Conversation With My Crazy

Six years ago today my Crazy whispered, “Sobriety? Sure, Pal. Let’s spend the rest of our life as a tragic bore. It’s all crosswords and tea cups from here on out.”

I replied from my slumped fetal position under the hard florescent lights in a psychological-observation lazy-boy betwixt two other mad-hatters, “Have you seen where we are right now?”

“Exactly. You need to figure out how to get us out of here pronto. We’ve managed our way out of worse together. You’re good with the words, let’s make with the apologies and promises and see if we can’t be excused. Better yet, when they move us out of this room, let’s just make a run for it. Maybe with a little luck we can still make it to JFK to hop a flight to Austin and catch the Texas/Missouri game with your old man,”  my Crazy replied.

“They’ve got my wallet,” I said. “Not sure how we’d manage that.”

“You’re not using your head—think, Dude.”

“Well, I think my credit card information is saved on the JetBlue website site, so we could probably buy a ticket to Austin online.”

“Keep talkin’.”

“And, my passport is at home, so we’ve still got an ID. I’m not even sure what hospital this is though, we could be miles from the apartment.”

“We’ve walked longer distances, I’m sure of it.”

“True, but not in a hospital gown.”

“This is New York City, no one is going to think twice about us. And if we had to, we could hail a cab and ditch it at a light. You are a fast runner, Peter.”

“Yeah, I am pretty fast. Even barefoot. They’ve got my keys, but my landlord is probably home, he could let us in—hell, he might even give us a ride to JFK if I told him it was an emergency,” I suggested.

My Crazy conspired with the part of my brain that was responsible for doling out what little adrenaline my body was still capable of producing. “Alright then, we’ve got a plan. Let’s do this!”

“What do we do when get to Austin?” I asked. “We don’t have any money, and unless I can convince the staff here to let us leave peacefully so that we can have our things back, I’m not sure how we’d get any.”

“Lots of pawn shops on the way to JFK, my friend.” Crazy insinuated. “You are a man with one too many guitars, aren’t you?”

“Genius,” I said. “We’ll hock the Fender, it’s worth like four grand. I bet we can get at least a grand for it.”

“See, Peter? And here you thought we’d no options. Let’s get going.”

“We tried to run last night though, remember?” I warned.

“Not your best effort, that.” my Crazy scolded. “You’ve got more ‘oomph’ in you now. Let’s stand up, see if the door is still locked, and go from there.”

I stood up, shuffled across the room with my blackberry between my butt-cheeks, to test the door, keeping a watchful eye on the attendant through the observation room’s glass. Locked.

“It’s locked.” I informed.

“Thanks for the update, Chief.”

I gazed through the small window on the door, out at the long hallway we’d have to sprint through if somehow magically the lock just popped to open in the next few moments. “Well, the dude behind the glass already told us we had to wait for the doctor to show up. He seemed pretty perturbed the last time we bothered him. What now?”

“Remember the time we faked being ill to get out of that Bronx jail cell?” my Crazy reminded.

“Oh yeah, we did do that.”

“Same thing here, should be even easier, don’t you think?”

“It’s not really apples to apples, but yeah, I get what your saying.”

“Alright then, enough talk.”

“This all sounds like an awful lot of effort just to see a football game,” I said.

“QUIT FUCKIN’ STALLING!”

“We aren’t trying to escape to go to Austin, are we?”

My Crazy regained its composure, though its desperation was still evident in the trembles that punctuated its words, “Come on, Rosch. You know the answer to that.”

“This is about the three tallboys still sitting in the fridge from last night?”

“If you say so, Peter.”

“There’s always the chance we already drank those and we only think they are still there,” I warned.

“Well, we won’t know until we know.”

“True. Okay. When we get back to the apartment, we’ll drink those, get cleaned up, either have the landlord drive us to JFK or convince a cabby to take us to a pawnshop on the way to JFK, and then once we are in Austin we can call the banks and get new credit cards, bank cards, and figure the rest of this out—BUT, right after that, we are getting sober.”

“Absolutely. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” my Crazy assured. “I mean, we pull this escape off, we deserve a drink, but after that drink—after just enough to keep us sane on our way down to Texas—we’re done with it and on to the crossword puzzles and church choir or whatever it is you’ve decided our life is going to be.”

“Cool. Let’s eat the Froot Loops they set next to us while we were sleeping, and then we’ll head out. I’m starving.”

“I like this idea. I’m no doctor, but I suspect your stomach isn’t really going to be too psyched about its re-introduction to milk, sugar, red no. 5 and the rest of it. You puke that up and it’s win/win.”

“Agreed.”

 

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Aurora, Colorado on my Mind

I try my best to keep the chronicling of my paranoia lighthearted–no easy task, when most of the twisted thoughts I endure revolve around death, pain, and horrible possibilites. Part of this effort has always involved the conscious decision to not riff on the tragic real-world events that occur to others. My paranoia is as responsible for this as is my belief in decency and decorum in regards to not exploiting the daily disturbing mishaps that, too often, are accompanied by the nearly unimaginable grief of real people, families, sons, daughters, brothers and mothers. Fear sells stuff–papers, books, shows, blogs, politicians, products of all kinds.

I want to believe that even as I seek to enlighten people about the improbable, albeit possible, and disturbing consequences of simply putting yourself out into the world daily, that I can do so in a manner that injects some sense of relief, positivity, and well-being into that same world, through my special brand of dark humor. I’m not sure that’s what this blog has been doing. I’m only certain that it is my intent, and as such, it takes a good deal of self-restraint in order to not turn it into something too heavy, exploitive, laced with facts, figures, and the haphazard citing of present-day tragedies in order to prove a point.

As usual, I’ve spent far too long setting up my head space, rather than diving into the meat and potatoes of this post. I offer many apologies for the all-too-frequent ramblings that proceed my point, too often found here.

Last night I was able to attend an advanced screening of The Dark Knight Rises. My excitement about that opportunity could easily be rated a ten of ten, and I made no secret of it either. Half-jokingly, I had referred to this gift as, “possibly the best thing to happen to me as a result of working in advertising,” and said so repeatedly to my co-workers and friends. I was grateful for the opportunity to see it, and even a bit tickled to be able and rub my good fortune in the faces of some of my closer friends who I knew could withstand the ribbing.

Whether or not the movie lived up to my expectations is irrelevant, and the fact that I enjoyed the experience held at the Ziegfeld Theater last night has little to do with my feelings about the film itself. It was just fun to be out with co-workers, my wife, and scores of other hard-working human beings, doing something semi-unique as a group–something that also didn’t involve hard-drinking at that–a rarity in this business when it comes to large gatherings. It was nearly as perfect as that type of outing can be, and was remained on my mind this morning when I awoke.

Years ago, right after 9-11, I spent a great deal of time going to the movies. I was freelancing (read mostly unemployed), separating from my then-wife-at-the-time, contemplating career and locale changes–and taking in movies that fall was an ideal way to remove myself from real-life in order to gain an additional hour or two of sanity each day. How much sanity was derived from those treks is debatable. In those darkened cathedrals of mostly Hollywood drivel, my mind often wandered to notions revolving around the ease of mass-killings that those places could afford. No metal detectors, no sky marshalls, and not even much light for the early exposing and detection of someone packing any kind of instrument of death. The film Scream 2, had already planted the seed of movie-theaters-as-killing-zones, and coupling that with the what-ifs inspired by the attacks on the twin towers has left me always, at least once during a theater going experience, wondering what dreadful things could happen in a cineplex if a psychopath put his or her mind to it.

I never stopped going to movies, but after an opening-weekend Inception incident at Union Square, involving my wife and a patron who seemed intent on stabbing us both to death amidst a small verbal squabble,  I’ve refrained from joining the masses to celebrate the latest releases communally on opening weekends. Too much discomfort, too much friction, flared tempers and, of course, always in the back of my head: the very real possibility that some lunatic would decide to exact all manner of justifiable-only-to-him massacres there.

The latest Batman film, had I not been gifted the advanced screening thanks to Unilever, would have most definitely marked the first film since Inception worthy of definitely breaking my no-opening-weekend-viewings rule, and smack dab in the middle of whatever chaos you might find amidst all the revelry you yourself may be a part of today, tonight, and this weekend.

Facebook has been many things to me, and more and more often it is the proverbial messenger of bad-tidings. This morning it was via a friend that I learned of the last night’s incident in which a gunman killed 12 at a screening of The Dark Knight Rises in Aurora, Colorado. I didn’t want to believe it, I don’t want to believe it now. It is no more tragic than the last tragedy, but it will be fresh on our collective minds and will re-open wounds that for many had probably never healed.

I’m not here to soap-box, list the pros and cons on anything related to guns, violence, and public safety, nor do I wish to join the countless conspiracy-hacks that will try to bend this story into something that furthers their own agendas of fear-for-profit. Good luck with that Alex, it’s worked for you before, I’m sure you’ll make a few bucks with it this weekend and next week as well. But, this is the second time in a week, that a not-even-remotely-close-to-random act of violence has left me deeply concerned for the human race, the general mood of a planet, and the near complete disregard for “live and let live.” Both, and they aren’t the first two, have left me asking myself, “Is a blog that dwells in potential tragedy, even one done humorously, the best use of my time?”

The answer today, as it has always been, is I think so. I hope so. I do know that as soon as I press the publish button, there will be a part of me that feels a bit of relief for having put words on digital paper for some people to see. I don’t have to understand why this works for me, I only have to let it work for me until it doesn’t anymore.

As always, I’m exceedingly grateful for your having put your peepers to my words. Thanks.

Customized Abduction Vans for any Occasion

It goes without saying that right now, as you read this, somewhere out there in those United States of America, at least one van is being used as what I–and I’m sure many others–have coined, Abduction Vans. Yep, if you do the math, and I haven’t, but if you did the math, I’m sure you’d come to the same conclusion. Below is a collection of all sorts of Abduction Vans that predators, mafia, kidnappers, the world’s most twisted souls and those who aspire to be them, might be using right now for a whole host of different reasons. I was kind enough to scribe at least one reason that each of these Abduction Vans is special underneath each photo representation. It was my pleasure, so sincerely, no thanks are necessary. I take great comfort in knowing that you’ll now join me in never being able to see a van as simply just another van. Oh, and yes, it goes without saying that each shot snapped put me into harms way, even as hundreds of hipsters were milling about the same streets of Williamsburg. No predator likes his methodology of abduction photographed, and they certainly don’t care for the careful analysis of the reason or reasons for their choice of vehicular man-slaughterers.

With the exception of the industrial locks (a must) and the extended cab (a nice touch for the abduction of more than one) I’d say this is your standard everyday run-of-the-mill abduction van. Complete with creepy, almost-useless, tinted circular window that comes standard in most AVs.

This darker colored model comes complete with an almost completely illegible company name, in this case for a supposed Locksmith. Nothing says, “I’m totally not trying to throw anyone in my van for later-date-torture,” like faded/peeling low-brow blue-collar Americana signage. Nothing.

This sinister ride comes complete with not only the decoy signage, but also a heavy-duty gate lift for those predators who prefer bigger-boned folks to quench their blood thirst.

The truly bold fiends apparently aren’t beyond telling the world exactly what they’ve done, or perhaps announcing their intentions. This predator has either already taken 7 Ricks, plans to Take 7 Ricks, or is only allowed to Take 7 Ricks in total or all at once.

If you are only planning on ever committing one abduction, than perhaps it is best to just pay $19.95 for a one day rental, possibly two, rather than spend a bundle on something you’ll never use to abduct ever again. Don’t kid yourself into buying a van for just one abduction by pretending you’re going to redo your backyard deck, and lie to yourself with fibs like, “It will come in handy later for making trips to Home Depot.”

Why bother securing a facility to store your abductee or bringing him or her back to your spiffy, OCD-clean apartment? Maybe you like Mother Nature and are feeling like performing your cerimonial amputations in the great outdoors. You’ll need a Camper Abduction Van for that. Heck, you can scoop someone up and hit the road for quite sometime–putting ample distance between the two of you and their loved ones as well as the search party they’ve surely formed back home. ROAD TRIP!

A sure fire way to keep suspicion of your misdeeds to a minimum is to perform your abducting in a van too stupid looking for anyone to suspect anything other than the notion that you have abysmal taste in modes of transportation. Nice play Ol’ Boy!

This one might appear to be just another fake-company van, but it is actually soooo much more! A van that features a wonderful word, in this case, “Majestic,” plants a subliminal brain-clouding worm of doubt, creating feelings associated with the meaning of lovely words, before potential worry-warts can even get their paranoia going–leaving them feeling fuzzy and wonderful inside even after you’ve snatched them!

Interested in grabbing tons of tikes off the streets or old relics of bygone eras that are fans of The Partridge Family? Or Both? This is the abduction dream you’ve been waiting for!

Maybe you just want to try a few first with tiny dogs or cats before you make the big leap and pricey, but necessary, purchase to go after bigger game. Why not a make a few bucks advertising local businesses on the side of your pre-human-serial-killing-exploits dream machine?!

And finally, and exactly how I’d roll personally–if I had any intentions of joining the time honored tradition of People Hunting for Sport–the Abduction Van that absolutely screams, “I am an Abduction Van,” so loudly, in fact, that any passer-byers will immediately dismiss it as far too obvious without ever giving it a second thought. Though, I can assure you I certainly gave it one, if not two, or possibly six more thoughts before I got home.

The Person You Most Suspect

I have been sitting on a particular subject for a post for quite some time now. I guess when you are really postive that a certain someone is quietly observing you and everything you do–which would only naturally include punching your name into a Google search box in order to inform themselves about you–the idea of blogging about them and what you think they are up to as it pertains to you, could have dire consequences. The most probable consequence might be nothing more than their hurt feelings, though I might suggest hurt feelings can be the impetus to a whole slew of scenarios that unravel because  you’ve mischaracterized some soul who wasn’t up to anything close to what you’d been surmising–other than the part about plugging your name into that big-brother search box. On the other hand, maybe you make the post, as I am now, and that person reads it and decides to put their plan to enslave you, own you, torture you, and finally eat you into supersonic hyperdrive.

Yes, if you read that carefully, you could distill this episode down to one simple paranoid thought: Is this person basically Hannibal, and is he or she currently engaged in the time-honored sociopath’s orgasmic ritual of allowing me to go on living.

You see, the thrill isn’t just in the capture, the pain, and the kill–no, if what I’ve read about some of history’s best and brightest regarding serial killers is true–then a big part of the plan for you (or in this case me) is them watching you go about living your life like normal, all the while delightfully relishing in the not-so-misguided belief that it is they who are ultimately allowing you to keep doing just that. Sick as that sounds, if they are committed to their cause, then ultimately it isn’t really untrue is it? If someone is actually sitting around, debating the date they will put operation extinguish-your-existence into effect–well, unless you yourself have identified the individual and are making preparations to combat them on that fateful day, it would seem to me that they do, in fact, deserve to feel like they hold all the power.

So, let’s say you are near one-hundred percent positive that an individual, who in some social sense you “know,” is mapping out the remaining days of your life in their own-blood-ink onto the pages of a diary wrapped in the human skin of some, but not all, of their previous victims. Hold that thought for a second, and then answer this question: what are you prepared to do about it? (Not sure what movie that is from, but Morgan Freeman’s voice comes to mind).

If you are me–and thankfully for you, you are most definitely not me–you walk the line of believing your gut and dismissing it as just another one of your schizo internal ramblings; a fabrication based on bad films, nicotine, and the over-consumption of chocolates and aspartame infused beverages. And nearly every single day you lean in favor of the seemingly logical notion that anything so perverse couldn’t be true of anyone, and that your imagination is simply getting the better of you. Thus, you do very little about it. You ignore the gut feeling that nature gave you in order to sense impending doom so that you may run as far away from it as possible. You write a blog post about it instead, believing that airing that particular scenario to the world will somehow fortify the more sane notions in your skull that suggest that anything your gut might be telling you can’t be believed–and that your life is not a movie, and fiction, despite what they say, is still stranger than the truth.

And maybe, just maybe, you sit back and hit the publish button on your blog–in the hopes that admitting to all of the above will be seen by said person, and that he or she will become disillusioned with you now that they know that you know and thus some of the thrill of the sport of it all has been diminished for them.

After all, would you still eat a pig if right before you went to slaughter him, it said, “I knew you were going to eat me all along.” If your answer is yes, then perhaps you are the very person my post served to foil, though apparently most miserably.