War Is Language : 101 Short Works (9781937316044) (13 page)

Regardless, if you make it through the
day, if you make it through the week, if you impress your mother
and father, your husband or wife, with your grades, with your
batting stance, with your time on the gleaner, with your driving
record, with your boyfriend, with your free throw percentage, with
your first paycheck, with your raise, with your contract, maybe
they’ll take you to DQ, for a Blizzard. Maybe they’re looking for a
reason to go themselves. Yes! And maybe when you get there, a paid
kid behind the counter will care a little bit more than usual, will
not seem put-upon or bored, will say hello, will smile, and will
let you watch how carefully the soft serve goes into the medium
waxed paper cup, how evenly measured the Reese’s Pieces flavor
morsels can be as they’re spooned into the cup, how particularly
the fan blade on the Blizzard machine can be lowered into the ice
cream, how the switch can be turned on, and how a person (who
really knows the way to make a decent Blizzard) raises and lowers
the cup, in an even rhythm, with skill. How that same person turns
off the fan blade, slams the cup against the counter to get rid of
that central vortex, shoves a long-handled red spoon into the cup,
and hands it over to you, to someone who's been watching, waiting
patiently, maybe all week, maybe longer.

76 —
Overwhelmed

Dear Fake Advice Columnist,

I like women. All different kinds but
especially reinvented elastic driveway gate pinup girls rinsed
sulfate-free. And sometimes I don’t mind taking one out for a nice
meal. Or for a movie or something. But then about halfway through
dinner I start to freak the fuck out, you know, because no matter
what, I can just sense all these overwhelming expectations she has
about the situation. You know how they are with their mounting
emotive tensions. If they’re interested at all, you blink and
they’re involved. Suddenly they want to date; nay, to love; who
dares to dream so small! To perish together in a bed of bliss at
the end of some well-matched longevity! She doesn’t know anything
about who I am. So I usually just fuck her doggie style over the
arm of my couch and then give her enough cash for a cab. Is there
some way not to be overwhelmed by the dinner?

Dear
Overwhelmed,

No.

79 — Stating the
Obvious

Dear Fake Advice
Columnist,

Sometimes people are assholes, pricks,
bitches, and motherfuckers. Can you tell me why?

Dear Stating the
Obvious,

Interactions work to keep people
centered in the golden wheelbarrow on pavement iced with
sweet-sixteen cadence-swung sun-damaged extremities. Everyone is
always policing everyone else in these nurturing ways. When others
are down, people bring them up. (That’s when you like people.) When
others are up, people work diligently at bringing others down.
(That’s when you state the obvious.) It works. Not like soluble
fiber exactly. It’s more unblemished by instant feedback and
awe-inspiring smoky eyes blasting some unforgettable announcement:
the pampering oasis of an upcoming release to beat relentlessly
through a sedentary layoff that will taper, burn, float, and record
record surges. Helps us keep to the middle of the ridge as we walk
our own paths through life. It's the grace of sustenance on a blue
lagoon day for a brown woman in a bikini and knee-length
cardigan.

80 — Mommy
Dearest

Dear Fake Advice Columnist,

I’m a stay-at-home mom, and I hate it.
It’s the worst job I’ve ever had. I want to quit, but I’m deathly
afraid of the societal judgment that I’d be forced to endure for
the rest of my life.

Dear Mommy
Dearest,

You know, perhaps there is a
derivation of getting fired in the legal system. But the real issue
is resenting that there’s never a way to kick back and rake in the
unemployment. Such a nuisance. Try this: Be one girl with
heart-shaped lips pomegranate-stained and coated with eight-hour
shine fix polymers; try to chew through a dripping gold necklace.
Do it a little too much until someone takes a stand, because what
you want is to be laid off to avoid subjecting yourself to a
lifetime of constant denigration.

81 — Slacker

Dear Fake Advice Columnist,

My motivation for everything in life
has totally waned. I’m thinking about giving up. Advice?

Dear Slacker,

Picture a black woman in a white body
suit. Get a bike. On the straightaways: don’t stop peddling; keep
the rhythm consistent and set your mind free to explore unending
horizons. Snap, float, high on private thoughts like oversized
cards you can throw up against the low ceiling. Then, give yourself
a white woman in low-rise purple pants, with a tramp stamp. Give
her a purple hat, too. Make it big and floppy. But. Let her leave
the sunglasses behind. They’re not forgotten. It’s a choice made
with violins and candy apple-sticky lips. On the bike uphill: head
down, power through, use your low gears, and always remember to
breathe. Stroke a fluttering magazine filled with a camera’s
collection. Scream no doom-boom at any close walls. This situation
is not a breakdown, fully. Not a violation, at all. Let go. Get
along with the woman who walks into skintight sunset-lit water. The
silhouette of the fringe on her sarong proves nothing more than the
woman solid-calved hiking the headlands with a farrier pack. On the
downhill? Fuck it, there's nothing like descent. Keep your eyes
open. Pick your feet up. Let the pedals fly. Smile. Steer the best
you can. And enjoy that inimitable rush of wind on your face. The
subwoofers are always there with the neon coil, flashing, reminding
you to please, breathe, see, worst, need, and rock.

48 —
Mother/Child

Mama, don’t stop being a child yourself. Freud
should have kept his mouth shut. So what if we inch out on the
limbs of idealized perfection, testing each soft spot with a toe?
The blame game is bullshit even if we should have money in the
bank, find at least one blast-lasting job, and keep our stabilized
eyes in some sort of relationship established with unwandering over
the great expanse.

Motherhood lies in wait. A gorilla
baby holds its mother, gripping her fur. Mary sits in my hybrid
with gilt halo and child. Her palms open to the world.

82 — Judgmental

Dear Fake Advice Columnist,

I’m really negative and critical. But
I don’t like it when other people are. How can I pass judgment on
others all the time without having it come back on me?

Dear
Judgmental,

So today my dentist filled a small
cavity. He was like, "You don't need the anesthetic, do you?" I was
like, "Um, I guess not." But basically I was like, “Whatever, man.
You tell me."

If you don't enjoy submission, you've
got a problem at the dentist’s. You're laid back, head in his lap,
mouth open, can’t talk, and he's using incredibly scary tools in
your face.

Anyway, then out of nowhere he offered
to sand down the chips in my teeth for free. He was like, "You want
me to take care of that for you? I hate to see a pretty girl with
an imperfection. My treat." I was like, "Why are you pointing out
my flaws?" Then he was like, "Whatever, let me get in there with a
sander." So fine. I’m game. Because, let's face it, this is the
most bizarre gift ever.

A minute later I was like, "My teeth
are super hot." He was like, "Oh yeah. That's the friction." Then
he got his fixated perfectionist vibe on, called about three women
over to commend him on his achievement of sanding my incisors so
well, and also for some reason to trash talk the other dentists all
these girls used to work for, because apparently those guys would
never treat their patients so well.

Well. Then there was this weird
silence. I didn’t get it at first. But. Finally I picked up on the
fact that he wanted validation from me, too. (So much for free.)
But I’m like, okay, sure. "You're the best dentist who’s ever
pointed out flaws and sanded down teeth as a community service to
pretty girls."

24 — The Status
Report

Here is one way to relate to
the world. You may, at any given point in time, cry your status.
Picture. Picture. Song. Politico. Picture. Here are the
instructions: Give status reports on a periodic basis. Not every
thirty seconds. Not once a week. But. Daily,
appropriately.

What is a status report? Pleasant
things, seen and done. Or. Whatever! Virtually every conversation I
can imagine is a status report. When friends get together the
entirety of the interaction is one status report after the next.
Men state their status in rather physical terms and women in rather
emotional terms.

Fathers may or may not be dozing in
the front room while status reports are streaming by, but they have
the authority to jerk to cognizance and demand the status of
anything from anyone at any time. But it is the mothers who in
particular are constant harpies of micromanagement when it comes to
status. They are the revisionists, the censors, who demand to not
only know where your physical body is in space and time but also
such a plethora of data points on the status graph that anyone can
succumb to a life comprised of providing one’s mother with
data.

Open up your wallet, suckah! Show me
some sensory spectacle of self even if gray is the given field with
absolutely no contrast where one is welcome to flail and panic and
hyperventilate one’s way towards differentiation of some kind with
blue bars—real or imagined.

Wait. No! I know! Low overhead with
screen printing and cheap shirts. Do it in the basement, or
wherever. I can sit for quite some time watching the sailboats on
the water, watching the trees toss their bright new green leaves in
the wind, while munching pistachios. But. Sometimes I do other
things. I enjoy drinking myself into a stupor, driving while under
the influence of whatever I can afford, sleeping with strangers,
spending money I don't have, going places I’ve never been, and
being an insufferable bitch to the people I care most about. I also
like being outside on a gorgeous day.

They are doing exactly what everyone
does at the mall!!

I have racked my brain trying to come
up with a conversation I have had recently which is not essentially
a status report. Currently worth billions, these collective status
reports have risen to a sort of pinnacle of human
interaction.

72 — Bother

Dear Fake Advice Columnist,

I’m real apathetic about life and
don’t really feel like eating. Do I have to bother?

Dear Bother,

No. Don’t bother. It’s all too much
trouble. The flavors. The sensations. The memories. The dishes. The
recycling. The trash. The traditional recipes. The years on top of
years. The guilt. The ghosts. You don’t need it. Having to have the
oven at 400 just to honor your heritage seems not at all worth it.
You can subsist on things like granola bars and serving-sized
bottles of cheap wine.

83 — Poor, Benighted,
Self-Centered, Bitter Soul of Vengeance

Dear Fake Advice
Columnist,

I got herpes from some asshole at a
frat party. I am so pissed off you have no idea. I’m definitely
spreading this shit to as many dickwads as I can. Sure, I almost
like some of these guys, and, okay, fine, I can’t seem to get over
that. At this point, I don’t give a fuck about anybody but myself.
So is there anything I can do to extinguish any hopeful, happy
feelings that may arise while I’m destroying as many people’s lives
as possible?

Dear Poor Benighted
Self-Centered Bitter Soul of Vengeance,

It sounds to me as if you know exactly
what’s best. Have a nice time!

78 — Owner of
Dynasty

Dear Fake Advice
Columnist,

Everyone else I know got married. I’m
not married and hate the idea of another person living in my home
and eating the stuff in my fridge. But I want to do something
really big and showy, send great cards to everyone. How should I
word the invitations for a commitment ceremony to my shar-pei,
Dynasty?

Dear Owner of
Dynasty,

So after a while I put on some red
lipstick and walked down on the beach to watch the jugglers. Right
now I'm getting a six-pack and heading over to a friend's house for
dinner. I take pretty decent care of myself. And I’m really good at
my job.

Wait, what was your
question?

84 — Familial Run-in with
Religious Hypocrisy

Dear Fake Advice Columnist,

Sometimes I get confused about right
and wrong. I mean I do absolutely everything everyone tells me; I’m
sure I do because I resent everyone and everything, am frustrated
all the time, absolutely must be with people constantly, and have
no ideas of my own. So I know I’ve got that part right. Okay. So. I
go to church and sit next to my bratty kids who kick my shins for
an hour solid with their cheap patent leather shoes. Well, last
week, during the invocation, I was on my way to make ten gallons of
coffee in the ancient percolator and noticed my mother making out
with the hot teenage acolyte in the choir practice room. She’s
almost sixty-three. Shouldn’t Mom have a little fun with a boy toy
in her spare time?