Sunday, April 24, 2005

Kit's Story Part One

The Story of Kit

Part One

   A whole lot of snot in your nose is not a good thing for the future cleanliness of ones throat. Despite your precarious notions, snot does an awful lot of good to society rather than busting your voice up or taking airfare to one of the palms of your hands. The latter is always an embarrassing moment.
"Fuck mee!"
Rarely does a person think of the word "me" with two "e"s, but opening the shelter of your hands only to avert ones eyes so as not to attract attention to the gooey white, yellow and perhaps green mucus might make two "e"s seem normal behind the letter "m".
Kind of makes one wonder though. Does everybody swear in their minds? Do you think ordained ministers and priests think the words "fuck", or the more promiscuous, "cunt"? Might be a good topic over a couple glasses of filling alcohol products, but alas, this is the part of the introduction where a character and maybe a hint of the plot to come is shown.
His name is Kit. Sometimes its hard to mediate to the reader the most important qualities of a fictional character. Some may believe the first descriptive adjectives, nouns or verbs are the most important. You know, like a college essay where everything is sequential and orderly. I will follow that though, I just thought you, being the reader, would appreciate the honesty.
Kit swore in his thoughts. Yes, it is true. Not an ordained priests though, if you thought my above writings were foreboding or anything of that nature. No, Kit was a public relations practitioner. A fairly good one too.
Enjoying such subjects as product placement and internal relations protocols, Kit left his mark on the world by pumping up various companies that signed contracts with his P.R. firm that was aptly named Sits & Grins. You might, at first glance, believe this name to be directly correlated with some type of wondrous meaning that Kits firm wanted to portray to its clients or potential clients. The truth is that you are wrong. Well, maybe some of you might have guessed right, but I sincerely doubt it.
Very simply, Arnot Shits was a narrowed nosed Englishman who came to America as a young bright eyed lad looking for money. It wasn't that England was impoverished or unfair in its economical ways, which I suppose is the major reason there are immigrants, the truth is quite the contrary. For many years and even centuries, England has been a quaint little country, except for its imperialistic era, which has been long gone, that has been very kind to its people, much like America. But Mr. Shits, pronounced Sits because the "h" is pronounced connected more so to the enunciation of the "i" then in cahoots with the "s", wanted something more than England had to provide.
After the first Iraq War, the young Arnot Shits was boldly impressed by Americas striking invention and expansion of the capitalistic advertising market that drove the U.S. economy. America, being more bold in extracting money from its citizens and placing obtrusive advertisements everywhere, flirted with young Shits until he moved to America where his meticulous attention to good business would be more greatly appreciated.
Seymour Grins, Mr. Shits partner is another story entirely. Born with an extra 21st chromosome, Mr. Grins was noticeably affected with Down Syndrome. Though, this is not a tale of overcoming ones physical illnesses or afflictions, Grins was, for the record, seriously mentally handicapped. But his physical deficiencies did not deter Grins from being a gentle and smiling individual. He had a lot to smile about anyway. Grins had inherited a large fortune after his mother and father, who were extremely wealthy business people, died in a very likely shark frenzy off the coast of South Africa where they were trying to set a love making record in front of an audience of Great White sharks. Scuba breathing apparatuses and Mrs. Grins monthly flow of, well you know, which was unrestricted by a compacted cotton wade with a string, having been replaced with something bigger and more organic, the sharks decided that the world record should stay unbroken. It is my opinion that sharks, particularly Great White ones, don't have the same knack for reading the flourishes of feats humans have accomplished. Regardless, the Grins were good parents and loved their only son dearly.
Never to let loose ends untied, Mr. and Mrs. Grins wrote a complete and comprehensive Last Will and Testament that gave most of their wealth to their mentally challenged son Seymour. Being Buddhists, Mr. and Mrs. Grins felt the resonances of a cosmic chuckle throughout their life experiences. As they had a young bull headed Englishman as their successor in their company, who seemed to fight the life out of himself and only cared for the numbers on his bank statement, felt it necessary to increase their karma by naturally trying to increase the weird accented mans karma as well. So, the company was left to the young Englishman, but with the stipulation that the Grins young son would be Co-CEO.
So it was that the P.R. firm became Sits & Grins, the "h" being left out for obvious ostentatiousness, and also where our young character Kit comes in. End of introduction.
Meanwhile, while all this introducing was going on, Kit sat in his milky white walled cubicle scratching at a patch of small bristly hair that had escaped his razor this morning. Frankly, the small rogue scruff bothered Kit. It did not bother him because it might attract notice to his rushed morning activities on this day, but irked Kit because in states of contemplation such as this moment, Kit was rather fond of running his hand over a smooth face. With a grimace and an adjusting of his hands, he was back to typing the press release for Sits & Grins new client, the Las Vegas Lakers.
It was not long ago that the L.A. Lakers had won many a title, but now, with the L.A. Clippers grabbing much of the fans and even wealth of the City of Angels, the owners believed it was time to find a new source of money. Even Jack Nicholas had gravitated from wearing weird colored glasses at Lakers games, to doing much of the same thing at Clippers games.
The move was logical in the minds of the owners. Not only would a new fan based be taped, but the owners had worked out a deal with the NBA and the city of Las Vegas that would allow gambling in the new stadium. Needless to say, many players showed much interest in joining the new venture strictly for the projected salary of the players, which would even make Tiger Woods think about switching sports.
Kit glanced again at the write up that was given to him by the owners of the Lakers. Most companies usually gave some type of a bio enclosed with facts and projections that would help P.R. firms create a press release. Usually these documents would look professional and decently written so that snippets might even be extracted to be put directly in the press release. Not so with the owners of the Lakers. They knew the stigma surrounding Sits & Grins and attached a damning note with their usual bio and fact sheet. The note read:
We paid a shit load of money to your firm, he who will write our stuff, now make shit up and make the public like us. No rules, just make us look like some damn charity for our new town, or get fucked.
That is all."
From a literal standpoint, "get fucked" might be read in a positive light, but the nonchalant and informal ardor of the line made Kit sweat. Not only was he dealing with a well paying new client, but a client that was now imbedded in Las Vegas. Who knew the power of a multimillion dollar owner of a basketball team once he joined the likes of a town of multimillion dollar people who created their bank roll by taking peoples money? The stakes had always been in their favor, and that certainly was the case in this instant.
The truth now, as Kit saw it was that Las Vegas needed an honest sports team in their midst. It would be a new attraction and would solidify the Las Vegas city as an eclectic city,instead of a city of gambling and prostitution. More tourism and residency, that sort of drivel went into Kits press release.
Stretching, Kit moved his chair back and admired his work. He was good at what he did and Arnot Shits knew it. This was why he had been given the client. It was no secret to Kit that he was chosen for the job because he hated watching sports. Kit was a liberal arts guy, preferring a good book to the tube. A man who was precisely aware that his creativity would correlate with the L.V. Lakers new P.R. campaign. He might even get a raise out of it and buy a new sports car. But with the way Mr. Shits handled his employees payroll, he knew he would have to settle for keeping in Mr. Shits good graces. That much was okay with Kit, but he hoped that in the future, his continuous list of good deeds would not go unnoticed.
Reclining in his chair, Kit folded his hands behind his head and crossed his right leg over his left leg. He closed his eyes and thought of younger days. College days, where concern only centered around class itself. An unwavering demand of debauchery and consumption of alcohol and marijuana had left Kit sorry to leave the liberal atmosphere of college. Now, all that was left was fraternizing with other public relation practitioners, playing squash and golf and being entertained in family households. Kit hated these excursions. Mostly, because he had nothing in common with the Shits and Grins company family man and neither did its owner Arnot Shits. Kit hated the similarity. But at 25, Kit had thought about marriage and kids like any person, but dreaded the day he would have to trade what freedoms he had left to a life of responsibility. That and he hadn't had a girlfriend in a long time. He had been in love before, but he found himself not understanding love. Too scared to admit defeat, too scared to work through new things, that was Kits motto. He was just riding the snake, in a very different way then Morrison intended. Regardless, something was needed to fill Kits glass which was either half empty or still being filled.
As if an answer to his call, the faint clicks of high heels were heard fast approaching down his lane of cubicles. Kit straightened in his chair and began studying his computer screen with a look of perplexity. This type of action was necessary to show his lack of interest to the approaching high heel wearer. Kits ears were perked though. His focus was on calculating the volume of the high heal clicks and weighing the Doppler effect against probable distances. A technique perfected by a college buddy who spent many an hour as a library voyeur between studying.
Just outside of his cubicle, the sound of high heels stopped and he heard the woman's melodic voice.
"Jerry, you left these papers in my office."
A faint smile crept across Kits face at the mention of an office. Lita Burns had a cubicle that was identical to Kits.
"You didn't look at them did you?" A wary voice spoke.
"No, I don't care about your god damn S.T.D. tests. Now take them."
"Better to be safe then sorry Lita, this birds all clean anyway."
"I'm sure your wife will swoon over the good news Jerry."
Lita flicked the strand of hair from the front of her face behind her ear. No matter how long that piece of "bang" was, it always remained part of the rebellious untied group of hair that was constantly trying to get in her face. With a turn of heels, Lita briskly walked back the way she had come, high heels clicking her presence.
For a split second, Kit was exposed in his devious voyeurism as Litas firm round ass moved to be replaced by the smirking face of Jerry. Kit looked back at his computer, fretting the masculine monologue he knew would come.
"Sweet ass huh?" Jerry crooned. Kit sighed.
"I wish I had your angle Kit," Jerry laughed and wheeled his chair closer to the cubicle lane to watch for potential listeners. With the carefulness of Jerry's toned down voice and constant glances left and right, you'd think that Jerry had firm beliefs that cubicles to either side were sound proof. Jerry was an idiot anyway.
"That much of a woman might break me in bed. If I ever fucked that feisty vixen, I'm sure that my ass would hurt from the leather whip she keeps in her taco. Hell, I might even walk like a fag for a couple of days," Jerry laughed again, but Kit had a feeling that the local cubicle community were grimacing with distaste as he was.
"you're a genius Jerry," Kits sarcastic tone would not register to Jerry's "witty beacon", because such a beacon did not exist in Jerry's head.
"A genius huh?" A slow and formally accented voice spoke. "I'll be sure to bring that up at my next meeting with the better half of the company."
Jerry averted his eyes and slinked his chair back into his cubicle. Evidently, Jerry had not kept good watch because next to him, Arnot Shits stood with hands clasped behind his back in the image of an English lord. His hair was long and seemed to be slicked back with a whole tube of gel. Mr. Shits always reminded Kit of the main character of American Psycho, except Shits seemed to be way more eccentric, if that was possible.
With Jerry frantically trying to pop up some kind of work on his computer, Shits turned his deep crystal clear blue eyes on Kit. His stare always crept Kit out. It was as though Shits was looking at a race horse, seeing if there was anything to win from the acquisition and for how long.
"Mr. Wayland, how fairs our new sports team?"
Kit took the opportunity to compose himself by turning his monitor towards Shits.
"It's finished, if you would like to proof read it."
"That is unnecessary Mr. Wayland, hand it in to my secretary as soon as possible."
A blatant lie that always irked Kit. It was generally well known that Shits always kept a close eye on all his assets. The document would be read and edited accordingly by Mr. Shits himself. No one was to be trusted by Shits. But the illusion of trust impressed by Shits was a management technique for closer employee relationships that Mr. Shits had learned from other CEOs dealing with their creative faction of the company. Mr.Shits was full of them anyhow, having no life, but the life of the office.
Suddenly, running feet were heard through the grid of cubicles. Shits immediately looked like he lost his penis in a bet.
"Here the git comes," Shits breathed heavily.
A thick bodied middle-aged man came into view with a green Goofy tie tied around the top of his head like Rambo. Half stumbling and the other half running, like his surroundings were a playground instead of an office, Seymour Grin's caught sight of Shits and immediately adjusted the direction of his stumbling run.
"Shits! Shiiiits! Shiiiiiiiiitssss!" Grins, with eyes glittering and a quirky smile on his face, almost ran into Jerry's cubicle before fully stopping himself.
Shits groaned audibly as Grins began to dance. Uncoordinated as he was, Grins did a fair job at copying some of Michael Jackson's moves only failing miserably at the fabled moon walk.
"Shits!" Grins yelled the name loudly. He was the only person Kit ever met that pronounced Arnot Shits name exactly like the excrement.
Grins finished his flourish of spinning on the balls of his feet. With ass facing Shits, like so many times before, Grins ceremoniously grabbed handfuls of his two butt cheeks and excitedly declared, "Shits in my Paaaaants!"
A moment of silence was always the effect of Grins childlike antics. Shits stood, appalled at the site of a grown mans ass in front of him in a multimillion dollar corporation that he ran. There was no movement from Grins. He seemed to be waiting for his dance to sink in. Kit stole a small grin at the situation.
Abruptly, as if just realizing that he was staring openly at Grins plump rear end, Shits turned and walked away, past Grins and down the white cubicle lined aisle.
With a laugh, Grins straightened himself and turned towards Kit. Grins' straight cut hair parted perfectly in the Republican fashion looked awkward with the tie tied around his head just below his forehead hairline. Strange that he wore a black Armani suit with a matching black tie. Most days, he usually felt that the addition of the Goofy tie around his head was necessary to complete his formal attire. But on Fridays, it was usually a TGIF tie. His parents had insisted that he wear that around his head and had always dressed him in a nice suit with the extra tie around his neck for added fun. Grins collected funny ties. A fitting hobby for a simple man brought up in cubicle aisles and his own office that was remodeled, when Grins was young, as a McDonald's playground. Some of the plastic balls from the pool of balls below Grins small covered slide often made it into the city of cubicles on the floor of his playground office. Kit had kept one on his desk for decoration. Grins had thrown one at his head one day after he challenged his floor to a dodge ball tournament. No one had thrown a ball back at Grins. Instead, they let him zing balls in their cubicles for a better part of an hour. Sheep to the bitter end.
"Watcha doin?" Grins asked Kit with a beaming smile on his face.
Kit shrugged.
"Looking for man eating aliens on distant planets," Kit said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Grins face did not change as he turned towards Jerry.
"Watcha doin?" Jerry moved uncomfortably in his chair.
"I'm...uh....revising a fact sheet for a client in response to an addition of assets our client has acquired."
"you'ree boring mister," Grins looked away from Jerry with a queer frown.
Kit could hear Jerry swear under his breath. Like Grins was going to snap out of his biological crutches, take the tie of his head and immediately fire Jerry, making sure no P.R. firm in the world hired him again.
Kit met Grins stare with a quizzical smile. Grins lifted his hand and pointed to the red ball on Kits desk.
"You wanna ball later?" Grins asked.
"Sure, whenever you want."
"Okay," Grins shook his head.
And with that, Grins ran down the hallway with amazing velocity. Weaving in and out of people carrying large stacks of paper and a mail cart that almost didn't get out of the way, Grins made his way out of the clattering of typing and shrill cries of telephones that Kit inhabited seven and a half hours a day.
Jerry said nothing about the odd occurrences that had just taken place. It wasn't that Jerry did not take great pleasure talking shit behind peoples backs, it was simply an obvious point not to comment about, in Jerry's words, "that poor tard".
Kit frowned at the clock. Two more hours until he could make his way home. He turned his chair to face his computer monitor and hoped there would be a surprise game of dodge ball today.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

This guy is weird

Shel Silverstein. What a weird dude. His new book is everywhere at work. I remember really enjoying "Where the Sidewalk Ends" when I was a kid. He's got a new book out now though, and it's pretty much everywhere in the store. So, being the curious person I am, I picked one up to check it out and saw his picture. What a very weird guy. He looked like some kind of serious dramatic thespian.
I mean, art is awesome. Far be it from me to make fun of a dude who I think is pretty cool. He doesn't give interviews and abhors publicity stunts and the like. Sounds like a true rocker. THe only thing is, the majority of his audience are kids. Maybe it's good for them to see a weird, serious face looking dude staring at them on the back cover. Who knows. If Johnny Cash likes him and plays one of the songs Silverstein wrote, then I guess he can do whatever the funk he wants. But seriously, there is a time and a place for goofy artistic photos.

Famous for the wrong reasons...

Today’s society has grown into a hubbub of TV, radio and other mass media oriented hysteria. Be afraid of this, oh my God@, look over here. Now watch a message from our sponsors who love that you watch this mindless drivel that pleases the socially unimportant and totally moot points that appear in our great civilization. You’d think America would be efficient enough to work around these issues that somehow divide society and create radicals on both sides wasting time and resources defending or supporting this crap. I guess mass media is really only objective in its telling of the story (if that), but has its reasons to broadcast. Like this Shriver lady who is obviously a vegetable and has been for almost 15 years. Are we really humane keeping someone alive for that long whilst feeding her through a tube? All the joys of life are gone for her. I ate liquids for 6 weeks and I felt like I wanted to die while recovering from jaw surgery. That lady would NEVER recover. In fact, I remember a very dramatic war book (the title escapes my memory) where a man loses his legs, arms and face (including mouth, eyes, nose and ears) in a bomb explosion in the trenches of WWI. He was kept alive only to live a life of solitude in some military hospital. Fully conscious. A Testament to technology, human fragility and radical ethics. And we are upset about this whole veggie thing, worked up about it enough to have Bush, who executed Retards, to try and save this poor woman. A political and media frenzy nightmare. I guess the media and political figures know to well how us Americans like action packed updates on anything as ethically trivial as this fiasco. But I will sit here and critique the sequels to come. I love and despise knowing the simplistic minds of greater America. True, it may be that this type of case has never come to popular attention, and we needed to inherit this course of action into our democratic system. But it seems our system is screwed up as the 3 powers of our nation have shown. So, in the town that made Jerry Springer mayor, I sit and bang my head against the wall at the ever popular irony.

Monday, April 11, 2005

John's Story

The lights glared as John followed his ghost-like teacher through another doorway. The air seemed to lift with every step and push him forward. John wasn’t nervous about his surreal surroundings or the fact that he was stark naked. He knew from somewhere deep inside that this wasn’t real.

The teacher stopped and turned toward John, motioning for him to come closer. Without hesitation, John obeyed.

The beach looked dirty and tainted. Beer cans floated on the small waves that meekly crashed down on dead seaweed that lay strewn on the beach. The white sand created a stark contrast between the multicolored objects that sat on top of it.

Standing as if he owned the place, a fat pungent man in a Speedo was smoking a cigar while sipping on a glass bottle of beer. The man stopped his long draw on the cigar and turned towards John. His dirty rodeo clown makeup seemed to have been unwashed for days. His brown, crooked teeth grinned.

“John,” the odd placed clown said. Stomach fat seemed to ooze and bubble over his small Speedo. ‘Your life sucks cock.”

Whirling and sliding, as a tsunami of waves crashed through John’s ethereal body. He couldn’t cry for help because a mouthful of water would come uninvited into his lungs. In an instant, the chaos shattered as a psychic veil was lifted from somewhere behind John’s eyes. Blue, black, red, green, yellow and some purple colors swirled to the tune of a soft voice.

“So this is why Leibniz’s theory of sufficient reason dictates morality. Does anyone have any questions?”

John sat up and straightened his back and pulled back his shoulders like one of his jock friends had told him to do when he was in high school. His mother always told him his slouching would give him a crooked back.

He wiped his mouth where he knew there was bound to be at least one drop of spittle. Like most other people, John was most certainly not a closet “drooler”. Having carried a variety of medical appliances in his mouth since he was 8, it was hard to adjust to the supposed normal mouth that had defied his anatomy from childhood. Although he couldn’t hide his problem, he took solace in the fact that he was better off than his brother who would never be able to talk normal. His new normal mouth would never sound clearer than a porn star with a huge testicle in her mouth. Dentists and orthodontists a-like are money grubbing perfectionist bastards.

The clock. He had forgotten about the heavenly bells that rang through his head when the clock ticked to his favor. 1:10. Which meant five more minutes of ancient philosophy he was semi-interested in, and then he could resume his procrastinating nature.

Like most people in America, John believed he was raised by the middle class of mediocrity. There is something that says, “You fucking normal biatch” when using the phrase “middle class” to describe your financial situation and habitat. But John had found that his childhood dreams often revolved around crappy jobs with crappy pay. His grandmother had sat him on her lap and decreed John to be a future lawyer. Not to be outdone by the cheek pinching opposition, John’s other grandmother hypothesized little John to be a genius of the medical world. In fact, this grandma, had almost pegged little John’s future aspirations correctly. John did want to help people, and sincerely would like to make the world a better place, but being a doctor had a single solitary problem. It wasn’t the fact that John had to memorize millions of little body parts, diseases and prescriptions. Realistic or not, little John would have loved to say he would do this whole heartedly, but future John would have let him down. No, the problem was this: too little driving. Yeah, John wanted to help people, but rather in a way that consisted of an elaborate technology that opened a folding door and was able to transport mass quantities of kids to get inundated with education when all they wanted to do was go to recess. His parents had laughed when he told a crowd at his preschool graduation what he wanted to do with his degree. There might have been more laughter had the girl who went before him used her degree for some real job instead of somehow using it to morph into a bunny rabbit. But after much T.V., and the advent of reading, which John did a lot of, he decided that bus driving was not a good idea for a dreamer.

Instead, John went to where most dreamers end up, or try to end up. College. What a wonderful representation for the many ideas and symbolism we attribute to this phonetic uttering. It almost sounds smart and scientific. It doesn’t sound so plan and simple as middle school or high school, though elementary school has some kind of cool ring to it.

He literally felt the life being sucked out of him as he spent five minutes of staring at the blackboard and thinking of how he dreaded the reoccurrence of this hour and a fifteen minutes of hum-drum in two days. Abruptly, he was on his feet. His notes flew into his book bag like a fly through a cracked window. He stretched his arms out, which cracked his back and relieved the tension of slouching for an hour. Slowly he followed the hoard of people crowding around the exiting of the door. John always thought it was so ironic that a group of “elite” college students could exit a classroom like a lethargic herd of pasture cows being locked up for the night.

Almost out the door, John’s hands trembled like a heroin addict. His hands had already enveloped a proportional space of air that in 10 minutes would be the not-so-living space of an XBOX controller.

At least in video games, John’s underachieving nature could save the world without getting off his ass. With a little coordination and superior thumb stamina, John could carry out his fake heroism all day and most the night. Except, the immaterial world projected through pixels and silicon was not appreciative enough to offer money for his valor.

The sun shining overhead made John feel like a hermit emerging from his hermitage. John’s step quickened, weaving his way through the mass of students as the university buildings got a good view of John’s ass. The last class of the day always gave him more energy. Music blaring through his head phones, John smiled.

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