Fancy as Hell

I was staring at my box of Quaker oats the other day, lost in idle thought, which is a habit of mine. I was suddenly a bit weirded out, and here’s why. There is a fellow on the box who, I presume, is a Quaker, perhaps one of the original founders of the Society of Friends, as they’re called. He’s a familiar face. As an oatmeal-eater I’ve seen him in my peripheral vision for years, but I’ve never actually scrutinized him. For the first time I found myself studying him intently, and was taken aback with the certainty that the Quaker pictured was jerking off. 

To be clear, he is only visible from the shoulders up, kind of like he is standing behind a fence of mid-chest height. He wears an ascot, and his foppish curls of stark white hair are over-styled, cascading beneath the brim of a hat that looks like it was stolen from a Seventies-era pimp. There’s something to the expression on his face, though; a kind of ruddy, glazed-over, sleepy satisfaction that is unnerving. I found myself peering into the inside of the box to see if some crazy designer had actually put a back picture of the deviant, his full dorsal side exposed, and, predictably, his plus-four knickers in a wad around his ankles. 

It wasn’t long before I removed the packets of oatmeal and discarded the box in the trash. Not in my house, no sir. I’m not even recycling you. 

I had been staring at the box, initially, because my oatmeal was advertised as “steel cut.” It sounded so fancy. But then when I thought about it, “steel cut” basically means “cut with a cutting device.” Most things that are used for cutting are made of metal, so why bother mentioning it. My grapefruit is Vitamin C infused, my milk is udder-squeezed, my bagels are “artisan,” whatever the hell that means, and my coffee is gravitationally-percolated, using Newton’s natural laws to deliver a fresh cup of joe into an ergonomically handled ceramic chalice. I never knew I was such a lavish snob. 

When I have these realizations I head over to a dive bar known as Dupin’s, located in what the neighborhood refers to as Booble Alley. It’s kind of a cynical artists’ hangout, the type of brooding, dimly lit environment patronized by tosspots too worn out from pop culture to express any genuine enthusiasm. 

I arrived, and took up my usual spot in the back. There was one man seated at the bar who didn’t quite fit in. The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing an ascot, which reminded me of the perverted Quaker. Although I don’t regard myself as superstitious, I tend to believe that seeing two ascots in one day is no coincidence, and a bad omen at that. The man’s hair was gelled up; rigidly styled like the keel of a ship, so much so that a person could’ve turned him upside down, stuck a sail on him, and piloted him across the Atlantic. 

He was bragging that he had just bought his wife a Maserati, and had had it custom painted to match the color of his wife’s eyes. The interior, he said, was upholstered in the soft skin of reindeer balls, and a Rohingya woman he had purchased off the deep web lived in a cage next to it and was responsible for cleaning it twelve hours a day, every day, with a toothbrush.  

“And,” he boasted, “my oatmeal is laser-cut.” 

Strange bastard. No wonder the rest of the animal kingdom hates us so much. It’s bad enough to be encroaching on most of the natural world, but when a reindeer galloping through the woods is caught and forced to undergo castration so some opulent lunatic can wrap his wife in its thin skin, it would seem that a certain line of decency has been crossed. He was the type of guy hellbent on accumulation and consumption, the modern ideal. 

He left shortly thereafter, which was a relief, except that it wasn’t long before he returned, looking quite different. It always amazes me how an uncontrollable rage can actually change a person’s physicality. Indeed he had morphed into something almost unrecognizable. Instead of the hyper-civilized Dr. Jekyll, here was the monstrous Mr. Hyde. It seemed that his new Maserati had been scratched while parked out front, and he was furious, and wanted blood. The bar emptied out. We reconvened in front of the stylish roadster, painted a pale blue. Yes, his wife’s eyes were a pretty color, although I wouldn’t put it past this guy to pull a Josef Mengele and inject his wife’s eyes with a suitable color for their privileged place in society. 

He raged and fumed, pointing to a tiny nick in the auto’s otherwise spotless body. That’s when I realized this man owned nothing. Every one of his possessions owned him, and tortured him with their vulnerability, and destroyed his serenity with the possibility of their own damage and decay, or even worse, inferiority when something came along that was slightly fancier. 

We never did figure out who or what caused the ding in the Maserati. I myself like to imagine that an aggrieved reindeer snuck out of the woods to drag one of his antlers across the custom paint job like, “Take that, lousy ball-snatcher!” 

More Alembics…

Interview with the Island-Eater

There has been quite a stir in the art world recently.  It concerns a statue of a Hawaiian war god named ku ka ’ili moku, which translated means the Island-Eater.  Here is a picture of the little fellow. 

ku ka

The two-feet-tall bugger sold at Christie’s Auction House for something like $7.5 million, which, as it turns out, is roughly the cost of getting seven of your dip-shit children into an Ivy League college of their choice, or 37,500 trips to the Orchids of Asia massage parlor in Jupiter, Florida.  The wealthy will spend as it suits them, be it as cheaply or extravagantly as possible, and when all is said and done a seven-million-dollar price tag for a muscle-bound statue of a cool Hawaiian war god shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Except now there is speculation that the piece may be a fraud, and not as old or authentic as was previously thought. Even the New York Times ran an article about it entitled, “Masterpiece or Mistake?” in order to expose the issue. 

We here at The Alembic, in our inexhaustible pursuit of the truth, reached out to the diminutive statue to get his side of the story, and although he expressed skepticism over  what he deemed “shit-sucking, liberal media parasites,” he eventually agreed to sit down with us for a candid discussion about his own artistic merit. What follows is an edited transcript of the interview. 

Alembic: “Welcome, Mr. Island-Eater.” 

Island-Eater: “I’M JUST HERE TO SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT, MAN.”   

Alembic: “Must you shout?”   

Island-Eater: “THIS IS MY REGULAR SPEAKING VOICE. A MOUTH LIKE MINE THAT CAN EAT ISLANDS IS GONNA BE LOUD.” 

Alembic: “So, Mr. Island-Eater…” 

Island-Eater: “CALL ME KU KA.” 

Alembic: “Alright, ku ka, maybe we should start off by asking how old you really are?” 

Ku ka: “MAN, THIS IS THE TYPE OF STUFF THAT DRIVES ME CRAZY. HOW OLD ARE YOU?” 

Alembic: “That’s not really relevant.” 

Ku ka: “EXACTLY! WHY AM I BEING JUDGED BY MY AGE? THIS IS STRAIGHT UP AGE-ISM. I MEAN, I CAN CONSUME AN ENTIRE ISLAND. WHY DON’T PEOPLE APPRECIATE THAT? BUT NO, IT’S ALL HOW OLD ARE YOU AND WHERE WERE YOU BORN? YOU KNOW, FAMOUS PEOPLE ARE JUDGED ON A VERY SUPERFICIAL LEVEL. IF THIS IS FAME I WANT NO PART OF IT. JUST LET ME GO BACK TO MY VOLCANO.” 

Alembic: “You live in a volcano? That’s pretty cool.” 

Ku ka: “I USED TO LIVE IN A VOLCANO. NOW I LIVE IN A FUCKING MUSEUM. 

Alembic: “At least it’s a museum in Hawaii.” 

Ku ka: “YEAH, PRISON IN HAWAII IS STILL PRISON. I WANT TO GO BACK HOME. THAT WAS THE LIFE. PEOPLE WOULD STAND AT THE LIP OF MY CRATER AND THROW ALL SORTS OF OFFERINGS DOWN ON ME: FLOWERS, VIRGINS, THE STILL-BEATING HEART OF SOME SACRIFICIAL GOAT. NOW IT’S ALL SELFIES WITH SILLY TOURISTS IN AN AIR-CONDITIONED EXHIBITION HALL. I’M AN ILL-TEMPERED GOD OF WAR, AND HERE I AM IN THE MIDDLE OF SOME OBESE FAMILY’S VACATION PICTURE. NOW TO MAKE IT WORSE, I’M GETTING STORIES WRITTEN ABOUT ME THAT I’M WORTHLESS. TO REITERATE, I CAN EAT AN ISLAND!” 

Alembic: “I guess that’s the entertainment business for you. You’re the most valuable thing in the world one minute, and the next you’re a trinket in a gift shop. It’s notoriously volatile.” 

Ku ka: “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT’S VOLATILE. WHEN I DECIDE TO EAT AN ENTIRE ISLAND. YOU SHOULD SEE THAT.” 

Alembic: “When’s the last time you’ve eaten one?” 

Ku ka: “WHEN YOU’VE EATEN AS MANY AS I HAVE, IT’S HARD TO REMEMBER. I TELL YOU THIS MUCH, THOUGH. HAWAII USED TO BE LIKE FIFTEEN ISLANDS, AND THE BIG ISLAND WAS THE MUCH BIGGER ISLAND.”  

Alembic: “So you just eat islands, then?” 

Ku ka: “I STARTED OUT WITH SMALL ATOLLS, AND THEN MOVED TO STRINGS OF ISLETS. NOW I’VE GOTTEN TO THE POINT WHERE, IF I REALLY WANTED TO, I COULD EAT GUATEMALA, ALTHOUGH I’D BE UP FOR DAYS WHAT WITH ALL THAT COFFEE.” 

Alembic: “Guatemala isn’t really an island.” 

Ku ka: “ANYTHING IS AN ISLAND IF YOU EAT AROUND IT.” 

Alembic: “Well then, how do you feel about conservation? What’s your views on sustainability? If you ate all the land then there’d be no place for life on Earth.” 

Ku ka: “WELL THEN DON’T PISS ME OFF, OR ELSE I’LL BE FILLING MY BELLY WITH TURTLE SOUP IN THE GALAPAGOS.” 

Alembic: “Have you considered eating any toxic areas or Superfund sites? Maybe you can eat Fukushima or Alameda, California?” 

Ku ka: “WHAT, AND GIVE MYSELF CANCER? I’D RATHER EAT ANTARCTICA. THAT’S LIKE YOU EATING AN ICE CREAM BEFORE IT MELTS.” 

Alembic: “What’s your thoughts on cultural appropriation?” 

Ku ka: “IT’S ALL ABOUT RESPECT. WE WANT TO BE ABLE TO SHARE OUR CUSTOMS WITHOUT FEELING LIKE WE’RE BEING EXPLOITED. WE VALUE OUR TRADITIONS, EVEN THOUGH SOME ELEMENTS MAY BE ODD TO THE OUTSIDER. EVERYBODY’S GOT SOME WEIRDNESS. SO LET’S ALL BE WEIRD TOGETHER.” 

Alembic: “I hear what you’re saying. In fact, I was reading an article about the markhor goat of Pakistan, which urinates into its own mouth and then spits it all over its very fur to attract a female during mating season.”    

Ku ka: “AND YOU’RE TELLING ME THIS WHY?” 

Alembic: “Just illustrating the relativism of…, or the peculiarity of…”

Ku ka: “FOR THE RECORD, I’M NOT INTO THAT!” 

Alembic: “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to imply anything.” 

Ku ka: “WELL, YOU LOOK LIKE A FREAK. NO ONE WOULD APPROPRIATE YOUR FAT ASS. IN FACT, YOUR ASS IS SO FAT, IT COULD BE AN ISLAND. YOU KNOW WHAT I DO TO ISLANDS, DON’T YOU?” 

Alembic: “Actually, it looks like we’re almost out of time.” 

Ku ka: “HEY MAN, HELP ME BREAK OUT OF THIS PLACE. I’LL INTRODUCE YOU TO SOME OF THE WAHINE. WE’LL PARTY.” 

Alembic: “I have a deadline.” 

Ku ka: “YOU ARE A DEADLINE.” 

Alembic: “What does that even mean?” 

Ku ka: “GITCHIE GITCHIE YA-YA DA-DA. GITCHIE GITCHIE YA-YA HERE. MOCHA CHOCOLATA YA-YA! THAT’S AN ANCIENT POLYNESIAN CURSE I JUST PUT ON YOU!” 

Alembic: “It’s actually just the lyrics to the song Lady Marmalade.” 

Ku ka: “KISS MY WOODEN ASS! I’M GOING BACK TO MY PEDESTAL.”  

A typical celebrity reaction.  

More Alembics to come…

What’s a Law School?

The Animal Kingdom is big on defending itself against predators. Survival often depends  on the successful ability to ward off threats.  Whether it’s scales, shells, quills, camouflage, ink, shit-mist, claws, fangs, or venom, the skill to avoid being killed and devoured is one of the most vital advantages in this vicious free-for-all called life.  

Thus, as the world has modernized, so too has the methods of defense. No longer does a person need to rip and gouge, climb and run, or puff up and scream. These days the means of warning can be subtle, appealing to a potential rival’s sense of prolonged entanglements. The spider has its web, the army ant its pheromones, and the legal community its threat of interminable litigation. 

To the point: 

I was walking through the parking lot of my neighborhood supermarket the other day when I chanced to see just such an example of cutting-edge evolutionary defense. It was a bumper sticker that read: 

                                            Attorney’s Car: Do Not Tailgate

Wow, I thought. Not since the milkweed bug’s bright coloring has there been such an overt signal for something to back the fuck off. Impressed as I was, I was also filled with concern for the attorney. While the bumper sticker served as a warning, it might also end up being an invitation to attack. Generally speaking, a lot of people—doctors with sky high malpractice insurance, broke cheaters who lost everything in the divorce, workers with garnished wages—don’t like lawyers. So to openly identify as a practitioner of this morally dubious profession to a mass of edgy motorists could be dangerous. 

The more I thought about it, the more I decided it was a bad idea to openly threaten the driving community with legal action. Lawyers would do better to camouflage themselves rather than stand right out in the open, particularly out on the highway, where anything goes. Maybe the bumper sticker was a joke? If it was, it was a bad one. I could see something like ‘Terrorist’s Car: Do Not Tailgate’ but a lawyer? 

While the owner of the car may have been an attorney, he (or she) was definitely insane. Oh, I forgot to mention that the car itself was a late Nineties Saturn. Nothing against late Nineties Saturns or the owners that own them, but a bumper sticker that seems to refer to how effective an attorney may be at personal injury litigation may not seem intimidating if he (or she) can’t afford anything fancier than a beige flivver covered in city dirt. 

So I started to see, quite clearly, the ENTIRE bumper sticker, kind of rolling off into infinity like the opening sequence of any Star Wars movie. 

                                         Attorney’s Car

                                        Do Not Tailgate…

Not only do not tailgate, but do not honk. Do not rev your engine at me. Do not pass on the right hand side, for I am a passer of the bar exam. Do not extend your middle finger, or tell me to go fuck myself.  Do not shoot a gun at this car. Do not let the air out of the tires, or pour sugar into the gas tank. Do not take a giant, steaming crap on the hood of my car. For I am a seeker of justice, Righter of Wrongs, diligent servant of the arc of moral history. Do not try to run me off the road, for I am not that kind of attorney. I represent the downtrodden and dispossessed against the giant corporate concerns and their insatiable greed. Do not pull that sadistic move in which you run into my back bumper and edge me out into oncoming traffic till I am t-boned and comatose. Do not wait until I pull into a gas station and get out of the junker that is oddly incompatible with my professional status, and then carjack me in order to drive wildly all over the city, giving my ill-considered bumper sticker a whole new level of absurdity by pulling dangerous stunts around terrified motorists, who will call the police to report some deranged lawyer who, while not wanting to be tailgated themselves, is up the ass of every car it can menace. Do not do that thing in which you pass by me, pull into my lane, and then jam on the brakes so I rear-end your car, knowing that I’m a respected barrister with deep pockets and so will pay off big time while you complain that your whiplash has left you with PTSD and sexual impotency. I’m not some big wheel. I’m not a slick fleecer of the sick and the old. I do not chase ambulances. I do not  stalk the funeral homes looking for the wrongful death lawsuit that can win me a seven-figure payoff. I clerked for peanuts, damn you, thus my beat-up Saturn. One day I’ll get a Mercedes or something, but for now I’m a humble public defender who doesn’t want angry faces in my rearview mirror. I represent the indigent. I plea bargain. I’m being stalked by an ex-convict who thinks I suppressed evidence. Stay away from my back bumper, or I’ll kill you all! Oyez, oyez. Res ipso loquitur. Ipse dixit.  In flagrante delicto. Corpus delicti. Actus non facit reum, nisi mens sit rea. Factio vestri aevum, non vestri calceus amplitudo. That last one means, ‘Act your age, not your shoe size, mother-fucker.’ Really, let’s all be grown-ups. A little civility on the road, a little civility in life. On second thought, I was lying. I bought that bumper sticker as a goof. Ha, ha, got you, didn’t I? I got a zero on the LSAT. No institution of higher education would ever have me. The only institution I’m eligible for is the fuckin’ booby hatch. Help. Help. I’m a big fat liar. In fact, not only have I never been to law school, I’ve never even seen a law school. 

Drive Safe! 

More Alembics to come

Amazeballs

I was listening to Art Blakey’s ‘A Night In Tunisia’ the other evening, all eleven minutes of it, and after it was over I felt like I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It was my own fault, of course. I’d endured a rather harrowing afternoon and, needing to calm my anxieties, I put on the jazz record, because everybody knows jazz is supposed to be soothing. 

Well, whoever deemed jazz to be soothing never told Art Blakey. His rendition of ‘A Night In Tunisia’ comes on like a raging hailstorm, relentless in its attack. Even the fellow playing the claves is struggling to keep up.  When Blakey is playing the tune it should be renamed, ‘A Night On Cocaine, In Tunisia.’ Art Blakey is one of the greatest drummers of all time, and it’s recordings like this that prove it. Art Blakey is, in short, holy shit amazeballs. 

I needed something a little calmer, though, so I put on ‘Giant Steps’ by John Coltrane. By the way John Coltrane, too, is holy shit amazeballs, but more on that later.  I’d just returned to my house after being held hostage, for a time, by a seething and rabid bat. Really, the little flying bastard had trapped about fifteen of us at my local bar. Of course if a person is going to be trapped anywhere, a bar is a pretty good place to be trapped, and so I couldn’t complain that much. But still, it was eerie. The little furry bloodsucker had come out of nowhere and pinned itself on the front door, straddling the jamb and the actual glass door itself. 

“Am I just fucked up or is there a bat on the front door?” I’d wondered aloud, trying to adjust my eyesight. We had been sampling cans of a new craft beer made from hemp, and I thought I was having some stoned hallucination. No, it was actually there, pinned against the glass, its little chest rising and falling, either because it was out of breath or infected with Marburg virus or something. A panicked fellow ran to open the door to shoo it off, but he was tackled by the staff. We had all decided that the bat wanted to be inside to eat all of us, and to open the door would give it that very opportunity. For the moment, although we were trapped, we were safe. No need to panic. I drank some more of my pot-laced beer. The bat, with its beady eyes, stared at me through the door like, “Go ahead and fatten yourself up, my little pork chop. I’ve got all the time in the world.” 

“Bats are amazing creatures,” lectured a tidy fellow sitting next to me. “Incredible immune systems, echolocation that’s as precise as an eagle’s vision, and their wings are actually hands; webbed skin over claws that allow them to almost grab the air to fly through it.” 

“That would probably put them in the category of holy shit amazeballs,” I said, to which the man frowned, like I was crapping on his acumen. I wasn’t. I’d only recently discovered this phrase. In fact, I had been reading an on-line critique of the beer I was sampling, and the clever reviewer had caught my attention with it. Not since Lewis Carroll or Samuel Coleridge had a person wielded such an accurate absurdity. The most impressive part about it was that the quick-witted scribe who’d been reviewing the beer had refused to assign it the very prestigious title. I think the actual quote was, “While this beer displays a decent flavor profile, it’s not holy shit amazeballs.”  This caused me to laugh openly, stand up and applaud. I understood immediately that most things are not holy shit amazeballs, which is the problem with the modern world. So few things can live up to the rarified excellence of holy shit amazeballs. Most things fall short of expectation, or are subject to some ratio of disappointment, and somehow, this brilliant writer had reset the bar, reminding us that while many things will never be even close to holy shit amazeballs, we should never stop looking for that rare gem that can join the exclusive pantheon of things that exude the almost mythical quality of holy shit amazeballs. 

The bat was still there. Some of us needed to get going. Other people were standing outside the door wanting to get in, yet paralyzed with fear of the hairy little menace that refused to leave its resting place. 

“Who’s going to be the dingbat that sacrifices himself for the rest of us by ripping the door open and getting devoured?” someone said. 

“Don’t use the word dingbat too loud,” cautioned the bartender. “This fucking flying rat might get offended. It already looks pissed off.” 

We ended up being saved by the fellow who operates the Pac-N-Sac on the other side of the parking lot. For some odd reason he had an eight-foot pool skimmer in his shop, and it was this tool he used to coax the bat away from the door. He also had a Glock in a holster at his hip, as a last resort, I suppose, and I was just glad he didn’t start firing away at the front door, since the bat had cleverly positioned itself in the line of fire of us bar customers. 

Once the critter had taken flight I went home with the rest of my stink beer, lest the winged rodent return with his friends for a real showdown. 

So I ended the evening with Coltrane. I like to think I have a strong spiritual connection with the saxophone icon, if only because the hospital I was born in was the same hospital where Coltrane died. I would love to brag that I’d been born mere seconds after he expired, and as such our energies could’ve exchanged a sort of metaphysical high-five as he was on his way out and I was on my way in, but alas no. He was gone years before I was a consideration. 

‘Giant Steps’ is holy shit amazeballs. A listener can almost hear the piano player grinding his teeth on the recording as he attempts to navigate the outrageous chord sequence that Coltrane has written. He isn’t so much playing the piano as holding onto it for dear life. Then Coltrane steps in like, “Oh, a little tricky is it? Let me show you how it’s done.” 

And show it he does. 

I finished my can of sticky-icky. No, it wasn’t holy shit amazeballs, which made me appreciate all the more those few phenomenons that’ve attained the otherwise impossible level of holy shit amazeballs. 

Art Blakey. 

Alex Honnold’s free solo climb of El Capitan. 

Snow leopards. 

John Coltrane. 

A bat’s innate navigation system. 

Salvador Dali 

My dog. 

You, my friend, You 

Solitary Man

According to Spotify, Neil Diamond’s “Solitary Man” is in heavy rotation for me these days. 

I wonder…

I’ve been getting some weird invitations to lunch. They arrive in the form of mail flyers. They are addressed to me, in a way, Current Resident. So nice of them to think of me, I figured I’d give them the courtesy of reading further. One was for a urology seminar. Another was for a survivalist conference. A third was from a funeral home. Although they may think me rude, I passed on all of them. Lunch at a funeral home just makes me nervous. It’s like going for sushi at a bait and tackle shop. Too easy to mix up the inventory with the catering. I would hate to be halfway into my patty melt when a frantic mortician runs into the dining room and shouts, “Where’s Mrs. Burger?” 

Where, indeed. It’s an honest mistake, really, but one I’d rather not be involved in making. When a business ends up cremating a Cobb salad and preparing Mr. Cobb for the buffet, you can bet I’m not buying whatever it was they were trying to sell me in the first place. Likewise I’d have a hard time drinking the lemonade at a urology seminar, and my stomach turns at the thought of seeds and irradiated root vegetables at a doomsday convention. 

“You’ve gotta start eating small amounts of radioactivity so you can be prepared when all the bombs drop!” 

I decided, for the most part, to continue to dine at home, like a solitary man. Which led me to consider that I may be turning into a bit of a recluse. Maybe not as bad as B. Traven, Thomas Pynchon, Buckethead, or that hermit that wrote Beowulf, but certainly a fellow leery of mingling. I thought about it and arrived at two conclusions. 

The first is that the true solitary man is one by design. It’s not for a lack of anything better to do that he affects a certain isolation around himself, and it’s not for a defect in social etiquette that he doesn’t maintain a large circle of casual friends. Chiefly, a man is resigned to a life of lonesome meditation when, through the clarity of solitude, he discovers the secret peculiar to his existence. Every person’s revelation is different, and as such no one else can help him solve his own riddle. Likewise, once he has glimpsed a bit of his own blueprint, he is powerless to communicate it. The mysterious wellspring of his soul’s grand design becomes corrupted the minute he tries to explain it to another person, like a butterfly that loses its iridescence the moment it’s captured.

That, pretty much, is why the true solitary man stands alone. 

The second conclusion I came to was that it’s good to lay low because people are psychotic and will try to fucking kill whatever they can get their hands on. There’s murder everywhere. Sick lunatics are running amok with no other purpose than to maim, torture and destroy. And it’s not even the haters you have to watch out for; it’s the love that’ll kill you. 

One of the recent standouts is a woman named Jacqueline Ades. She is locked up, for the time being, at the Maricopa County jailhouse, but only after sending over 150,000 text messages to a fellow she went out on a date with once. On one level I’m glad I’m not the object of her “affection,” but on another level I’m kind of jealous. Nobody has ever cared that much about me to send an avalanche of messages the size of the Oxford English dictionary. 

The volume of her texts is one thing, the content is quite another. Ms. Ades seemed to come to the conclusion that there’s no better way to show someone you care than to send them a faithful list of gross-outs. Her electronic epistles declared her loving intentions to bathe in this fellow’s blood, wear the top of his cranium like a hat, slice him up for a fondue, and use his bones as chopsticks. She’s a creative sort, I’ll give her that. She’s also the Ed Gein of modern dating app users.  Her love notes were so depraved she could’ve given the Marquis de Sade a run for his money. That was when I hit upon an eerie realization; Ms. Ades’s last name is an anagram for Sade. Well, there it is. She may be the last true libertine, although she strikes me as more of an Elizabeth Báthory type, the Hungarian vampire countess who used to drain her servant girls of their blood for use in her beauty rituals, which never worked, given that she was about as homely as Quasimodo. 

If all that wasn’t bad enough, I then started to get a little jealous of how prolific Ms. Ades is. Anybody who can crank out a hundred thousand text messages in a few months is quite the dedicated writer. Not even Stephen King can write that fast. I sure as hell can’t. 

Which led me to a third conclusion: The solitary man stays that way because he doesn’t like to be reminded that there is always somebody out there doing it a little bit bigger, stronger, faster, or crazier. Then, I guess, I’ll be what I am. 

Sing it, Neil Diamond…

More Alembics…

Cannibal Water

I don’t trust water. It’s the ultimate shape-shifter. It can be an ocean, a raindrop, snow, steam, an ice cube, a form of torture, and since we humans are mostly water, it can be us. That’s when water gets really sneaky. That’s when water tells lies, splashes off with the valuables, drowns your heart, or floods your awards show. 

Which is why I make it a point to drink only MacFuddy pepper elixir. 100% laboratory created. Nothing natural about it. A delicious, manufactured concoction. MacFuddy puts the ART in ARTificial. Crisp. Bubbly. Synthetic as hell. That’s MacFuddy! 

I was enjoying a bottle of this very same, 0% natural, luck-infused MacFuddy pepper elixir the other night while watching the Golden Globes award show. I was tuned in to the only part I ever really care about—the red carpet coverage. Like my pepper elixir, the whole spectacle is completely artificial, which is why I like it. Fake is fashionable these days; whether it’s artificial turf, artificial sweetener, artificial news, artificial limbs, artificial nails, artificial flowers, artificial intelligence, artificial drivers, artificial reefs, or artificial hearts, there’s nothing nature can do that we can’t do better.  

So I was a bit put off when I noticed a coterie of women lingering in the background of the red carpet proceedings, holding trays of water bottles. Some nerve, I thought, flaunting the most natural thing on the planet in an environment of complete superficiality. You can keep your blue planet; I like my globes golden. 

The water is advertised as imported from the islands of Fiji. All-natural. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. After all, nature is dirty. If a company is harvesting my drinking water out of some volcanic crater in the South Pacific, there’s no telling what may drop into it to contaminate it. No thanks, I’ll stick with my pepper elixir, created in a sterile laboratory by hazmat-suited chemists with icy hearts and no genuine emotion. That’s much safer than an open pool on a deserted island out in the middle of nowhere, or to put it another way, a jungle animal’s big toilet bowl. 

Just because something is all-natural doesn’t necessarily mean I want to go around ingesting it. If some big albatross goes flying by a Fijian ridge, sees the rippling blue waters, spreads its avian butt cheeks and drops a runny, white, all-natural deuce into that pristine crater lake, well, suddenly the whole concept of all-natural isn’t so appealing. 

And it gets worse. Mark Twain wrote about Fiji in his classic travelogue, “Following the Equator.” While interviewing a few of the natives, he learned of some unsettling habits of the indigenous tribes. Specifically, when some of the villagers were out shark-fishing, and their boats overturned, they themselves were eaten by the sharks. Then, when the sharks were caught, they were eaten by the villagers, and then the villagers, in wartime, were caught and eaten by cannibals, who washed it all down with Fiji water, that is, water from Fiji. 

I know, I know, I never realized it was so bad. Once a predator develops a taste for something that same predator will make it a point to go get it. That’s why a bear that eats a person is usually caught and killed. That bear has now added humans to its menu, and we tend to bristle about being anywhere but the top of the food chain. The same stands true for water that has held, for centuries, the microscopic bits of tribal warfare casualties in its springs and rivers. Nothing like a tiny dose of molecular mankind to arouse the bloodlust that causes humans to start feeding on each other. Which, when I think about it, is the perfect water for Hollywood. It’s a sea of carnage out west there. Swim with the strong, devour the weak, and wash it all down with designer water that has been the source of life for generations of cannibals. 

That’s when it hit me, a realization as clear as the bottles of water they were displaying, that the Fiji water models were all cannibals. Their eerie stillness, their predatory patience, that vacant look in their eyes, their disarming smiles, their vulpine ability to get nearer and nearer to their intended movie star prey—beautiful, terrifying vampires! 

It’s classic Baader-Meinhof syndrome, in which something heretofore unrecognized is suddenly identified and then seen everywhere. These blue-clad, cannibal beauties were swarming the awards show, ready to gorge themselves. So obvious, how did I not see it before? 

I tried not to be too hard on myself. After all, it’s difficult to spot a cannibal, unless they are eating. Once a person knows someone is a cannibal, it’s usually too late. The last thing they see is the big open mouth of the person about to consume them, and then everything goes dark. Their ability to blend in with the rest of us is most likely their biggest advantage. Special thanks to the Golden Globes for identifying the menace. I hope they took a head count at the end of the show to make sure no celebrity was fed upon. Actually that wouldn’t work. The heads are largely inedible. 

What have we learned so far: 

They’re camouflaged in blue. 

They hunt in packs. 

They are well hydrated. 

They’re drawn to glamour. 

They have agents. 

They look like us. 

The horror, the horror…

More Alembics…