Category: 2001-2005

Thanksgiving. Supposedly, the day started when the Pilgrims, fresh off their disease-infested boats, were able to rely on the kindness of strangers, the so-called heathens already dwelling on the land. In perhaps one of the last compromises between the white and red man, the two groups of people were able to set aside their cultural and pigmentary differences and enjoy a meal together. From that little tale, we get Thanksgiving.

It’s a good story, but I think that’s all it is– a story. It almost sounds like an urban legend to me– just like the Kentucky Fried Rat. Well, in light of the current iteration of the day, that’s all it is– a story. Nowadays, Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the retail bonanza known as the holidays. The media hasn’t forgotten the meaning of Thanksgiving, but they have certainly chosen to focus more on Christmas and less on the secular holiday that comes a month before. Thanksgiving is a formality. It stands in the way, like a belligerent younger sibling, between Halloween and Christmas. Because the Christmas season has recently been expanded to include pretty much every month except February, Thanksgiving is an anti-climax. Malls are already ensconced in Christmas wreaths and trees in late September. By the time Turkey Day hits, people are already expecting Christmas. When they get Thanksgiving, they simply go through the motions, without necessarily pausing to reflect on the day’s importance, historical or otherwise.

I find this unfortunate because Christmas has lost much of its luster for me in recent years. That could be due to the string of stupid, thoughtless gifts I have received (honestly, a sock-warmer?), but I think there are other reasons. Christmas has lost religious significance to me because I, like Marx, have realized that religion is merely the opiate of the masses. Religiosity is not as detrimental as some addictions, but church-goers are far more dangerous to me than the local smack-addict or crack-whore. They spread their ignorant ideas to unenlightened people. They do evil things in the name of something that is supposedly all-good (sidenote: Evil exists. Explain that one to me, holy rollers. God’s all-good, and He created everything. Even evil? Oh wait, that’s right– mmm…could it be? SATAN?!) Anyway, Christmas was originally a pagan festival (much like it is today) until the pre-Schism, pre-Reformation Christian church decided to do away with the celebration of the monotany of the oncoming winter and stick Jesus in there. When was Jesus born? Good question…considering that nearly every culture has its own calendar, and no one was around to firm up the details, let’s say he was born on December 25th. And the public? Oh, they ate it up. Just like their Turkey Day feasts.

I guess my point is that every holiday has no real significance to me. They were all just days invented by other people to commemorate things that may or may not have happened. I am told that on this day I should be feel thankful for what I have; on this day, I should remember those people who have died before me; on this day, I should kiss someone because they’re Irish (that’s one I’ll never figure out). Frankly, I am tired of being told what to do.

The above was written prior to my trip to Florida for Thanksgiving. Actually, it was written during the sojourn down to Titusville, which may account for the vitriolic tone of my writing. I was tired; I was ill; I was grumpy. Although I am still skeptical of organized religion, I must say that I had a splendid time on my trip to Florida to celebrate Thanksgiving.

The plan was to leave bright and early Wednesday. Well, when 6 am rolled around, it was not so bright, but definitely early. When going over my itenerary with Kim, she suggested that instead of trying to wake up at 5:30 (or sleeping in the car, which was my original intention), I simply forgo Morpheus’ arms in the evening, so that sleeping during the trip would be much easier. This sounded like a good idea, so I played video games and packed until it was time to depart.

As soon as we (my brother, his wife, and their two Yorkshire pups) hit the road, my head hit the pillow. It was 6:14 AM. Sleep was the only thing on my mind. A mere ten minutes into the trip, I heard the nasally baritone of one of the DJ’s on Bo’s favorite sports talk radio station. I had no choice but to crank up my personal CD player even louder, the strains of the Amelie soundtrack taking me to a place far, far away from the Toyota Forerunner. I didn’t care about Michael Vick dressing out for practice. I just wanted to sleep. And so, despite the sports talk and the constant rolling down of the window for my brother’s cigarette breaks, I somehow managed to sleep.

When I awoke, I had the famililar feelings of fatigue. My body was weary, and my mind was slightly delirious. It was only 8:23. I had gotten a couple hours of sleep, not nearly enough to provide my much-needed third and fourth stages of sleep. To help pass the time, I suggested to my brother that was play the always fun, always monotonous “I’m going on a trip, but first I had to stop by (insert local mega-store here)” game. Bo is a sucker for car-ride games, so he obliged. Feeling rather randy, I furthermore stipulated that we start at the end of the alphabet and work forward. And so…without further adieu, here’s what Bo and I took to Florida:

Zoologist
Yellow yams
X-ray Technician (not Cami S., she’s a bitch)
Waiter
Victrola
Undertaker
Tiger Tamer (Roy Horn, who’s currently recuperating by taming kittens instead of tiger cubs)
Sexy Sluts
Radiohead 🙂
Quacky Queer
Professor of Paleontology, specifically Ross Gellar
Oscar presenter (not winner, mind you– presenter)
Ned Flanders
Marijuana
LSD
Knitter, specifically Leslie, who has recently undertaken Project: Scarf
Joint Roller (one who defected from the Dominican Republic, where he rolled cigars)
Ice Sculptor (one specializing in vodka-urinating statues, a la Dennis Kozlowski)
Homosexual Horticulturalist (also a hogfat renderer)
Gay Gardener (one of Bo’s– pretty weak, if you ask me)
Freedom fighter from the Operation: Iraqi “Freedom” campaign
Eerie Eccentric Elephant Rider (another one of Bo’s– pretty weak, if you ask me)
Douche bags
Crazed crooners
Bo Ollinger
Alice from Carroll’s Wonderland books

That was probably the highlight of the actual car ride down to Florida. I spent the rest of my time looking out the window, playing Walter Mitty, wishing it was Saturday, and hoping I could fall back asleep.

[Sometimes I amaze myself. I was able to remember the answers to the game a week after it was played. Not bad.]

When we arrived at our hotel, my mother and my older brother were appalled at the establishment’s deplorable conditions. Granted, things were dirty, and the help was surly. I reminded both of them that things could have been worse. We had cable, A/C, and carpet in the rooms. What more could one want? This was Titusville, Florida. It wasn’t Atlanta; it wasn’t even Birmingham. Titusville is a Podunk town; worn and run-down, forgotten by its residents and tourists alike. To expect more than what we got was ludicrous in my opinion. Once we settled into our slightly squalid surroundings, I took a shower to rinse the exhaustion and stale smell of car ride off me. After my shower, Mom took me to the convenience store for Coronas.

Sidenote: When providing the trip itenerary for me, Mom’s plans included copious amounts of lounging by the pool and drinking. Not surprisingly, her maternal duties precluded her from enjoying this activity for largely the entire trip. Excepting a pair of delicious Brandy Alexanders prepared by my uncle, the only time Kerry drank was during Friday evening’s game of Scrabble. Sometimes, I wish my mom didn’t have to be a mom all the time. She’s an awesome lady when she isn’t worn thin from the constant mothering my younger brothers require.

No offense, Paul and Noah. Well, maybe a little. STOP ARGUING ABOUT STUPID SHIT THAT’S ALREADY HAPPENED!!!

After I had a couple beers, we went over to Grammy’s for dinner. My aunt had prepared us some kind of Mexican casserole. It was edible, and so I ate it. That was dinner.

I’ve picked up the habit of inspecting the various and sundry books people choose to adorn their shelves, and so when I was at Grammy’s, I went from room to room, checking the bookcases and armoires for rare finds. Did I ever find any! Not only did I discover a nifty tome on gnomes and a manual on etiquette circa 1954, but I also found a first-edition printing of my favorite Hemingway novella, the Old Man and the Sea! After picking them out, I approached Grammy, seeking her approval for my choices. She complied, and I’m three books richer! I also put my name down for the gigante Merriam-Webster’s nomenclator she has, whenever the time is right.

My grandmother and I have the most perfunctory of relationships. This is not because I do not love her, but more because I do not know her. She has always been a bit a coot, and so visits to her house have been few and far between. She’s getting on in years, and her time here is limited. I am happy that I got to see her again; it may have been my last time (dread the thought, but it’s a possibility all the same). Approaching her about the books was difficult. Asking a stranger for a hand job may have been easier [Okay, okay. Sorry. First, that was in bad taste. Second, I don’t talk to strangers.]

I’ll pick this back up in a bit, things appear to be getting a little blue. I figure this is enough to get you salivating.

It just occurred to me that the past few posts I’ve made about myself have been things I conjured from thin air. “Fictive truth,” I like to call it. Elements of myself have been interpolated into characters that have the same name as me. For the layperson, that means some of the stuff I write is kinda true. But then again, there is no such thing as absolute truth. Well, not written truth at least. Everything is a recorded from a memory, an experience, or otherwise. First-hand accounts are often most accurate, but who’s to say the story-teller won’t elaborate and exaggerate parts of his narrative? And with each version that’s recorded, there is more margin for error.

Anyway, I thought I would write something a little bit more introspective tonight. Badly Drawn Boy, be my muse, and lead me to a masterpiece!

The past few months of my life have been some of the most difficult. A sadness dwells within me, and when it bubbles to the surface, it rocks my mind and emotions. I seem to have had this blot of despair in my life and on my mind for a long time. As long as I can remember, really. It’s tidal; it ebbs and it flows. It peaks and bottoms-out. Sometimes I go months without feeling this sense of malaise and misery; other times, I wallow in its shadow for weeks at end.

If I was presented with the challenge of determining the root of this sadness, I would be unable to propose a theory in which I was 100% sure. It’s a lot of things: middle kid syndrome, cataclysmic events early in my life, disillusionment, doubt, et cetera. To discuss any of these possible causes would be an exercise in patience, possibly futility. I believe they are all equally responsible in influencing my current disposition, which marked by a tender fragility. In any event, things seem to be getting better. I have been going to therapy and trying to approach things with a new lust for life. I am learning that it’s easier to pick up and move forward with your life than it is to concentrate on the things you would have done differently. As Paul Simon put it, “a good day ain’t got no rain…a bad day’s when I lie in bed and think of things that might have been.” I have to remind myself of this almost daily.

It has been a difficult journey, but I have traversed it one piece. Problems remain, but then again problems will always remain. Life wasn’t meant to be easy. If it was, then it wouldn’t be life. Life isn’t made easier by some of the poor decisions I’ve made, but I am wiser for most of those follies. I wish I could have done things a little differently, but if I had, then I wouldn’t have met the people I have. Humans are social creatures, and for some reason, the majority of us thrive off companionship with others. If human companionship is unavailable, then we as a species latch adoration onto other things, like plants and animals. Well, mainly animals– I don’t know how many people who get pictures of their plant taken with Santa Claus. We feel the same sense of fufillment with plants as we do with animals, though. It may not be hard to keep a plant alive, but there is something comforting in knowing that you can.

Hmmm, botany ended out the last paragraph. Not exactly related to my original vision. Damn this stream of consciousness! I know I want to write more about this, but it’s still tough to get my head around. I’ll probably attempt this subject again after a while. Instead, I give you this…

Thanksgiving is this week. What are some of the things for which I am thankful?

–My health: My body still works after 21 years of use. It better keep up for a good while because I think I voided the warranty on it when I tried to give myself a tattoo.

–My family: Sometimes they make me wish I was adopted. Other times, they tell me just the thing I need to hear to make me smile (or even angrier sometimes). Most the time, I’m annoyed with them, yet continue to love them.

–My friends: I don’t have many friends–maybe a dozen or so. Each of them provides with something that endears them to me, a certian idiosyncrasy, a certain nuance to his or her character. They are the thing for which I am most thankful because I feel my friends understand me better than my family.

–My talents (if I have any): It’s great knowing stuff. I wouldn’t trade my intelligence for anything. Moreover, I get a lot of people that commend me for this crap I’m doing now. While I appreciate the adulation, I don’t know if they are just telling me these things to placate me or if they are being sincere. Confidence in my output is not something for which I’m known. Sometimes, I feel satisfied with my attempts at creativity; other times, I curse myself for being so this and so that. Most the time, however, I bungle through, hoping the final product is at least a glimmer of the original vision.

–My job: I’ve got a good, stressful job. I work from home, and I make about $22,000 a year. Not bad for a 21-year-old that doesn’t like jobs. I don’t know how long I can continue, though. The stress is starting to mount, and I have become burned out lately.

Completely or somewhat related, I think Badly Drawn Boy’s Hour of the Bewilderbeast is one of my favorite albums ever. For some unknown reason, I can relate to every song on this CD at this moment. Oh yes, I know why…

I don’t feel like reviewing the entire album because I want to go to bed (but maybe one day soon), so I will leave you with the lyrics to one of the songs:

“Once Around the Block”

You quiver like a candle on fire
I’m putting you out
Maybe tonight we could be the last shout
But I’m fascinated by your style
Your beauty will last for a while

You’re feeling instead of being
The more that I live on the inside
There’s nothing to give
I’m infatuated by your moves
I’m gonna search hard for your clues

I want to repair your desire
And call it a gift that I stole from just wanting to live
Now I see the vision through your eyes
Your innocence no longer fuels surprise

Trying to outrun your fear
Running to lose
Heart on your sleeve and your sole in your shoes
Take a left,
A sharp left
And another left, meet me on the corner
And we’ll start again.

Way unrelated: My mouth still tastes like coffee, something I drank oh…EIGHTEEN HOURS ago.

–Post over, Mikey out.

It is rare that a high-profile celebrity such as Michael Ollinger agrees to hold an interview with the proctor of a young and low-rent site such as GDO-R. I am so happy that I was afforded this great opportunity to have this question-and-answer session with a poet laureate and a personal hero of mine. I was upset that the interview was cut short, but Michael had to leave early. Thanks again for taking time out of your busy schedule for GDO-R, Michael! My lips are sealed and my tongue is tied, I swear it! 😉

GDO-R: So tell me, what have you been doing to keep yourself busy this past year?

MO: Oh you know. Bitches and hoes. Hoes and bitches. Potatoes and tomatoes, staples and stitches.

GDO-R: I am afraid I don’t understand.

MO:…a little bit of this, a little bit of that. After I was released from prison when those charges were dropped, I started writing again. I’m currently working on a novel. I hope to have it finished this time next year.

GDO-R: That sounds exciting! Are you espousing any agendas or any particular themes in your new book? I’m afraid I don’t know the title of it. Would you mind telling us?

MO: Stalker.

GDO-R: Is that the title or one of the themes?

MO: Both.

GDO-R: I see…well, again, I am excited to read it. Care to elaborate further?

MO: No, that’s about it. It’s about stalking. How to do it, the required equipment, etc. Some of it may be field logs.

GDO-R: It sounds like a how-to manual; I thought you said it was a novel.

MO: It is. I don’t want to talk any more about it. Not to you, at least. Next subject, please.

GDO-R: Your influences? Who has inspired you most recently?

MO: I look to myself for inspiration. I get the ideas for my work by studying my reflection every morning. I’m quite the narcissist.

GDO-R: An honest answer. What are the last three books you’ve read?

MO: Catch-22, the Cat and the Hat Comes Back, and Zoia.

GDO-R: Those are… interesting selections. Dr. Seuss, eh? What’s the last one? Zoia? Who wrote that?

MO: It’s a Dainielle Steele novel.

GDO-R: Fair enough. How about movies? The last three movies you’ve seen?

MO: Rented or saw in the theater?

GDO-R: Rented.

MO: Okay, let’s see… The Limey, Manhattan Murder Mystery, and Backdoor Sluts 9.

GDO-R: Truly an enigma you are, Mike. Well, aside from writing what else have you been up to? Your face hasn’t been in the papers recently.

MO: That’s a good question. Well, I met someone a few months ago. She’s been occupying the majority of my time. Her name is Veronica. She’s the most perfect person ever. She was handed down from God Himself. He molded her for me.

GDO-R: She sounds great. How’d you meet her?

MO: It was the funniest thing- we met in the parking lot of the supermarket. Her kid was steering their shopping cart, and he let it go. It rolled across the parking lot and nailed my car door. It didn’t do any noticeable damage, but still– was I ever angry! I was about to hit the kid when I saw his mother. And that ass attached to her! OH MY GOD THAT ASS! A perfect full moon, haha! Once I saw that ass and it apologized, I couldn’t hit the kid. The relationship just took off from there.

And if you call me Mike again, I’ll fucking rip your heart out of your chest and eat it in front of you.

GDO-R: Whoa, yes sir…no more Mike. So Michael, how long have you and Veronica been seeing each other?

MO: Well, I’ve been seeing her since March. I sure hope she hasn’t seen me. That could mean trouble.

GDO-R: I’m afraid I’m confused. I thought you said you two were– wait, nevermind. . .

I think I understand.

MO: Some people enjoy bird-watching. I tried it once, but I really didn’t enjoy it very much. Although it was fun, and I totally connected with the immense beauty of nature, I didn’t connect with …something else. My watching hobbies are a little…(here he pauses thoughtfully) …closer to home. I like to stick to what I know. Beastiality is not my bag, baby.

GDO-R: I see. Well, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. I’m here to ask questions, not to judge.

MO: I thank you, sir.

GDO-R: Is Veronica even her real name?

MO: Definitely. I know that for sure. I’ve been stealing her mail, too.

GDO-R: That’s a felony, you know. Do you want to go back to jail?

MO: Nah. It’s cool. I’m only stealing her Victoria’s Secret and IKEA catalogs. And maybe the occasional Pottery Barn. She still gets all her bills!

GDO-R: What about personal letters?

MO: She still gets most of them.

GDO-R: Most of them?

MO: I thought you said you weren’t here to judge!

GDO-R: I’m not judging you. I’m just asking questions.

MO: Well, I don’t take stuff addressed to the kid. I only take stuff that looks like it could be from her bisexual lover.

GDO-R: How do you know she has a bisexual lover?

MO: That part I made up. It adds to the fantasy.

GDO-R: I see. Well, I hope you reconsider continuing this. I would hate to hear about you returning to prison. Have you ever thought about asking her out?

MO: Two things- she’s married. Plus she’s got a kid. Don’t worry about me getting caught, I stole someone’s identity right after I broke out of jail. No one knows my real name! It’s great! I recently had $27,000 worth of lyposuction and I just bought a minor league baseball team– the West Michigan Whitecaps! Soon to be the West Michigan Moes, after yours truly! Hell, I’ve even been buying bongs on eBay! Oh, excuse me… water pipes. It’s so foolproof. I’ve even got a fake ID with my fake name on it!

GDO-R: You’re telling me what I would imagine is confidential information. Are you this candid in all your interviews?

MO: Interview?

GDO-R: Yeah, interview. Remember? You agreed to do an interview for Gekko Dot Org: Redux.

MO: I did? I don’t remember that. When did I do agree to this? And this is the interview?

GDO-R: When we met at the Gap this afternoon. I was trying on pants, and you followed me to my car.

MO: Fuckin’ A, man. Something told me not to wash the Xanax down with champagne. I could have sworn– I thought– I thought you were my lawyer. Now that I realize that you’re not…I may have to kill ya.

GDO-R: Your secret is safe with me, Michael, I swear it. Just don’t hurt me.

MO: Alright, well…I’m going to take a little collateral, just to make sure this doesn’t get out.

At this point, he leapt across the table and forcibly extricated my tongue from my mouth using a switchblade he had hidden up his sleeve. Once he had my tongue in his pocket, he spat on my cowering body, as I lay loudly sobbing, begging him for mercy on my wayward soul. I was probably quite a sight. I remember the tears mixing with the blood oozing from my mouth and the gurgling sound of my breathing cavities filling with mucus and blood. The pain- my god, it was unbearable. Just as he was about to leave, he kicked me in the stomach and…

MO: What about your website?

GDO-R: Uh…what website?

MO: Exactly.

End of interview.

The following is all true. Well, most of it. The only untrue part of this post was the part where I said “the following is all true.” Really, none of the following is true. I would say that names have been changed to protect the innocent, but I’m not good at changing names. I’ve left them as-is, so that the parties guilty of articulated transgressions may own up to their wrong-doing. I am not sure how much of this account focuses on their wrong-doing, however. I think the lion’s share of the discourse will be on my own wrong-doing. Are you as confused as I am? Good. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.

Just remember that the following is completely [un]true.

I am afflicted with an irregularly acute case of mythomania. For example, three days ago, I told my parents I was moving to Flagstaff, Arizona to sell geodes out of a shoddy trailer with my coked-out girlfriend Jeanine. In reality, I was just going to the store to get some Good ‘N Plenty. (By Good ‘N Plenty, I do mean the candy. I’m not providing you readers out there with some abstruse euphemism for something more lurid. If I meant hot sex with the local harlot, I would have said that I went to the store to score some Saran Wrap and frozen pizzas.) Three weeks ago, I told a girl at work that I wanted her to have my baby. She sat there, dumbfounded at my open honesty. Seconds ticked by. Those seconds mounted into minutes. Those minutes decided they liked being seconds better and reverted back. Finally, she spoke, her cherubic mouth carefully moving, choosing just the right words, “Okay, so when do we start?”

(Heh! If only the above were true! Good N’ Plenty is excellent candy.)

What else can I confess? Let’s see…

I am a nerd. I have come to realize it after years of denial of my nerdish leanings and tendencies. I’m now resigned to take up residence in Nerdville Heights, suburb of Dweeb City, capitol of Nerbania. How am I nerd? Well, for starters, I like to read. I don’t read because Kerry says to or because the teacher assigned it. I read because I like reading. Moreover, I am an avid player of video games. In fact, several hours each week are dedicated to “jumping over pennies,” as my father once put it so eloquently. What else qualifies me as a nerd? Well, I think simply avowing one’s nerdship make one a nerd. This is not to say that I don’t enjoy being of a higher intellect than my more ovine or boorish counterparts, but as the aphorism goes, “ignorance is bliss.” I would much rather furrow my brow and attach inappropriate symbols to life in some vain attempt to understand something as grand as existence. Rather, I’m cursed with knowledge. I hate using Incubus [They are SO 1999. Morning View? More like Morning P-U. (Christ, that was lame. If there was a crime against lameness, I am certainly now the most wanted criminal because of that one statement. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes…)] as a reference, but it’s “strange that a gift could be an enemy.” To be of the earth, that is my greatest desire! To know nothing! To be witless! These things would guarantee me the one thing I have yet to procure: absolute freedom from worry or fear. Oh well. I know what I know, and apparently you never forget. Not naturally at least. If cartoons have taught me anything, all I need is a good wallop on the head to inflict selective amnesia– the kind of amnesia where I forget facts about my life, not that kind where I forget how to use the bathroom and bathe myself.

Alright, well, half of this confession was true. The other half was slightly exaggerated for dramatic effect. Speaking of dramatization, be sure to check out the [sarcasm]JESSICA LYNCH STORY: TRUE AMERICAN HERO.[/sarcasm] I mean, WTF!!! Jessica goes to Iraq to fight some cockamamie war. The chick gets captured. She passes out. She comes to. Her captors may have raped her, she can’t remember! She’s such an American Hero! Anything else you care to feed your phocidic public, President Bush, et al.? Give us a fish and watch us slap our fins together! Well, some of us. One seal is already sick of the tripe.

Anyway, enough ranting. I think it’s time for sleep.

–Post over, Mikey out.