Do Atheists Have a Place in America?

In the fall of 2011, I sought out a printer to print a collection of short stories I had written. The collection was entitled “Iambic Pentagram,” and contained a dozen short stories and essays, mostly satirical and humorous social insights and observations. One of the essays was called “Why I am an Atheist.”

There were two mentions of a Christian God in the essay. They were:

1. If I knew Jesus was truth, I would accept that truth. If I knew the Christian God was the God I ought to believe in, I would believe, just in the same way that if I knew any other possible God was the God I should believe in, I would worship that God.

2. I’m not mad at the world and I’m not mad at God. No matter when the world ends, hopefully God will know that with the rational mind he intended us to have led me to deny his existence.

That was my best and most genuinely honest approach at remaining open-minded and asserting to an audience that I knew would be partly Christian that I have no problem with Christianity or a belief in God. I simply do not believe in God. I understand that when some people hear the word atheist, they automatically attach a number of meanings to the word. For example, he must be a jerk and dislike religion.

I understand that. I have seen it happen and I have met the people who fit that exact description. But that is not me. And that does not describe many of the atheists and agnostics that I know. Have we not all met someone from a particular group that misrepresented the group as a whole?

Regardless of my “best and most genuinely honest approach at remaining open-minded,” the printer refused to print “Iambic Pentagram” because as the CEO of this North Carolina-based company told me over the phone, “You’re trashing my God and I need to put my foot down as a Christian.”

It would be difficult to argue the legal issue of his refusal to print my booklet. My limited understanding of legalities tells me that he had every right to do so. However, the fact that he blatantly misunderstood my statements as “trashing God” led me to believe that despite the safety measures I took, he still felt that as an atheist, I was anti-God and had a deep-rooted hatred for those with a religious affiliation. He was wrong.

Let us reverse the scenario. Suppose I were the CEO of a printing company which publicly also has no religious affiliation. One day, a Christian wants to print a booklet and one essay states, “I don’t have a problem with atheists, but my rationality has led me to conclude there is a God.”

That is not a controversial statement by any stretch of the imagination, but I were to refuse to print this person’s booklet, would it not make me seem like I am being a bit sensitive and perhaps anti-religious? Arguably, many more people would consider this latter scenario to be more unjustifiable as compared to the scenario that I actually experienced.

To get a better understanding of this issue, a 2007 Gallup poll showed that 53% of Americans would not vote for an atheistic presidential candidate. This statistic points us in the direction that there is a distrust of atheists in America. Unfortunately, the Gallup poll does not answer why.

There is perhaps a polarization in the American religious spectrum because oftentimes, the question boils down to, “Are they Christian or non-Christian?” In a sense, and of course not always, Jewish people, Muslims, atheists, and agnostics – and pretty much anyone who is not Christian, get lumped into the same category. In a Christian dominated country, this sense of polarization should not seem brand new.

Robert Sims, 22, a philosophy/religion and history major with a youth ministry minor at Flagler College identifies himself as a strict Roman Catholic. He said, “Ignorant and thoughtless people may certainly marginalize or negatively view the atheist or agnostic and vice versa. Unfortunately this type of person or this attitude tends to prevail as the majority among our contemporaries.”

Offering greater insight as to why the Gallup poll shows numbers that look unfavorably upon atheists, Sims stated, “I think that almost any person prefers people who agree with their opinions – be them religious, political, or otherwise – over people that do not agree with them.” This makes sense in a country where one practically must be a “strong Christian” in order to win a presidential election.

Jared Smith, 23, a Flagler College graduate with a degree in philosophy/religion and political science, has no particular religious affiliation. His response to this matter was, “In certain areas of the U.S. atheism is seen as a stigma, and I think that is a hold-over from the time when religion and morality were viewed as synonymous. But in more and more areas of the country, Christianity is becoming less of a presumption, and people are generally more open to their friends or colleagues being atheists.”

In the Gallup poll, just 7% of Americans would not vote for a Jewish presidential candidate and Mormons got a harder blow with 24% of Americans refusing to vote for them. The question of course then is, what often separates atheists and agnostics from those with a religious background? Why do the numbers jump to a startlingly 53% when atheists are brought into question? A person refusing to vote for an atheist or agnostic may easily claim that those who are not a member of a traditional organized religion (i.e. Christianity, Judaism, Islam) lack a moral fabric.

Many people not only find a moral compass in a religious environment, they believe it necessary to have a religion in order to have a moral foundation – and to not be associated with a religion means to be without morals. Is the statement “No God, no morals” a true one? Of course not.

I’m not saying that refusing to print my booklet is “religious intolerance.” But you have to ask yourself why people without a religious affiliation continue to be looked down upon by people with one?

New Orleans, Decadence, Free Will, Determinism, Agency, and Vomit in the Streets – After

Last week I told you I was going to New Orleans for a philosophy conference, the New Orleans Workshop on Agency and Responsibility (NOWAR). Being that it was my first time in New Orleans, I had a lot of preconceived notions about what to expect. Those potential misconceptions were:

•Enough frat boy and homeless person vomit on the streets to be able to “Hansel-and-Gretel” my way back to my hotel room.
•White tourists pronouncing New Orleans “N’awlins” with stupid grins on their faces and expecting me to play along.
•Vegetarian options at restaurants to include bread and water.
•That bread and water to cost as much as an actual meal because it was given a name to impress tourists like “Our Famous N’awlins Cajun Yeast Bread!”
•Random insane debauchery.

Here is the only thing I was wrong about: “White tourists pronouncing New Orleans “N’awlins” with stupid grins on their faces and expecting me to play along.” This could be because I spent each day, from morning until dusk, in the philosophy conference.

Below are my experiences based on the bullet points of what I expected to find in New Orleans and ended up finding in New Olreans.

Regarding: “Enough frat boy and homeless person vomit on the streets to be able to ‘Hansel-and-Gretel’ my way back to my hotel room,” and “Random insane debauchery.”

What actually happened:

Many people believe the apocalypse is going to happen while they are alive. If the apocalypse is ever going to happen, it will no doubt begin in New Orleans (maybe not; I have yet to visit Vegas or Harold Camping’s house on Thanksgiving). If it really does begin in New Orleans, it will begin in the French Quarter and will be appropriately titled the “Bropocalypse.”

The amount of bros in New Orleans seemed a bit high, but upon further empirical research, it was observed that per capita, the bro rate was actually quite average. It only seemed high when walking down the street avoiding the toss of beads from guys whose greatest thrill at night is encouraging girls to lift their shirts up.

While New Orleans is known to outsiders for its jazz and culture, it is known to people who walk down the French Quarter’s streets for its shitty, mainstream rap music, barely-clothed strippers in thresholds dancing to entice you to visit the unclothed strippers indoors (for more information, buy a Girls Gone Wild DVD). Free plastic beads will be thrown to you from second story balconies and, depending on your IQ, the music will be horrible enough to either pull you in or push you away.

My first thought after walking a quarter mile in the French Quarter was “As soon as I get back to my hotel, I’m going to burn my shoes so the STD’s in the streets don’t creep up through the soles of my shoes, through my socks and into my soul.”

The French Quarter’s streets are so disgusting that a century long flood of bleach would still not sanitize the centuries old streets. If you are the kind of person who occasionally likes to wash their hands before they eat, you may not like New Orleans. If you are the kind of person who would eat a McDonalds hamburger found wrapped up and ambient temperature in an alley, you might really like New Orleans.

Regarding: “Vegetarian options at restaurants to include bread and water” and “That bread and water to cost as much as an actual meal because it was given a name to impress tourists like ‘Our Famous N’awlins Cajun Yeast Bread!’”

What actually happened:

Ok, none of the bread I saw had a stupid name meant to entice tourists. I was wrong. Sue me.

Not every restaurant had no vegetarian option; some offered a lame chicken alfredo I could order without the chicken. Way to get crazy in New Orleans. Next time I might try the caesar salad with Italian dressing.

New Orleans is known for its seafood. That’s why if you want to open a restaurant in New Orleans, you will fail if you do not serve fresh catch and frozen shrimp. Another way to fail? Make sure your vegetarian options are a list as long as good Cher songs.

In most restaurants in New Orleans, note that checks at tables cannot be divided and distributed individually. Checks can only be given to the table as a whole or simply divided in half. This is fantastic news considering we can put a man on the moon but we can’t divide a check. On top of that, many places are cash only.

This city’s slogan should be “New Orleans: World Famous Tourist Destination…and cash only.”

One specific situation of ordering a vegetarian dish at a seafood restaurant my first night in the French Quarter (“Quarter” because it is only twenty-five percent of Hell) was the waitress forgot my food.

That’s ok. Mistakes happen and I don’t believe I am exempt from being the victim of these mistakes. In this situation, it was obvious the server was lying and said something about the kitchen being backed up. My entire table received their meal, including the two other people who ordered the same thing as me.

Again, that’s ok, mistakes happen, even lies, but here is where that mistake/lie became annoying: After politely inquiring as to my food’s whereabouts, I was told by my twenty-something white waitress on my first day in New Orleans, “Don’t worry, baby, I’m a feed you.”

I just drove nine hours. I have eaten only shitty gas station food all day. I know you don’t know that, but my stomach and brain do. Don’t call me baby and don’t tell me you’re going to do what I am paying you to do.

“I’m a feed you.” No shit. I don’t go to hospitals and ask what they do. Stop talking to me like you’re a stripper.

In conclusion, I learned a lot about agency, responsibility, free will, determinism, desire, volition, blameworthiness and psychopathy. I also learned that New Orleans was dirtier and more decadent that I had previously anticipated. I’m willing to give this fantastic city another chance, but I probably will not return unless it is for another philosophy conference or a friend’s wedding. After all, why return to New Orleans when there is still so much of the world to see?

After attending a three-day philosophy conference, what was my greatest lesson (after all, philosophy is the love of wisdom)? Spending five minutes walking up on the down escalator in the Intercontinental Hotel. Not only physically exhausting, but also mind-blowing.

I am not saying you should never visit New Orleans, but I am saying it does not matter if you ever do.
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1 – I’m sure the situation is not a matter of technology, but a matter of tourists being pains in the ass, but if I were to acknowledge that I could not make the joke.

New Orleans, Decadence, Free Will, Determinism, Agency, and Vomit in the Streets – Before

I’m going to New Orleans tomorrow for a philosophy conference, the New Orleans Workshop on Agency and Responsibility (NOWAR).

It will be my first time there. It’s a notable experience because it is second on the list of “Places I Don’t Give a Shit about Visiting” right after Vegas. It’s second on the list because of some preconceptions I have about this downtrodden yet popular tourist destination.

I acknowledge these preconceptions could currently be misconceptions because everything I know about New Orleans I have learned from hearsay and movies. I presume New Orleans to be a place of decadence, filth, disgust, sin, violence, and bitchin’ Cajun shrimp gumbo. Aside from violence (NOLA is the nation’s murder capital) and bitchin’ Cajun shrimp gumbo, those are the only two reasons why it is second to Vegas on my list.

Reasons why I don’t care about Vegas:
•One Elvis was enough.
•Gambling is boring. Too many people think they are experts at gambling but their bank accounts disagree.
•Guys walking around in expensive clothing thinking they are hot shots living the “Vegas Life” do nothing for me. It’s like watching a child walk around in a Batman costume. You admire them for their vivid imagination of being able to convince themselves they are something more than human because of their clothing.
•“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” roughly translates from Neanderthal to Homo Sapiens as “I’m a fucking douche.”
•I don’t want to get married tonight, I don’t care about gambling, I’m not interested in prostitutes, and I’m not interested in giving away my rent money to some guy with slicked back hair who brags about his sexual conquests.
•This guy sums it up when he says, “Las Vegas: Like God Took a Shit in the Desert!”

Now that I’m done spewing hate on my (perhaps false) preconceived notions of Vegas, I will list my current (perhaps false) preconceived notions of New Orleans. When I return, I will detail what I actually experienced. That way, I can put my foot in my mouth online requiring me to do a lot of backtracking to avoid looking like more of an asshole than I did by posting this. So, things I am potentially falsely expecting from New Orleans:

•Enough frat boy and homeless person vomit on the streets to be able to “Hansel-and-Gretel” my way back to my hotel room.
•White tourists pronouncing New Orleans “N’awlins” with stupid grins on their faces and expecting me to play along.
•Vegetarian options at restaurants to include bread and water.
•That bread and water to cost as much as an actual meal because it was given a name to impress tourists like “Our Famous N’awlins Cajun Yeast Bread!”
•Random insane debauchery.

Aside from the decadence, sin, and violence of New Orleans (again, very potential misconceptions), I am excited to attend this philosophy conference. Subjects such as agency, responsibility, free will, determinism, etc. are incredibly interesting and I am excited to expand my knowledge on them.

As I mentioned above, I will detail my experiences when I return from New Orleans. I don’t particularly care if I am right or wrong about the above presumptions, because it will be an enjoyable, educational experience regardless.

Oh, it should also take mention that I received this email earlier:

I’m sure many of you have heard about the nasty goings-on in New Orleans on Halloween night: two people were murdered, and 14 were injured in gunfights around the city, and two such fights occurred in the French Quarter.

I want to reassure you that, while gunfights indeed happen on a regular basis in New Orleans (it isn’t just skating by as the murder capital of the U.S. on reputation alone), for them to occur like this in the area of the French Quarter is actually quite rare indeed (there have been only five shootings in the Quarter and entire surrounding area up to this point in 2011). I of course urge you to exercise caution while in town.

Side note: If you are thinking about robbing my apartment while I’m gone, know that the only thing more expensive than my laptop is my hundred-dollar Target couch that is more uncomfortable than a stadium seat, is stained with beer, and is covered in dog hair.

Spellcheck Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

I remember one particular club night at college. I was there in support of our philosophy club at the beginning of the semester, encouraging people to join the club while answering their questions. But because it is philosophy club, I spent more time yelling at people, getting them to approach our table than they spent ignoring us.

I know. It’s a philosophy club at a small private college. The line to join is roughly the same length as the line for Sarah Palin’s new movie, but with very different intelligence levels (usually). I wasn’t expecting anyone to rush to the table, sign their name, then show up early to the next meeting.

I approached all kinds of people, asking them all kinds of questions, trying to find a way to get them interested while being fun as well. I asked people if they liked music, movies, dancing, porn, various colors, asking questions, hating people, getting free money, it didn’t matter. I could trace it back to philosophy. That’s one of the good things about philosophy, it encompasses everything and I’ll find a way to make that happen.

One of the questions I asked was, “Do you like reading?” One of the responses I received was, “Hell no, I don’t like reading,” and that response included enough sass to fill an entire high school with 15 year old girls with their parent’s credit cards. That sass included enough head and eye rolls to film five Exorcism sequels. The response in my head included enough violence to film five more Exorcism sequels, as long as those sequels could include me bashing someone’s face open with a brick.

My actual response was a straight-faced, “Great,” and then I turned around and walked away, still making more Exorcism sequels in my head.

It’s not that he wasn’t interested in reading. I’m not interested in field hockey, and if someone told me they wanted to break my face open with a brick because I wasn’t interested in field hockey, I’d have them arrested (or break their face open with a brick first, depending on the circumstances).

To be short, I was mad because this guy was not only proud to be stupid, he was angry at me for suggesting he might be interested in fecundating activities.

Reading and learning are exciting. Learning new words, ideas, concepts and grammar rules make my heart race. I’m not trying to sound nerdy, which is now what people say when they want to sound cool (i.e. I know I’m going to sound nerdy, but I really like anime! – big deal, lots of people do. If you were that ashamed, you wouldn’t have mentioned it), but I do.

Poor grammar and just generally being dumb is a turnoff*. Judge me for it, but it is, and I’m not going to be ashamed of it. Why? Because I don’t want to date someone who confuses or has no interest in communicating so I can understand her.

I’ve written this about twenty times, but everyone says there are a lot of stupid people in the world, but no one ever admits to being in the stupid group. We all give ourselves credit for our intelligence and our ability to continue eating, breathing and shitting, going to sleep and repeating it the next day, but no one says, “Wow. I have horrible critical thinking skills and I make fucking up look so easy!”

How do I know this? Easy. I watch YouTube videos. The comment section for YouTube videos is a breeding ground for just really awful, stupid shit. I could have used a stronger noun there like comments or communication, but honestly, it’s just shit.

How does the Internet have enough storage space for all the dumb shit we have to say, tweet, post and talk about? Imagine how much server space YouTube could open up if they deleted all comments from all ICP and Nickleback videos? Another benefit would be that anyone like me wouldn’t burst a blood vessel struggling to read through the complete idiocy that people wrote. A recent study shows that reading YouTube comments increases your chances for a heart attack by 47%**.

Maybe that’s what killed Derrida. A brief attempt at deconstructing YouTube video comments was enough to push him over the edge. The comments are filled with enough Freudian typos to resurrect the man from the dead.

Meeting someone, albeit how briefly, who not only refuses to stand on the intellectual stage, but is proud not to, should infuse rage in anyone. Not the type of rage that is dealt with by making someone’s face obsolete with a brick, but the type of rage that required them to, well, I still haven’t figured that out yet. Maybe just write about it.

More important than anything, please understand why it affects me. I don’t care if you’re not interested in philosophy. It’s not a subject for most people and that’s fine. Not every conversation has to be serious, deep and intellectual. I’m fine with sitting around talking about the weather and making fart jokes, but promise me you’re not proud to be stupid. And promise me you won’t get offended if I presume you’re interested in fecundating activities.

Is that so much to ask? I need it so bad (that’s what she said).

*Please don’t hesitate to point out the grammatical mistakes in this post.
**Please don’t believe that fake statistic.

Creep Alert: Advice for Women

Ladies, ladies, ladies.

As a guy, I’ve spent a lot of platonic and misanthropic time around other guys. I’ve seen many of these guys try to execute their best game on suspecting and unsuspecting females in all settings, atmospheres and venues and let me tell you, there are many things many men will not say or do in order to get in your pants. I know, you already know this, but that doesn’t stop them from working. Some of you don’t care, and if you don’t, then fine, but for those of you who do care, this is for you.

I go places and see guys trying to meet women using some of the most absurd, insane, ridiculous and embarrassing techniques. A lot of these guys take themselves seriously. Some guys try to use the “I’m not taking myself seriously so I’m going to wear a stupid hat to show you how wild and carefree I am” technique, but I’m going to assume that the Stupid Hat Guy went extinct sometime around the end of W.’s second term.

What baffles me the most is that many girls never seem to pick up on these guys. I understand a lot of girls do and choose to ignore it because some girls see past the bullshit, but some girls fall head over heels for guys who are laying a coat of bullshit thicker than a Tea Party Rally. I’m constantly amazed when I see a girl lose all self-respect and melt in front of a guy who’s blatantly using a technique to get laid.

That’s why I’m going to go ahead and identify the top five offenders. It’s not a comprehensive list, but it’s a great start. Remember these guys the next time you go to a party, a friend’s house, school, work, Barnes & Noble, a political rally or check your mail. Like cockroaches, these guys are everywhere.

I understand I’m cutting out about 85% of the dating pool with this list, but ladies, save yourselves the time. If you meet one of these guys, go to a well-lit public place and call a friend to pick you up. Safety first.

The Hipster

“Have you ever read ‘Catcher in the Rye?’ It’s my favorite book. No, it’s not the only book I’ve ever read. I’ve also read ‘On the Road.’ Ok, so, I’ve only read those two books, but let’s be honest here, what other books are there really?”

“I just picked up the new Winter’s Dying Ashes Upon My Deaf Heart album and it’s pretty deck. It’s a little softer than their last album, but the song My Revenge is Greater Than Your PBR is epic.”

“I don’t shop at Good Will because I’m a hipster, it’s because I don’t have any money. After my mom pays my rent and my other bills, I have like no spending cash left over.”

“Check out my v-neck shirt and chest tattoo of this band’s lyrics. I took a picture of myself last night in the mirror and posted it to hipsterkidswithvneckshirtsandbandlyrictattoos.com. I already got like six phone numbers and two girls sending me nudes.”

“I’m not a hipster.”

The Foreigner

“I’m wearing a cologne I brought from my country…oh? You don’t pronounce the g? I’m sorry. I’m just learning your language. I’m glad you think it’s cute. I normally wouldn’t tell a girl this, but I’m relying 110% on my accent to get laid.”

The Guitar Player

“Yeah, that’s right. I play guitar. I’m in a band. You should check us out. We’re playing at the Dick House this Friday. Check out this Stevie Ray Vaughn tune I can jam out on…

…pretty good, right? Why am I sitting alone in this corner? Well, I was just thinking about how I wrote this song for my ex-girlfriend and she didn’t even care. I just want to find a nice girl who doesn’t mind me writing songs to her.”

The Bro

“C’mon, babe, you can have another shot. You’re a champ. You can do it. I got the Dave Matthews Band on. I mean, fuck, I’m skipping the game here to drink with you. I didn’t pop my collar to fly away; I popped it to get some pussy.”

“Yeah, that’s my BMW out front with the smashed bumper. Freddy borrowed it and crashed into a tree when he was trying to get laid. What do I care? My dad will fix it. I’ll just tell him someone hit me in the parking lot.”

The Sensitive Poet

“I have thoughts things no other man has. I am very deep. I am intellectual. Have you ever read Thoreau? He’s great. I’m just completing my first novel right now. I just can’t figure out who I want to publish it, you know? I want it to be someone who will put the care and effort into it that I did.”

“What is this poem about? It’s, like, about my feelings about life and death and all this stuff in between, you know? It’s like, life is this thing that you don’t always get and I wanted to convey that by comparing it to the moon’s glow at night and my despair for, like, stuff. You probably won’t understand it anyway. It’s not your fault; it’s just that it’s really deep.”
“I drink a lot because I’m a writer.”

“I understand you’re sensitive. That’s why I want to hear everything you have to say, everything you care about and feel for (until I get laid).”

“I’m probably going to get discovered any day now.”

The Night I Drove Away In the Rain

Some years ago I was in a Christian martial arts school. I wasn’t Christian, but it was a great school and it was confirmed every time I broke a rib or a foot or got a black eye. I liked it because it pushed me beyond my limits, further than I would have been able to go on my own. Plus, it always felt cool to have a broken bone or a black eye.

But like I said, it was a Christian martial arts school and I wasn’t Christian. I hadn’t accepted Christ. I had when I was a kid, but what does that mean? Lots of kids accept Christ into their hearts and they don’t know what the fuck it means. Lots of Jesus this and Jesus that, but these kids haven’t reached an age that allows them intellectual capacity to really question their faith, which is undoubtedly the strongest grounder of faith there is, which is why I can’t take someone seriously if they don’t ever question it or let it be questioned, which is why I can take people seriously when they do. All these kids growing up believing in Santa Claus and Jesus and only one carries through into adulthood because only one was later told to them to be fictional.

One Saturday evening, the leader of the martial arts school was giving a sermon at a local church. They were doing one of those services that’s geared toward youth where they draw you in with donuts, coffee and pseudo-edgy rock music – usually played by some pimply faced kid with a Justin Bieber hairstyle. To conclude the sermon he invited everyone to stand up and join him in a circle of prayer.
“Whether you’ve accepted Christ into your heart before or are tonight for the first time, c’mon up here and let’s pray,” he said into the microphone, his voice loudly entering our ears, our brains.

So everyone did. The masses left their pews and gathered around the leader in a circle. They eagerly walked up to the altar where he stood with his microphone and they put their arms around each other forming one large group. They bowed their heads in unison and listened as the leader spoke to God through a microphone.

When the Christ-acceptance prayer started I was still sitting in the pew, outside the circle of prayer. Everyone had left except for me and I awkwardly remained in my seat. I didn’t accept Christ into my heart before that night and I wasn’t going to that night either. It wasn’t that I had any personal vendetta against Christ because I’m sure he was a great man, ahem, man – but I can’t really get with the whole religion gig.

Some of you lighthearted, more gentler folks out there might think if I should have gone up and there and joined in the rejoicing, but some of you lighthearted, more gentler folks out there also don’t have a problem with lying. I didn’t want to lie so I didn’t stand up and join. I also didn’t want everyone to turn around and see me when they returned to their pews, so I stood up, walked outside and walked to my car. I left while they stayed praying and I drove away in the night and in the rain.

The Trojan Rat

The funny thing about rats is that they’re like people you don’t really care for. The people you run into constantly that you just don’t want to see. The people you run into constantly who make you ask the world, “Out of the 6.5 billion people on this planet, why do I run into these few undesirables so often?”

My apartment is infested with rats. I’m sort of new at it. It’s my first infestation and I’m not sure what to do, nor do I know how many rats there are, two, maybe six, but from what I hear, it doesn’t really matter. If I have six today, I’ll have 36 tomorrow and 216 the day after that. It all started a couple weeks before Christmas when a local pest control company called me and asked me when they could come inspect my rodent issue. “When” seemed like a curious question as “if” seemed more appropriate.

“Well, I don’t have a rodent issue, but should I,” I asked them.

“The guy who lives underneath you called your landlord because he has a rodent problem, so we’d like to inspect your apartment also.”

“Well, I don’t have any evidence that would lead me to believe me I have an issue, but if you want to come in, then sure.”

So they did, and like me, the rat exterminator concluded there was no problem, but like me, rodent terminators are not fortune tellers. They cannot tell you that while you are out of state, rodents will break into your apartment and shit on your counter.

Shortly after the inspection, I left the state for a week. While I was gone, a cold front moved in and Florida residents – human, rodent and otherwise – sought shelter and warmth. When I came home from my visit, I walked in the door and immediately found two tiny rat turd pellets on my kitchen counter. Later that evening, the pitter patter of little rat feet racing across the ceiling tiles disturbed me as I sat at my desk.

“Aren’t you scared to have rats in your apartment,” someone asked me. “Those things bite and carry disease. And they’re so freaky looking!”

“Well, no, not really. If I can kick it, I shouldn’t be scared of it. But I want them out because I don’t want them eating the food I had to work to buy.” Honestly, it’s a rat. I can pick it up and throw it farther than a football.

Before you think I’m the type of person who lives in a room filled with garbage, old Chinese takeout cartons, fast food bags and drink containers, candy wrappers and sticky pornos layering the floor, I want to stave off any of those misconceptions. I’m a very clean person, cleaner than most people I know. Just ask the few people who have been over, or ask my new furry roommates.

I called my landlord, explained to him the evidence that lay before me, and two days later he brought me rat poison, black trays filled with little blue-green pellets that smelled like stale vomit. After four days, the poison-filled trays remained untouched by the rodents, despite their incessant racing through the walls, scratching against the concrete like tiny, furry prisoners. After those four days, I had to leave again for a week. Knowing for certain now that had these freeloading, crap-wherever-they-want rodents were infesting my apartment, I wasn’t sure what I could expect when I returned home.

I got back to my apartment a week later. I cautiously opened the front door that opens to my kitchen afraid of what mess the rodents would have caused in my absence like teenagers left home alone. Once I could see inside I expected to see a team of rats sitting at my kitchen table smoking cigars and playing cards, looking at me like I was interrupting their game, but when I opened the door and looked around, everything was seemingly at peace, seemingly at rest, seemingly untouched. Sure, the weather had warmed up a bit, but warm enough so the rats would abandon my place of residence to return to wherever they came from? No way, I thought.

I looked around. The food was left uneaten. No holes in the walls, no wood chewed, but when I looked on the stove I found two tiny rat turd pellets. Two more turds like a threat left to let me know, “We are here. This is our apartment now.”
“Get the fuck out,” the rats seemed to say like a rodent-themed Amityville Horror film.

But after that, they left me alone for a week; one whole week with no events save the occasional pitter-patter of disease-ridden rat claws scratching away in the walls.

After that week however, the rats were resurfaced. They got loud. Really loud. I heard rustling, scratching, the quick-paced race of their little feet scurry across the ceiling tiles. I thought I heard a Beastie Boys song and the scream of Macho Man Randy Savage as apparently, one rat picked up another and body slammed it, causing the ceiling tile to shake. Baffled, I stood up and stared at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the rat to lift the ceiling tile up and give me a glimpse into their nightly activity. But nothing happened. I heard them all night but could never see them, scurrying through the walls, hopping, jump-roping, whatever it was they cured boredom with.

At 12:30, I went to bed. I turned off the lights and crawled underneath my covers and then I heard a knock inside my kitchen, then another knock. I had never seen them inside, nor had they tasted the poison pellets not-so-strategically placed for them in each of the three rooms in my apartment, so I thought, this is my opportunity come face to face with these things. I sprung out of bed, grabbed my flashlight and ran into the kitchen. I surveyed the area and found only two tootsie rolls on the floor.

The tootsie rolls came from my mother who mailed them to me months earlier and I found them earlier that day and put them in a bowl my kitchen. This bowl also held bananas, whole wheat bread, blueberry muffins and potatoes.
Why had the rats bypassed all of the other food? They had access to the bananas, the whole wheat bread, the blueberry muffins and potatoes, but all of that was disregarded and abandoned. These were undoubtedly the most polite rats that could have ever infested my apartment.

Just two tootsie rolls? Well, by all means help yourself. Or perhaps these ruthless rats do not like vegetarian food, but have a sweet tooth? Certainly, rats need to incorporate fruits, vegetables and whole wheat into their diet to help nurture and fuel their growing rodent bodies. Plus, as an animal that has been around long enough to almost kill off an entire major city in the seventeenth century and continue to exist without being annihilated and exterminated, they should be smart enough to know they should be stockpiling food for the 36 rats that will be in the walls tomorrow and the 216 that will be in the ceiling the day after that. After all, in a week we’ll be into the thousands. I’m not sure I have that many tootsie rolls. What will they devour after they exhaust my tootsie roll supply?

Days have passed with no signs of their existence aside from scratches in the wall and shit on the floor. To this day, they taunt me each night with sounds that exist as prove of their existence as I await our final showdown.

Guide to Forming Relationships as a Self-Loathing and Quasi-Misanthropic Writer

Wake up in my cold, hundred year old house. Self-loathing is my alarm clock and it doesn’t come equipped with a snooze button. If I had a dollar for every time I woke up and wanted to slam the blinds closed and shun the idea of face-to-face human interaction, I’d be able to make my rent on time every month. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t think of anyone. I have no one I yearn for, no person to think of and warm my heart.

I’m on a clean slate in terms of human relationships – romantic or platonic – and it should probably stay this way. I eat at restaurants alone. Why?

I have the perfect combination of elements aligned in such a way so that I can succeed and accomplish. Introducing any new humans into my life could upset the balance. Just like a pilot needs to configure a number of apparatuses before his plane can take off, I have all of my apparatuses configured so I can take off. Establishing a romantic or platonic relationship comes with some hesitation. People tend to stand in front of the plane on the runway rather than sit in the cockpit. I know this because I’ve let it happen before.

First: Few friends is good friends.

I don’t want to have a lot of friends. I feel like an idiotic, herd mentality, mindless follower when I’m walking down the street with a large group of people. Plus, a big social life would only be a distraction. I like knowing a lot of people, I promise, I would probably love to know you too, but as far as friendship is concerned, there’s a maximum occupancy allowed. There are only two qualifications:

1. Be good at conversation. I don’t care if we agree on religion, politics, or where to get dinner. Just be good at conversation.

2. Be an inherently good person. Everyone says they’re a good person. Everyone says they’re honest, but a lot of them are lying whether they know it or not. Know the inherent value in doing good things and recognize the wrongness in doing bad things – not because your parents or God told you and you fear punishment, but because you’re a human and you feel what others feel.

The few friends I have are good friends, friends I would answer the phone for at 3am, friends I would unquestionably be there for through anything. Ask them and they’ll confirm the validity of this. I also know they’d reciprocate, but still, there are few of these around. The majority of these people live far from my cold, cozy, lonely and lively Saint Augustine apartment.

Sitting in my apartment at 11pm with glass of Jameson on the rocks listening to Aesop Rock, I’m usually wondering if I know anyone in this town or if any of them know me. Usually, I feel like a ghost with a bum knee, exacerbated by the cold weather, when I walk through the streets, slip through the doorways and float back home. Sitting in my apartment at 11pm with a glass of Jameson on the rocks listening to The Pixies, I’m usually concluding that I’m probably better off for being alone. I need aloneness in order to get where I’m fighting to arrive.

Secondly: romantic relationships are overrated.

Recently, one of my good friends, a man who teaches philosophy in Tampa, said something I think about often. I congratulated him on finding someone. He replied with, “I’m not happy I found someone; I’m happy I found her.” It’s a good point that brings me to my next.

I’m not interested in hitting on women because I feel that anything worthwhile would not come from leaving my phone number on my check for a waitress, but instead through the actual growth of getting to know a person. Eighty-five percent of guys are douche bags, it’s a fact, but the female gender isn’t exactly a group of saints either. Many women fit into at least one, if not all, of the four S categories:

1. Slutty
2. Shallow
3. Selfish
4. Stupid

Of course, it is just as easy and common for a man to fit into these categories, but I’m not getting into that because I don’t date men. Fitting into any one of those classifications turns me off from the possibility of a date, friendship, or telling you where the nearest Starbucks is. Why obstacles exist at all for people on the roads of honesty, genuineness and being authentic will always baffle me. What may come as a surprise to many people is that being honest and genuine will:

1. Cause you less problems in life
2. Bring better and more interesting people into your life

I’m not here for long and I’ve got shit to do before this time expires. To use the most embarrassing cliché I could think of, this boat is cruising and not many people get to board. I’d respect someone more for telling me they have no interest in my boat, then if they lied and told me I’ve got a nice starboard. And if you’re a righteous individual, then maybe I’ll be in your boat soon, so move over and make room. Cut the weeds from your life, so the real flowers can grow.

But what do I know? One person, one friend, one woman could step into the scene and more accurately align the elements in a way I never thought more useful than before – but probably not.

Another Friend Gone

Feeling good takes more strength than hurting yourself.

Oftentimes when falling, we have the tendency to allow ourselves to keep falling rather than stop to find the strength to rise back up again, an all too human condition. As the consequences worsen and become more damaging, it is then that we find even less strength to better ourselves. It’s like our minds and bodies work against themselves: the more you hurt, the more you want to be hurt; the more you hurt, the less you seek aid, and with addictions, the more you’re fucked up, the more you strive to remain fucked up.

Craig had his share of problems that he either wasn’t strong enough to overcome or just didn’t care to. The last time I saw him I was apprenticing at the tattoo shop. While cleaning up, I stepped outside to beat the wide broom on the sidewalk when he passed me. Dust filled the air as he walked towards me from Harper’s.

“Craig! Long time no see.”

“Dude! I just got kicked out of fucking Harper’s,” he simultaneously boasted and complained about using his loud, New England accent – somewhere in the space shuttle-range of a decibel chart and twice as loud when drunk.

“How come,” I asked him, shaking the broom in the air, a cloud of dust making its way past Craig, too drunk to notice.

“Fuckin’ shit, I don’t know. Starting a fight or whatever. Who gives a shit. Fuck them.” His thick New England accent had the authenticity to ignite a fight in any setting. Especially given that he was more interested in spewing curse words into the atmosphere rather than forming a sentence that could communicate information.

He said, “Fuck them” in the same way you say “fuck them” when you get fired from a job for doing something you deserve to get fired for. An admission of guilt in the tone in which he denies it.

That was Craig. Craig wasn’t fighting. Fighting was Craig. If you wanted to go out drinking with him, you had to be in the mood to fight otherwise you better stay home and play sick. He was drunk. Irish, Boston accent, angry, drunk. He was short with short dark hair and carried a belly that lay just over his belt. His level of energy always made you feel like you had to have your reflexes in prime condition at all times in order to keep up with what might ensue as a result of his presence and behavior. His attire was eternally jean shorts, t-shirts and steel toed boots. He told me about the ST tattoos he saw at the Suicidal Tendencies concerts he went to up north.

I met him in 2000 after he moved to Port Saint Lucie from Connecticut. He worked at a job site making trusses where he met John, and through John I met Craig. No one at that job site had any hope whatsoever and it was through that lack of hope and that feeling of being so close to death that my friends and I became close to Craig. You find a cause in a lack thereof, and hence our friendship, a friendship founded on a platform of perceived nothingness.

We were all so ill-equipped with wisdom that we didn’t know how we had made it as far as we had and there was a union to be found in that. We had a lot in common, in so far as we all smoked weed, drank liquor and listened to Suicidal Tendencies, but when you’re 18 as I was at the time, that’s enough to properly lay a cornerstone for a friendship. It’s not until you get older that you become a lot more pretentious.

Craig was the new guy in town, which means he could create any identity he wished for himself. Anytime the new guy walks in, he’s going to have his story and he’s going to tell us and we’re going to have to decide if we’re going to believe him. For example:

• Ted Stevens is a cowboy who just rolled in off his horse from Nebraska, but the horse ran away, so Ted’s in town for a few weeks in the Farrell Motel in Fort Pierce. His ranch just got bought out by some big company for millions, but Ted won’t ever stray from his cowboy roots. Really keepin’ it real. Truth? Well, Ted’s wearing a cowboy hat so I guess so.

• Diego Suarez was a doctor in Venezuela for thirty years until he moved to America to avoid persecution from anti-government factions (it’s hard to keep up with which governments are currently undergoing coup-de-tauts, so I believe him). Unfortunately, his medical license is not recognized in America so he’s been working at Winn-Dixie for the last decade until he can make enough money to pay for medical school in the States. Well, he’s got a Hispanic accent and diagnosed me with the common cold after hearing me sneeze, so I guess I’ll believe him.

Craig’s story was that he was best friends with Aaron Louis from Staind. Me and my friends weren’t Staind fans, but at 18, being best friends with the lead singer from a mainstream band was as impressive as owning a new car at 16 – and having sex in the back seat of it regularly. He proved it to us one early November day when he asked his mom if Aaron was coming to their house for Thanksgiving.

“He said he was going to make it,” she said from the kitchen, her body and attention focused on the food she was cooking at the stove. She responded so quick we had no reason not to believe him. She didn’t even ask, “Aaron who?” It was either well rehearsed or truth.
A couple weeks later Craig tells me, “He’s not coming. He’s going to be on tour.”

“What’s it like seeing your best friend on TV all the time,” I’d ask him, sitting on his couch watching TV.

“Oh, you know, you just see him up there; you get used to it, it’s kind of weird I guess.”

But Aaron never came to town. Never drove through. Never stopped in to take a leak. Never mentioned Craig in an album cover Thank You list. And sooner or later, no one talked about Aaron. After years of no mention and no sight of Aaron, the case was later closed and stamped in big, bold, red, uppercase letters reading “MYTH.”

Shortly into our friendship Craig got arrested while working at his construction site. He was selling weed at the time when a Haitian man he had suspicions about asked him for some product, he told him to fuck off. The Haitian guy responded impolitely, so Craig responded by busting a hammer into his temple earning him the moniker “Thor.” He spent three months in the county jail with an attempted battery charge. Why that’s considered “attempted” baffles me since it seems like he well accomplished what he set out to do and sent the guy to the hospital.

The times my friends and I spent with Craig were gambled away by drinking, smoking cigarettes, and talking about music. We also spent a lot of time talking about how hard life was and how stupid everyone is. Years later I realized that life is only hard because you complain about how hard it is and the people who complain about everyone else being stupid are usually equally stupid. Well, such epiphanies separate friends, but not intentionally. And I’m sure those of us left still think a lot of people are stupid. And damn it, rightfully so. Some things from youth we will never let go.

When Craig’s mom and stepdad moved out of the house he was living in he took in two roommates: a friendly, gay, pill addict, Joey, and his sometimes friendly girlfriend, Nancy, also addicted to pills. And hence was born a trifecta of pill abusers all living in the same house off Midway Road all awaiting the same fate. They never knew themselves let alone each other. Their lives were constantly run on the brink of ending, both literally and legally and sobriety was something they only felt when waking up in the early afternoons.

I don’t know where Joey came from, but a guy like Joey just shows up on a doorstep and is let in for a hot dinner. People felt bad for him. I don’t know why. He was nice, but I never felt compelled to feel sorry for him.

I show up one day and it’s “Hey, this is Joey. He stays in the other room.” The only thing I remember is that he’d always come home around 2am from a night of pilling and drinking from the only local gay bar almost nightly. Despite my inability to match clothes, he swore I had the gene, the chromosome, the limp hand. Whether it was my long eyelashes or my hesitancy to call my friends bros and high five while watching the game, he thought there was some possibility and hope that I’d one day be gay – just like him. Just a couple of gay guys trying to make it in this crazy world. Gay people often suspect non-gays they want to bang of being gay in order to support their hope of banging them and I had the fortunate luck of receiving this suspicion.

“Phil,” he’d say with an optimistic lisp, “I’m going to take you under my wing.” And he’d wrap his arm around my shoulder and pull me in close like a brother.

At the time, I thought he wanted to teach me his wisdom, being that he was roughly six or eight years older than me. I always wondered when I’d start learning something being that I was under his wing and all. I later realized he probably just wanted to have sex with me. I would have made a great, naive altar boy. Phil Grech: Easy for the taking.

Joey ended up getting kicked out by Craig for being a slob. A few years later, Craig told me that Joey died of an overdose: pills and booze. Someone found his cold body in bed in a cheap motel room in Fort Pierce one morning. Two out of three left.

Nancy had the energy level of Terry Schiavo. No matter what you said to her, she always replied to you in a voice like she just woke up. Slow, drawn out, hesitant to answer, and with all the time she took to tell you something, you’d expect the meaning of life to fall upon your waiting ears. Unfortunately, you’d only end up with something that either left you more confused than you were before you asked the question, or you’d be reaffirmed that although she was friendly, she could probably take it easy on the drugs a bit.

Craig met Nancy this easily: Mike, John, Craig, and I all stopped at a gas station in south Stuart one weekday night. For whatever reason, we were there for an extended period of time. John was going to kill time by impressing us all with his famous, infallible, and always successful line of hitting on women:

“Yo, girl. When you gonna let me play in yo panties?”

He was confident this was going to work. He wanted us to wait in the parking lot by the car while we watched him through the large windows putting his class to use. That line is so unsuccessful, so predictably unsuccessful, that it has stained itself as an immortal joke. A good way to start a conversation when someone answers the phone.

John asked Nancy if he could play in her panties, to which she respectfully declined, but whatever approach Craig used worked. That night he was introduced to a girl that he would spend the last years of his life with.

As his final years passed, Craig and I saw less of each other. It was a long time until I saw Craig at a party thrown at Mike’s house. I showed up at 2am sober and level-headed. It was a house full of shirtless men – drunk, shirtless men – completely wasted, drunk enough to encapsulate five St. Patrick’s Day parties into one hour, shirtless men. When I arrived Mike told me he was going to throw me into the pool.

“No, that’s ok.”

“Nah, c’mon, you’re going in,” he urged.

“I’m not going in the pool.”

“No. We all went in. Now it’s your turn.”

Clearly, whatever happened before I arrived was a real drunken, bonding moment for all men present, but sober and tired, I wasn’t interested.

“I don’t care who went into that pool. I’m not going in there,” I told Mike defiantly, looking him in his eyes.
When he grabbed my sober and fully clothed body to throw me into the pool, we started fighting. Within seconds, I had my knife to his throat.

“Don’t put me into that fucking pool.”

We fell onto the ground. Well, we fell onto my left knee (the reason for a later diagnosed case of post-traumatic arthritis in that knee) until the fight was broken up. At this point, half the party, drunk as the Confederacy on a day off, was ready to drown me in the pool less throw me in. I ran around the house, hopped the fence, and jumped into a waiting car. Nancy was out front as I jumped in.

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole!”

“Shut up, cunt!”

“You’re a fucking pussy! You never stand up for yourself!”

“You’re a fucking drug addict, you bitch!”

“Whatever. That’s why your friends always stand up for you and you never do anything yourself!”

“In case you didn’t notice, I just pulled a knife on my friend, you fucking drug addict!”

I didn’t see Nancy much after that, but from what I understand, the only thing new with her afterwards was her track marks. That’s not to make a joke. It was the last thing I ever heard about her. It’s always sad seeing someone you know in that position. There’s usually little you can do. Talking is futile in almost all cases. No one saw her or talked to her in her last years, the heroin making it too hard to answer the phone, a phone that probably stopped ringing months earlier anyway.

One evening, I got a phone call that Craig died while living in North Carolina. Last time we spoke on the phone, he was in Connecticut. We all speculated and assumed the cause but for our own reasons, didn’t say them aloud. When I asked about Nancy, I was told she probably died before him. It’s easy enough to believe so that if I saw her tomorrow, I wouldn’t believe I was looking at anything but her ghost. At one time they were all tenants of a single house, never a home, just a place to pay rent; their lives lived like winter without coats, a home without heat.

There is no anger involved. No hatred, no fragmented happiness. No despise, no discord, no distaste. We just went our separate ways as friends often do. Drift apart. When one remains stagnant, the other journeys on and looks for more. One finds his place in rebellion with drugs; the other doesn’t. I wish I could have saved someone, but although I can say other people helped me with my problems, ultimately it was me who saved me. The person saves the self, often with another’s influence, but it’s always the person who saves the self. The same goes for anyone who escapes. There is no “better than the other” mentality here. I am merely explaining the events, telling the story, explaining the circumstances.

Everyone Lies

I’m with Dr. House. I believe that everyone lies. And I’m good at telling when people are lying. I can look at them and read their behavior, consider their possible motives for lying and consider what’s at stake, and I don’t even have to try. It’s just a knack I have. I’m not a hundred percent, but better than most. Funny thing is, is that I never call people out on it. I just keeping saying, “Oh, ok,” to the person and trying to make this chair called Everyone Lies comfortable since I’ll be sitting here for a while.

When I was nine, a Jamaican classmate named O’neill told me that he had the Ninja Turtles Sewer System and all the cool action figures to go inside it, but he lost it when he was flying back to the United States from a vacation in Jamaica. As his story went, he opened the airplane window and carefully placed the game on top of a cloud.

“That cloud right there actually,” he said, pointing outside the window to a cloud high up in the sky.

“Wow,” I said, not believing him, and not telling him I didn’t believe him. Does that make me a liar too for pretending to have believed him?

When I was ten, a Brazilian classmate named Michael told me that one night, he and some family members were watching Rescue 911. Suddenly, his father and uncle began fighting, but you couldn’t see their bodies, only their heads and hands, and instead of hands, they wore white gloves. White fucking gloves! Their bodies seemed to invisibly battle against one another.

I don’t think any of the classmates he told this story to believed him – at least no one voiced that they did. On the other hand, no one exactly voiced that they didn’t either. But that story, wow – total bullshit. Even for a ten year old.

But as we get older, our lies become more refined, more believable, more appropriate. We don’t need to lie about anything involving the Ninja Turtles anymore unless you tell your wife you were looking for Ninja Turtle costumes for the kids while you were out sleeping with some other woman. And stories about invisible fights and Rescue 911? I can’t even think of a possible reason why an adult would invent such a story. As we get older, our lies have more purpose, more motive. Our lies have a reason to exist.

When we lie, those lies become our children and we have to begin caring for them, nurturing them, dressing them every morning, remembering that we have them and making excuses for them. They take on personalities of their own; they demand from us, collect from us, tax us and hold us accountable. It’s a shame that so many liars don’t have children; nothing would be different in their lives except for a nice tax write-off.

As I’m thinking about this, I’m opening up a container that’s filled with vegetable egg foo young. I don’t even know what egg foo young is, but I was looking at an online menu without a description, and I’m a vegetarian, so I ordered it. Egg I can eat; foo young doesn’t sound like meat, so I figure I can eat that too. As a vegetarian, ordering from Chinese restaurants is tough shit because when I ordered this, I asked about the vegetable soup on the menu.

“Is it made with vegetable broth or chicken broth?”

“Ahhhh, well, it kasdtohnvkajdfasf.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Iadlkgnangewtij.”

“Ok, nevermind. I don’t need any soup. I’ll just take the vegetable egg foo young.”

No idea what he was talking about with the soup. Even the words I did understand seemed to be in syntax error. I wanted to ask him if the vegetable egg foo young was vegetarian, but I didn’t want a repeat of our confusing soup scenario. Like many food servers across our great land, he might just tell me it is vegetarian because it’s easier than going back and asking the cook if it is, or he figures it might be easier telling me that it isn’t vegetarian rather than dragging the conversation out with someone that has some pain-in-the-ass dietary preference he’s too hungover to deal with. Plus, many food servers probably don’t know about rennet, gelatin or any other ingredient that doesn’t sound animal derived.

“Oh, yes, our cheese ravioli with the lining of a sheep’s stomach packed into it is completely vegetarian.”

I’m going to eat this vegetable egg foo young with my girlfriend. I’m sure my girlfriend lies to me. About what? No idea, but I’m sure she does. And I’ve lied to her, only I can’t think of what I have lied about. Nothing important though. Never about the amount of people I’ve been with, where I was last night, what I think of her in an outfit; that’s always the truth. I love her and would never want to hurt her, so that’s easy.

Same thing with my friends. I’m sure my friends lie to me all the time, and when they do, I don’t think it’s about anything important. The funny thing about lying is that you can make yourself seem like a non-liar by being brutally honest. For example, I have some friends who are brutally honest. Now, all my friends would declare themselves honest whether they are or not, simply because nobody admits to being a liar. But my brutally honest friends are just that, so when they finally decide to come out and say something like, “You look really nice in those pants,” I’ll actually believe them – because they’ve told me in the past that I look like a poor piece of shit for wearing dirty, stained clothes.

But sometimes I lie when people lie to me. I lie about believing them. Tell me some story about you getting laid with more than one girl, or some crazy experience you had and I’ll nod my head and give you all the No Ways! and Holy Shits! you can handle, but I’m lying about believing you. Second to that, I’m also not caring. I’m lying to you about caring about your impressive sexual exploits; I’m lying about being a knuckle-dragging buffoon interested in high-fiving, beer/chip/sport/tits combos and cool rides. I’m lying about being into that shit.

I lied about believing someone when he told me he had sex with a girl that came into my job the day before. When I was working at the tattoo shop in South Florida, some drunk girl came in to get a tattoo on her ankle. Next thing we know, she’s showing us the tattoo above her vagina, but pulling her shorts down much lower than she needs to in order to showcase her artwork. As things seem to work out, the knuckle-dragger with the lowest standards will end up being the one to ask her if she wants a drink.

Lowest-standard knuckle-dragger? Step right up!

She says yes. They have drinks. That’s all we see. The next day he says they did it. And they did it: All. Night. Long. A month later, he comes into the shop and says, “Life sucks. I haven’t gotten laid in six months.”

The four of us sitting outside immediately acknowledge the lie, but only one person calls him out on it. Naturally, like most liars, he stumbles on his words, tries to back up, tries to explain the confusion, but everyone knows he lied about getting laid. No one was impressed when he said it and some believed him and no one would care if he didn’t get laid in the first place. No one cares either way, but people will care when they find out you’re a liar – and lose respect for you when they find out that you’re not just a liar, but a bad liar at that.

What do I lie about?  I don’t even know. How funny is that.

Back to the Chinese food: I went to pick up the Chinese food earlier right before lunch time. Same typical Chinese restaurant that has walk-in seating with no walk-in sitters. In the back is a bar counter with a cash register sitting on top of the counter next to a pile of menus. Behind that is the guy who barely speaks English, who says something about an order and since I made one, I just say, “Yes, please!” and go along with it. Above him, a picture menu containing all the food choices I never order.

I ordered the Chinese food because my girlfriend is sick and that’s what she’s craving. They think she has bronchitis. It’s nice that when a person is sick, you can always say “they” when referring to the doctors. So, the doctors ran their tests and say, “You probably have bronchitis” and apparently, a side-effect of her medication is that she craves the Chinese food that she is never interested in. So, I order it, pick it up, bring it home, sit down and open it up.

Immediately, I think these motherfuckers are lying to me, and believe me, it hurts to call them motherfuckers, because they were actually pretty friendly, but it’s so easy to call them motherfuckers when I think they are lying to me. There are way too many ingredients stuffed into this plastic take-out bowl to not have a single animal ingredient, at least coming from a restaurant. Normally, I would have made something at home, something very healthy, very nutritious. But now we have a dilemma and I suspect some motherfucker is lying to me. And if it isn’t these Chinese restaurant workers, it’s the motherfuckers who sold them the ingredients to make this food.

See, chances are good that there is a ton of monosodium glutamate (msg), sugar and corn syrup stuffed all into this thing like bros at a club. I’ve read enough documentation, Wikipedia articles and have seen enough documentaries to easily forget exactly why this stuff is so bad for me. I suppose the important thing is not that I remember why it’s so bad for me, just so long as I remember that it is. I’d like to remember why, but my memory isn’t allowing for so much at this time. So now, staring at this bowl of food and miscellaneous ingredients in front of me, I’m angry, and I can’t tell anyone because I have no idea why. I just know that I should be really pissed.

And how can I complain? I paid the guy for this. I paid for this mystery.

“Go ahead and lie to me. I’ll give you some money and you give me some shit that resembles food. Just lie to me about what’s really in it. Tell me it’s vegetarian even if there’s some chicken stock, beef powder or shrimp sauce thrown in there. Or maybe you didn’t clean the wok from the last time you used it when you were cooking the Kung Pao chicken I ordered for my girlfriend.”

No use. This is where lies become refined and textured. The Chinese guy could have pointed to a cloud in the sky outside the window and told me his Ninja Turtle Sewer System was on top, floating above us, but I wouldn’t have believed him and it wouldn’t have benefited him. Instead, in our older and more “reasonable” age, he may have lied to me, given the opportunity, about the food he’s given me, because it benefits him and his restaurant, and figures the harm to me is quite minimal.

And I can’t get mad, because he’s just doing what he does. He’s human; he lies. People lie all the time. They lie on their resumes and at job interviews. They embellish; is that a lie? A grey lie? People lie and act interested in your boring conversation about your boring life to get laid. Sometimes, they’re so good at lying about it that they’ll fool themselves into believing that your twenty minute story about how you fought to become a shift manager at a department store is really interesting for them to subconsciously drop their jaw in utter disbelief. They didn’t drop their jaw because they actually think it’s cool that you worked every Saturday for three months straight; their brains were just subconsciously told to lie with words and body language. So there you have it, mouth breather is going to get laid. And what does it matter? Shift manager was probably lying too, trying to get laid by mouth breather.

I always wished there was a pack of humans roaming the earth, a nomadic tribe of non-liars and truth-tellers. Not the kind of self-proclaimed “truth-tellers” who will say, “You’re a fat nasty bitch,” and then when you call them out they say, “Oh, whatever, I’m just tellin’ you like it is. I tell the truth.” I mean the real truth; just wholesome honesty without exploitation or people taking advantage of other people. But I can’t expect that. The truth is, if I’m telling you the truth right now, is that no such pack exists. They might think they do, with a possible religious or political pretext to support them even, but that’s probably bullshit too. It makes me want to spit on the earth and call everyone a liar, but I’m a liar too, so I just have to accept it and deal with it.

They say if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, but in this case, I think it would be more appropriate to say, if you can’t beat ‘em, admit you’re one of ‘em.