve a particular outcome then that type of logical thinking will likely be used for that purpose. If logic isn’t working as expected then thinking about the type of thought being used might be reconsidered: maybe I should try using comparative thinking instead.

There’s always the question of what type of thinking is best to make such decisions. What sort of thinking process is best for figuring out what type of thinking to use for such-and-such versus this-and-that? What sort of thinking process is best for thinking about the thinking process that might be best for such-and-such versus this-and-that? And so on. To remain trapped in a depression, for instance, is as often as not the result of not being able to change thought processes. That is why remaining aware of thinking is critical to determining the degree to which one's thought capacity develops and one's experience of living improves.

The decision to move from point A to point B over a matter of minutes while walking can be of critical importance in determining the course of one's life and the potential "moves" one can make at any moment. Where are you on the chess board of life? Is your king being cornered? Are you about to take a queen off the board? Did you just get a new job? Did you fall and break your leg? The possibilities for the moves you can make for your body and mind in the future will be determined by experiences such as these.

What occurs if you continue to add layer after layer after layer of parallel processing over time? If you're able to consciously think about multiple things in multiple ways each moment then you increase the possibilities of the potential decisions you can make each moment. That describes only one thing that can be done within these infinite universes of thinking. To break a leg, while unfortunate, doesn't necessarily mean “all is lost and now my future possibilities suck because they aren't going to be what I expected them to be.” You might think that, though, because you were preparing to run a marathon the next day. Now you can't. A depression could easily settle in if you focus on the time you’d “lost.” But it is also true that new possibilities are now available. The question is whether you are able, willing, and know how to change your thought processes.

What seems to be happening at times within the minds of some individuals I meet is that they focus attention on a narrow range of possibilities, akin to putting all of one's eggs in one basket. If your basket breaks and you've only got that one basket then "all is lost." But if a person thinks in terms of having at their disposal a potential infinity of thought processes and an infinity of possible thoughts within each thought process then, in a sense, nothing can ever be lost because other thoughts and modes of thoughts are at the ready. If the process of being is valued more than outcomes of being then the mere continuation of existence in any form is fulfilling on at least that level so, again, nothing of relevance is lost. One can remain fulfilled at all times by valuing existence itself more than any particular form of existence.

Is the creation of such a value the best possible thing to do? How would I be able to determine that? What thought processes might be required to figure that out? There are infinite possible answers to those questions. Thinking is a joy unto itself.

Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses walk into a Bar

In the Beginning, there was a Beheading.

On the Second Day, there was another Beheading.

On the Third Day, there were several Beheadings.

On the Fourth Day, there were hundreds of Beheadings.

On the Fifth Day, there were millions of Beheadings.

On the Sixth Day, there were so many Beheadings everyone lost count.

On the Seventh Day, the people sewed the Severed Heads together and presented them to God who wore the Severed Heads on His Wrist as a Friendship Bracelet.

...

Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses were sitting in a bar.

"Yeah, nice story, Muhammad. We all know it's bullshit."

"Fuck you, Moses. That's exactly how it went down."

Jesus made His Presence felt, "So, Muhammad, you're trying to tell me that the Universe began with a week of Beheadings?"

"Well, that's what my people believe, yes."

Moses laughed. "Your people are fucking crazy!"

Muhammad expressed his indignation. "Oh, right, and your people are completely sane? They followed you through a desert for forty years!"

"That doesn't mean they were crazy. I have charisma. I was like every rock star who has ever existed all rolled up into one."

Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses all laughed. Meanwhile, Buddha sat at the other end of the bar. He had a beer in front of Him but He hadn't touched it. He was busy thinking nothing at all and staring vacantly at the wall of liquors.

Moses pounded His can of PBR, crumpled it, and threw it as hard as He could across the bar. The crushed can hit Buddha on the head just above His ear. Buddha didn't move, didn't even a flinch. A thought arose, though, and that thought was "That didn't happen. It was just an illusion."

Jesus yelled from the other end of the bar, "I can hear your thoughts, Dude. I'm a deity, remember? That can hit you in the fuckin' noggin'." Moses and Muhammad, sitting on either side of Jesus, high-fived Him.

Buddha sat silently and thought, "I didn't hear a voice talking to me. It was an illusion."

Jesus shook His head and said, "Buddha, get some new material, Man. The illusion and nothingness crap is boring as all fuck out."

Moses shotgunned another can of PBR, crumpled it, and threw it at Buddha. This time it hit Him in the jaw. Buddha thought to Himsellf, "I did not feel that. Feelings are illusory. I will continue meditating."

Jesus said to Buddha, "Why would meditation be any different than doing anything else if it's all an illusion? Seriously, your logic is all fucked up."

Muhammad looked at Jesus, "Logic? What the fuck do you know about logic?"

Jesus replied, "I know everything about everything. I'm God you fucking moron."

Muhammad shook His head, "No, no, no, no, no. You are a prophet, same as me."

Jesus flicked a Beer Nut into Muhammad's right eye causing Muhammad to cry out. "Muhammad, I am the Lord thy God and I will beat your ass whenever the fuck I feel like it."

Muhammad angrily responded, "Bitch, I will declare a jihad against your ass. We'll see who's God then, motherfucker."

Moses was barely paying attention to them. Instead, He climbed behind the bar and grabbed an ice-cold PBR from a cooler. He hopped back over the bar and hurled the full can at Buddha. The can exploded against Buddha's ear.

Buddha cried out, "Ow, motherfucker! What the fuck, man?"

Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses almost fell off their bar stools laughing.

Buddha was pissed. He got off of His seat and He glared at Moses, His chest heaving, His breath rapid.

Jesus calmly said, "Chill out, Buddha. It was just an illusion, remember?" Muhammad and Moses laughed again.

Buddha tied His robe, put a twenty on the bar, and walked out.

Jesus mockingly asked, "What happened to the Laughing Buddha I'm always hearing about?"

Muhammad and Moses chuckled. Muhammad said to Jesus, "You would be a good comedian, I think."

"Shit, I am a comedian. I've been playing a cosmic joke on everyone for eternity. You two actually believe you're important in some way. I'm it, man. I'm the only One Who matters. I created your asses just to entertain myself."

Moses interjected, "You mean, Our Father created Our Asses."

"No, I mean I created your asses. I am My Father and I am My Son. I got it all rolling around so crazy none of y'all will ever figure it out. I am the Merry Prankster and there shall be no other Prankster but Me!"

Muhammad said, "You're so full of shit, man. You said You'd be back for a Second Coming and You'd cleanse the world of sin, but it's been two thousand years since You were crucified."

"Yeah, what's your point?"

"My point is You're full of shit. You aren't going back to save the world."

"You got that right, Pardner. You think I'd go back to save their asses after the way they treated Me last time? They fucking crucified me, man! I love it that they all think I'm coming back for them, but Hell no, I won't go! I'm just gonna let 'em keep thinkin' that until they finally figure out what you finally figured out. Took you long enough, Mo."

Mo shook His head. "Jesus, you are one crazy motherfucker."

Moses smiled, "True dat! He was the One Who had me insert all the "Nots" in the Ten Commandments!"

Muhammad broke out into a huge grin, "Are you shittin' me?"

Moses calmly picked up His beer and looked away, "Yeah, I'm shitting you, you gullible desert rat."

"Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you! I'll beat your fucking ass, pussy!"

Satan had been washing glasses in the sink at the other end of the bar, but he sauntered over. "Hey, guys, try to keep it to a dull roar, huh?"

Moses puts up His hands, "No worries, dude. We're just having some fun, that's all."

"Just stay chill, okay."

Satan walked back down to the other end of the bar as Jesus said "Satan, you fucking hippy, get us a round of shots. Tequila."

Satan turned and said, "Three shots? Muhammad?"

Muhammad shrugged his shoulders, "Yeah, why not. These virgin daiquiris suck."

Satan slyly looked at Jesus while saying to Muhammad, "Maybe you should try a Virgin Mary instead."

Jesus hopped over the bar and raced toward Satan, "I told you what would happen if you talked shit about My Mom!" Jesus and Satan went at it, each of them landing vicious blows on the other. The Archangels who had been sitting quietly in the corner ran toward the bar but a horde of Demons jumped in the way. The bar was filled with violence and mayhem. Moses made His way back to the corner and burned some bush while taking in the scene. Muhammad twirled like a whirling dervish smacking the shit out of whoever got near Him, whether it be an angel or a demon. Jesus, meanwhile, had Satan pinned to the ground behind the bar and was jackhammering the Right Hand of God into Satan's bloodied face.

A golden light came pouring through the front doors of the bar. The Virgin Mary walked inside and every saint, sinner, angel, demon, prophet, and deity fell to the ground and bowed. Jesus, though, kept wailing away on Satan, unaware His Mother had come inside. The Virgin Mary floated over the bar and descended next to Jesus. Satan looked up and mouthed, "Thank God," causing Jesus to turn and look up as well. Jesus gulped and mouthed, "Oh, shit." The Virgin Mary grabbed Jesus by the ear and lifted Him through the air toward the entrance of the bar, chastising Him for acting like a drunken lout.

"You're supposed to be setting a good example for these heathens."

"Sorry, Mother, but Satan insulted You. I had to defend Your Honor."

"No, You turn the other cheek and You forgive. Now, tell Satan that You're sorry."

"But Mom!"

"No 'buts,' Mister."

Jesus sighed and turned His head back to Satan. "I'm sorry I kicked Your ass."

Satan smirked and said under His breath, "Whatever You say, Mama's Boy."

"Satan, I am gonna--"

"You're going to what, Jesus?"

"Nothing, Mother."

"As for you, Satan. Mind your manners. If you want to keep tending bar, that is. I can arrange to get your job back in the mines if you'd prefer."

Satan dipped his head, "Sorry, Ma'am. It won't happen again."

Mary turned and led Jesus by the ear out of the bar.

The bar was filled with murmurs as everyone went back to their seats and duties, more than a few grumbling under their breath. Muhammad looked like He'd seen a ghost. Moses, meanwhile, was completely baked. He walked crookedly over to the bar and sat next to Muhammad. He slapped Muhammad on the back.

"That was some heavy shit,  huh, Mo?"

Muhammad shook his head, "Yeah. She scares me, dude."

Moses replied, "Mary? Oh, yeah, Jesus's Mom's a Bitch."

Everyone in the bar went silent. Moses said, "Hey, I'm just sayin' what you're all thinking."

Muhammad said, "Fuck you, Moses, I ain't thinking that at all. Jesus can hear everyone's thoughts, man. You think His Mother can't?"

Moses contemplated for a few moments and then turned to Muhammad, "What were we talking about again?"

Muhammad dropped His head and sighed.

Moses spoke up, "Oh, yeah, we were going to have tequila shots. Hey, you ol' Devil, get Mo and I a couple shots of tequila."

Satan, His face a mess with one eye swelled shut, poured the three of them shots. Moses, Muhammad, and Satan all raised their glasses. "To Heaven and Hell and back again!" They slammed their shots and Moses got up to head to the bathroom. As He approached He saw the signs on the three doors. One read Heaven, one read Hell, and one read Unisex. "Good, they finally got rid of Limbo. It took forever to take a crap in there."