LESSON #1
A handgun is a reality.
A blue uniform is a reality.
A “Police Officer” is a social fiction.
LESSON #2
Paper is a reality.
Printing presses are a reality.
“Money” is a social fiction.
LESSON #3
Land is a reality.
Population is a reality.
“Prime Minister” is a social fiction.
The entire brou-ha-ha over the so-called fictions in James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” is bringing me dangerously close to a nonstop tidal-wave of barf. Are these people kidding, or do people just like drama and love to jump on a bandwagon of hate? Probably both, let’s be honest we are a lynching people. Sources disagree to exactly how many witches were actually killed in the infamous witch trials, but let’s be honest: they were killing witches because they liked it, not because they really felt threatened by them. Ditto for the Spanish Inquisition. People love to see someone hounded and caught, whether they want to admit it or not, even to themselves. James Frey is just the most recent, and one of the more juicy, victims.
On her show yesterday Oprah Winfrey berated author James Frey for “betraying millions of readers.” I would love to ask her majesty if she truly believes, in her heart of hearts, whether every other memoir and autobiography she has ever read was 100% true. If she does believe that she is, in my opinion, at best extremely naive and at worst a deluded fool. Memories are by definition subjective, there is no getting around that. We do not have access to other’s memories, or some preternatural objective memory computer, so the best we can do is retell things as we believed they happened. This makes every single memoir and autobiography ever printed fiction, whether you would like to believe it or not.
I don’t know whether James Frey intentionally altered what he believed to be the truth in his memoir, nor do I care. I choose to think for myself, and not have others tell me how things are or are not. When I heard about the hole in the cheek and the dentist visit minus Novocain I immediately and instinctively felt that these stories were false. Did I know for certain? No, but if one is even slightly savvy they would ask themselves a multitude of questions concerning these two incidents, most of which would lead to the conclusion of fiction entering the narrative. Do I care? No, I do not.
Q: Why do we read?
A: We read to be entertained.
Were you entertained by the book? If so, great; if not, fantastic too, but can you really say you were more entertained when you thought it was true? If so, why?
This entire debacle reminds me of the people who took their Milli Vanilli records back to the store when it turned out the singers of the songs were not who the listeners thought they were – I remember thinking at the time: “But isn’t it the MUSIC these people enjoyed? The music remains the same.”
And so, people, I tell you: the words remain the same.
1) You can see the Great Wall Of China from space
2) You have to be cruel to be kind
3) But, with the windchill factor it’s actually X
4) Joyce’s Ulysses is about the styles and satires
5) “ASAP” as if it’s a word
I’ve never really considered myself belonging to any “nation” – the idea of some person arbitrarily drawing imaginary lines around areas of land and then telling people “you live in country A, and the person over there lives in country B.” has always seemed ridiculous to me.
But, despite that, today I have decided to renounce whatever nationality I did possess: I am no longer Canadian.
I may live within the borders of what is considered Canada, but I am not a member.
I will not call Stephen ‘anything for a chuckle’ Harper my Prime Minister. I refuse. He may be your Prime Minister, but he is certainly not mine.
When I can afford it I will be moving to Chad.
So long, suckers.
There was a point in my life when I was pondering many issues of human nature, and wondering if what we did now effected what might happen to us after we died . . . I was laying face down on the linoleum tiled floor, which is one of the six places I happen to ponder those types of issues best. The other five were too far away. The closest place is almost always the best place, for me.
While I mused abstractly I entertained myself by blowing a single piece of cereal across the tile floor, trying to outdo myself with each puff. As the cereal rolled across the floor it bumped into what appeared to be a large shard of deeply varnished wood. I was, in fact, under the impression it was wood until it skittered toward me.
I was deeply concerned to witness a rather large cockroach sprinting toward my face, but was even more concerned when it raised it's antennae and addressed me. -DR HOOPLA! it called in a deep basso profundo.
-Gah? I choked in answer. I stand by it as a valid response, under the circumstances.
-CALL ME GULIK. I AM A MESSENGER. I COME HITHER AND DITHER TO TEACH YOU ABOUT REINCARNATION.
-Zah! I gagged, being still an ignorant fool, and lacking full enlightenment.
The roach tittered over to the cupboard near my head and opened it, revealing hundreds of cockroaches crawling through my garbage. I don't know what stopped vomit from spewing out of every pour in my body, but I'm thankful it didn't. I hacked again as Gulik said, -THESE ARE THE CHOSEN OF ERIS. THEIR ENLIGHTENMENT WILL ALLOW THEM TO MOVE UP THE LADDER AFTER THIS LIFE TO KOALA IN THE NEXT LIFE.
-Koala? I asked. -That's the next step up from cockroach?
-OF COURSE. DESPITE WHAT YOU MAY BELIEVE COCKROACHES LIVE A RATHER IDEAL LIFE FOR THE MOST PART. MOST LIVE IN, OR VERY NEAR, GARBAGE . . . THE CENTRAL DIET OF OUR KIND. AND, I DON'T KNOW IF YOU'VE NOTICED YET OR NOT, BUT THE WORLD IS FULL OF GARBAGE, GROWING STEADILY BY THE HOUR. THERE WILL NEVER BE STARVATION FOR COCKROACHES.
-But, why are Koalas the next step up the ladder? I asked.
-FOR ALMOST THE SAME REASON. KOALAS LIVE IN EUCALYPTUS TREES, WHICH IS THE SOURCE OF THEIR MAIN FOOD: EUCALYPTUS LEAVES. BUT, THERE ARE FIVE ADDITIONS TO THE KOALA WHICH PLACE IT A NOTCH ABOVE US:
1) THEY ARE ACCEPTED THROUGHOUT THE WORLD BY ALL SPECIES OF MAN BEAST AND INSECT (EXCEPT FOR COCKROACHES) AS THE CUTEST ANIMAL IN EXISTENCE.
2) THEIR CENTRAL DIET, EUCALYPTUS LEAVES, ARE PSYCHEDELIC, SO ALL KOALAS ARE ETERNALLY STONED.
3) THE EUCALYPTUS LEAVES CAUSE THE KOALA'S URINE TO SMELL FANTASTIC, WHICH IS UNIQUE IN THE WORLD.
4) KOALAS ARE PSYCHIC, SO THEY CAN-
-Holy shit! I exclaimed. -For real??
-YES.
-Prove it.
-FUCK YOU, WHAT DO I CARE IF YOU BELIEVE ME?
-Sorry.
-WHERE WAS I?
-The fifth reason.
-RIGHT. THERE IS NO FIFTH REASON.
-So, I asked. -What is above Koalas?
-SRIZZLEFISH.
-What the holy Hades are Srizzlefish?
-THERE ARE ONLY EVER FIVE SRIZZLEFISH ALIVE AT ANY GIVEN TIME. SO THERE IS A LONG WAITING LIST. THEY LIVE ANYWHERE FROM TWO HUNDRED TO FIVE HUNDRED YEARS. THEY JUST FLOAT AROUND ON THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN, COMPLETELY ENLIGHTENED. THEY REQUIRE NO SUSTENANCE, THEY SIMPLY . . . ARE.
-Great Googly Moogly. What's above Srizzlefish?
-NOTHING.
-Nothing? How can there be nothing above Srizzlefish? Something must be.
-NO. THERE ISN'T. THAT'S IT. THE END. KAPUT.
-So, if there's nothing above Srizzlefish, when do you become human?
-PFFFH! Gulik laughed. -WHAT'RE YOU, KIDDING ME? AND TAKE A HUGE STEP BACK DOWN THE LADDER? YOU'RE ON GOOFBALLS.
Thus, I was enlightened.From “Ghostbusters”:
Venkman: “Have you, or any member of your family, ever been diagnosed schizophrenic? Mentally incompetent?”
Librarian: “My uncle thought he was St. Jerome.”
Venkman: “I’d say that’s a big yes.”
Jerome (342-420) is generally credited with having translated the Bible into the Vulgate (Latin); however a large part of the work was done by Paula and her daughter Eustochium after they all had settled in Bethlehem in 386. They worked on the translation and, when Jerome submitted his translations to them for correction and amendment, polished up his work as well. The work was finished about 404. Although Jerome dedicated a great number of his translations to the two women, later scholars erased their names and substituted the words ‘learned brothers.’
Those fucking scholars will screw you ever time.
-Dr Hoopla
At a low period in my life I was seeking enlightenment. Lounging around in my empty bathtub, fully clothed, I pondered the sorry state of this world. Wondering if this was really this and that was actually that, and whether tit really did anything for tat. Realizing that at this point I had stopped philosophizing, and was merely invoking Suess I decided that it was time to move outdoors, to breathe in fresh smog and bask in the milky autumn sun; in other words, to seek my enlightenment in the world.
On the sidewalk in front of my building I spotted an Oh Henry candybar. Looking around, I saw nobody who seemed ready to lay a claim on it - the bar seemed to be up for grabs. I crouched down and examined it closely, without touching it, of course. I wasn't about to become insnared by some intrepid alien or wily big game hunter. I didn't, however, detect any strings, and the sidewalk around the candy seemed unmolested. The bar was mine. Snatching it up, I moved to a bench to consume it in comfort at my own leisure. It was chocolatey, it was caramely, it was nugety, it was sweet and it was gooey. It did not, however, enlighten me.
Sitting on the bench, I sighed. Where next should I seek my enlightenment? As I mulled this query over I took notice of a small book on the bench next to me. Curious, I picked it up, and read the cover: it was the Collected Short Stories of O. Henry.
This was a stunning coincidence. This, undoubtedly, meant something. As I opened the book to peruse the contents I was struck by something that made the book altogether more strange - all the pages were torn out, save those between seventy and sevety-seven, a story entitled The Green Door. I felt this story must be of cosmic significance, and so devoured it on the spot. Here would finally be the answers to all the questions I wanted answered. I read the story in a few minutes, and chuckled once or twice, was saddened at least once, and sighed at the end. The story was touching and amusing, but it did not, however, answer my questions.
I felt perplexed. I felt confused. I felt discombobulated. I did not, however, feel enlightened.
Still searching, I walked.
I walked five blocks, came upon the Deuce, and was then struck down to the pavement with another stunning coincidence. The Victory Theater was screening Behind The Green Door. This was a stunning synchronicity. This, undoubtedly, meant something. I paid my admission, bought another Oh Henry bar at the candy counter, and made my way up to the balcony. The movie had already started as I made my way through the sickeningly clammy sound of about a hundred and fifty people beating their meat in the audience. I shuffled into the back row and tried to find a seat which hadn't been issued upon. As I sat down -just for a laugh- I began to smack the palm of my hand against the back of my neck furiously, and moan overly loud. The monkey spanking subsided for just about seventeen seconds. I chuckled to myself, and began to unwrap my candy bar.
As I took the first bite I realized the movie had stopped in place on the screen. Marilyn Chambers's legs were spread-eagled, and all her glory was up close and center stage, so to speak. So many euphemisms which are inappropriate rattled through my brian . . . tacos and beavers should not be compared to the same part of the body described as The Mound Of Venus. As this thought fluttered through my mind I also noticed the utter silence in the theatre. There were no longer any sounds of auto-eroticism whatsoever, in fact my fellow patrons seemed to be petrified in the more literal sense. I became alarmed by this, but was even more alarmed when Marilyn Chambers's bush on-screen burst into flames, and began to speak to me.
DR HOOPLA, a smooth female voice called from the burning bush. YOU MADE LEVITY IN A PLACE OF SOLEMN WORSHIP.
I gulped, since there seemed little else to do under the circumstances.
HOW DO YOU STAND AGAINST THESE CHARGES? the female voice asked. Guilty, I hiccuped. I had mocked the meat-beaters. My candy bar was melting in my hand. I could feel it.
GOOD. said the voice. YOU'RE ONE OF MINE.
Who, who are you? I asked.
I YAM WHO I YAM, came the reply.
Popeye?! I exclaimed. It didn't sound like Popeye.
NAY, I AM CALLED ERIS NANCY DISCORDIA. GODDESS OF CHAOS CONFUSION STRIFE CREATIVITY AND BUREAUCRACY. I AM THE HODGE OF THE RISING PODGE AND THE PODGE OF THE SINKING HODGE.
Why me? I asked, not cowering as blatantly as a few moments prior, but still cowering nonetheless.
FOR YOU ARE A GOOD APPLE. YOU ARE AWAKE ENOUGH TO QUESTION, SKEPTICAL ENOUGH TO QUESTION THE APPARENT ANSWERS, GULLIBLE ENOUGH TO FOLLOW MYSTERY, HUMOROUS ENOUGH TO MOCK THE SERIOUS AND SERIOUS ENOUGH TO AWAKEN IN THE FIRST PLACE. YOU EMBODY THE IDEALS OF THE SACRED CHAO, AND LO, I DEEM YOU A KEEPER OF IT.
Why have you come? I asked.
BECAUSE THE AVERAGE CANADIAN HAS ONLY ONE TESTICLE. the voice said.
Say what? I asked.
BECAUSE NOBODY CAN PRODUCE AN AVERAGE CAT. the voice continued.
Wha? I queried.
BECAUSE EVEN VOMIT CAN BE ART! FARE THEE WELL-
Wait! One last question! Why Nancy??
WHAT?
Why Eris Nancy Discordia? I asked. Why Nancy?
NANCY'S A NICE NAME. FARE THEE WELL KEEPER OF MY SACRED CHAO! SPREAD MY WORD - ALL MEN SHALL BE SAILORS THEN UNTIL THE SEA SHALL FREE THEM!
Wait! I called, You stole that from Leonard Cohen!
NAY - HE STOLE THAT FROM ME.
Thus, I was enlightened.
The bush ceased to burn. The film ran forward. The manhandling kicked back in, but sounded more serene this time, like a gentle rainfall on a tin roof. I walked outside, and promptly slipped on a banana peel, while thinking 'Indeed, do many strange things come to pass.'
