I once rode a bus into the Berkeley Hills, to the state park up there, tripping, mildly, on mushrooms. It was a resplendent day and I was the only person on the bus. With my journal open on my lap, I scribbled the sort of things I often think when tripping (“to be lost is to wish to be elsewhere,” “to be lost is to lack a story for where you are”), when I decided to address my future self, the one who would one day return to these words.
It’s been nine years now. Here’s what I wrote, using giant, child-like letters:
HELLO, MICHAEL-READING-THIS-IN-THE-FUTURE. WHY DON’T YOU GO OUTSIDE AND LOOK AT THINGS FOR A CHANGE? YOU HAVE AN INTERESTING MIND BUT WHERE DOES IT GET YOU?
We were playing miniature golf at my childhood course and you insisted on taking a full swing on every shot. Right there that should have told me something.
Although this was miniature golf, you had a caddie. I realize now that he was your boyfriend. He would estimate distance and hand you your club. No matter how far it was, he always gave you the same club (you only had one) and you always swung as hard as you could.
At the sixteenth hole, a complicated deal involving a mechanical Shiva whose six limbs rotated at different speeds, you kissed me, or rather laid your mouth on mine, to stop me from speaking.
On further thought, it was the latter: you laid your mouth on mine. It was only after a time that one could say we were kissing.
A thoughtful reader informed me yesterday that Oblivio is now the #1 search result on Google for the word motherfucker.
Choosy motherfuckers choose Oblivio.
It’s all because of a piece I wrote called Motherfucker in which I explained my decision to build a separate website for my web development work so that, in part, I would be free to write the word motherfucker as many times as I wanted.
Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.
When I went to Google to confirm the news, I discovered several other top “motherfucker” sites, including one for the band Motherfucker, “the only truly open, absolutely insane, psycho sexual, rock’n roll extravaganza left in New York City.” This site is #2 in the rankings. I particularly enjoyed the graphics.
#6 was an essay about household explosives: Celebrating Independence Like a Bad Motherfucker. The author, seanbaby (the piece is a part of seanbaby.com, a four star recommendation for both profane beauty and beautiful profanity – don’t miss Angry Letters from Angry Christians!), believes that everyone should build and own household explosives, and explains how. I found his arguments refreshing: “We should know by now that America’s freedom needs to be celebrated with the most life-threatening devices we’re able to build. To hell with a few dumbasses firecracking their fingers off. Do you think Abraham Lincoln would have put up with British taxes just to keep you with the correct number of fingers on your dumbass hand?”
#10 concerned Motherfuckers International, which appears to be a legitimate organization in the sense that it exists, or at least has a website saying it does. If nothing else, it has rules: “If you lose your Motherfucker ID (or need a new one due to theft) and all other membership info is unchanged, you must reregister and pay the $10 fee to get a new one – check ‘Get New Motherfucker ID‘ at the bottom of the form. This safeguards you from another Motherfucker getting your Motherfucker ID through trickery.” Evidently some Motherfuckers are attempting to obtain their IDs through trickery – a sad commentary on the motherfucking state of our culture.
I can’t think of a word I would rather be linked to than motherfucker. Every so often I return to Google to make sure Oblivio is still #1.
Every woman has a form that is repeatedly expressed, fractal-like, in all of her features and at all levels of her anatomy. Her forearm is the same as her nose which is the same as her clitoris which is the same as her thumb and calf.
This form is no less explicit in her character. Or perhaps it is her character – her character given physical expression.
My elementary school playground was divided into two sections: the white top and black top. The school itself was L-shaped, with the white top occupying the crux of the L. This would be easier if I drew it.
The school had five grades, but only the older kids, fifth graders mostly, ever ventured onto the black top.
One day during third-grade recess, I followed the fence to the end of the blacktop, to the corner farthest from the school. This may have been the bravest thing I’ve ever done. Rumor had it that certain kids, possessed of a badness beyond comprehension, would slide under the fence in this corner and run to the 7-11. And it may be have been true, for I saw sufficient space to slide under. Not that I would have tried it. Instead I simply stood there watching tiny tornados of trash rise off the ground as I wondered how I was going to make it back to my school, which was now a giant L-shaped ship receding into the distance.