Milliarium

*originally written before my 26th birthday

“I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.”
― Jack London


I think we're so fond of idioms that refer to a proverbial path or track because they simply imply a sense of purposeful direction. A path has already been tread, it's known territory by at least one other being; it leads somewhere. A track is proof of forward momentum (though there is an argument to be made about some tracks being circular and/or unending, ouroboric even, thus feeding some reincarnate infinitum ideology, but I won't make it here). We use milestones as reminders of our progression and as evidence of our accomplishments. The Golden Milestone in the middle of Rome was meant to be the central point from which all roads began, and where all roads were said to lead (it is now lost, nothing to read into).
And none of these are bad things. It's important to have consistent, healthy bursts of pro-activeness, forward thinking and evolutionary propulsion. It's also relevant to recognize your own Uterus Aureus, and be cognizant of the signposts and markers you've created, reached and driven past. It's necessary to be a part of this momentum, aside from it being the basis of all life. What I'm reaching for here is that while these implications can be arguably misleading or simplistic, you shouldn't lose sight of their idealism. By no means is this meant to discourage you from forging your own path, but rather to reinstate the significance of continuing to think of it as having a destination.
In short, next time someone tells you to be still, tell them to fuck off. Because essentially, they're asking you to die. Anyone who tells you to grow up is telling you to stop growing. So stay on track, enjoy your path, and just don't stop.
(Put on "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen)


Now be honest, how many people misread "simply imply"?

Shorn Enough

*author's note: My original title was 'Jesus donkey-raping Christ: Post Modern Hobo'. It has a better flow to it, a more eloquent cadence. However, were such a man to succumb to the lustful yearnings of bestiality (and, given the time period and abundance of said options, who wouldn't?) I'd like to think that ol' J-dog would be a considerate animal lover. Now I know that it's widely debated among top scientists & my relatives as to whether or not consensual love-making can exist between man and beast, but that's not what we're dealing with today. The issue is, if Jesus Christ were to place his erect member into a nearby cloven creature, he would no doubt do so tenderly, and with consent. Believe me, if there's one thing Christ-y McNichol stood for, it's NO raping (this is why SVU’s Det. Stabler has a tattoo of Captain Miracle on his arm).
Also, all the donkeys in Jerusalem were total sluts.

My mind is capable of going pretty far down some pretty dark roads. I can indulge long, complex, detailed thoughts of many horrors that Republicans spend hush money on without hesitation. There are, however, certain topics; certain landmarks, traffic signs, roadside attractions, which when come upon during said travels down said dark roads, cause rapid deceleration, or even the immediacy of the mental emergency brake. This intrigues me.
Like bestiality. There is a very limited time frame with which I can give bestiality my rapt attention. Sure, I can begin to imagine a sheep's vagina, and I can picture myself standing behind it, contemplative, aloof.... but that's about it. I can take the exit, stop at the light, look in either direction, but then it's right back on the interstate.
Incest is even worse. I see the approaching off-way for incest, and I glance at it, but I can't even slow down to properly read the signs. Meaning, I picture a close relative and the word floats past their head, and suddenly I go blind for 8 seconds and my asshole explodes.
Now it's probably for the best that these built in fail-safes work so well. Your body is supposed to keep you from making these mistakes. The scent of your immediate family's body odor and waste is meant to turn you away, as opposed to the way that a potential mate's natural musk can arouse you. I'm not saying that without these safety mechanisms I'd be knocking out the extremely local ass, but just that my mind doesn't respond to mere attempts at peering into these torrid worlds without an onset of Stevie Wonder diarrhea.

What I find odd are the areas where the roadblocks do NOT appear. If I were to delve into daydreams of trespassing and theft, I wouldn't blink at the mass of creative insight. I don't even need to begin to go into the levels of compromise and depravity certain sexual fantasies are capable of realizing. The one I find most disconcerting is the depth of the exploration of murder.
I can think about murdering someone for far too long, and in far too much detail. The preparation, the kill, the clean-up... and not just the basics. There could be levels of torture involved, provided I imagine the victim as deserving (according to the arbitrary standards of morality in my head movies). Not just physical, but emotional and sexual (I could make a quick visit to a rest stop, to mix the metaphor with reality), maybe grinding on the man's lap and nibbling his ear between slaps and ripped toenails (please ignore this), and my mind would continue said viciousness until I got bored or was interrupted by that commercial where the hamster is playing drums on the street.

A person should absolutely be able to imagine making love to a sheep before they can think about killing someone. This seems like a no-brainer (actually, I guess it's very much a brainer). People have been fucking sheep since the beginning of sheep (or people), and it is a pastime that has survived every form of civilization we've created. Human beings have been fucking their relatives throughout history as well, sometimes to great success (with the exception of Charles II of Spain). I'm not trying to encourage bestiality or incest, and I'm far from an advocate of either. What I'm struggling to arrive at is that Jesus would have mounted a sheep before he took a life (or at least he should have, if I'm reading it right). And maybe he did.
Old Floaty Toes was an odd duck. People were unsure about him, this drifter with a posse and propensity for the meek. I suppose he was by definition a hobo (tramps only work when forced to, and bums don't work at all), as it seems that he worked in carpentry most of his life. I mean, he probably had more going for him than most other kids in the neighborhood, but look where it got him.

Imagine the brief excitement that followed Christ throughout the biblical ghettos. The way a child is foolishly told that they can be president, there must have been a time where it was almost practical to believe that you could be the Messiah. That could have been nice. There aren’t many tangible dreams for poor kids.

It amazes me how people are continually incapable of comprehending the lack of options presented to those born into poverty. Your first few years, whatever you see around you is an utterly absolute portrayal of the world. Once that is indelibly ingrained into your psyche, you progress into actually learning what said surroundings mean, how they work, what your function is within them. By the time you're getting your shit together, seeing the real world, possibly attending a broken school long enough to be discouraged, then it's time to join the ranks of a society that has predisposed notions of your lack of ability and self respect. Lower class kids don't stand a chance, and when your viable options are next to nothing, then you could start murdering & fucking your cousins & pets.

That's not fair. International royalty has probably defiled as many kinfolk and critters (although when it comes to Charles II of Spain there's not much difference, Whammy!) as the downtrodden have throughout time. Well, probably not by sheer numbers, but there's just so many poor people. How are they supposed to grow out of it?

The fact that these indiscretions have survived as they have means nothing. Human beings haven't grown or evolved, not really. Oh sure, every once in awhile we create new ideas of civility and propriety, and adapt whimsical facades of domestication, but all in vain. We've mastered the art of advancing our toys and distractions from mortality, and created an almost never-ending, perhaps Ouroboric, progression of technology and industry... but it's the wrong kind of progress. Human evolution has become a failure for the simple reason that we haven't evolved our humanity. Ideals of community and shared experience and flat out common decency have been defeated by modern capitalism. Christ-ina Reach-y hangs his head in shame (as do I for that painful Jesus pun).

Where can it possibly go from here? Try as I might to access an area of my imagination where optimism for humanity makes sense, I just can't. Too many roadblocks. Here, I'll try again... no, nobody will properly fund green technology... no, people love their cars, mass transit won't catch on... get that sheep out of here... nuh-uh, military bases provide too many jobs, what else... ... oh, hey Aunt Sue, what're you- gah, I'm Helen Keller and I can't stop shitting!

When I consider all of this; that the current evolution of our species disinterests me; that the sick and the poor will likely be left to suffer and die; that human beings can more easily imagine taking a life before relinquishing their property; that people who fuck animals and their relatives are shunned without any attempt at understanding... I can't help but realize that it kind of comes across like I really want your permission to fuck a sheep.

From the Bowels of Enoch?

It's not easy for me to open up about things like this, especially in such a public manner. I've always felt a bit of a need for absolution... no, that's saying too much. I've always sought some sort of vindication for my sins and errors, a way to prove my intent and legitimacy without having to ask for forgiveness. If I can somehow justify these offenses to others, perhaps that will assuage the feelings I refuse to label as guilt. Yet in doing so, have I not already recognized said emotions as regretful, and therefore owe a responsibility not just to those offended but to myself, to seek some form of retribution? Is it possible for that level of self-reflection to negate penance?
I may be getting ahead of myself here. What I'm trying to say is that I feel bad for taking a shit on that homeless guy's face.

Now I had a well-prepared defense completely mapped out for when the time came for me to own up to this indiscretion. There were all sorts of excuses and pressing manners and 'you-had-to-be-there' ramblings of Bullshit and Exit Strategies (copyrighted for my book on that Iraqi matador) primed to unleash at the first inkling of judgment from any listener or bystander or material witness. However, I now feel it just to simply state my case as openly and honestly as possible, in the hope that my candor will somehow allow my grief to fade.

So I was on my way home from a barbeque, consuming all that was left of the cheap whiskey and cheese popcorn I had been thoughtful enough to contribute to the feast (though I had managed to get away with the remainders of my own and several other's dishes), swerving with grace and ease past the slow-moving traffic and oddly placed pedestrians, when I was suddenly struck by the revelation that Jesus Christ I hadn't had a Star Crunch in fucking forever. I quickly pulled over to the nearest fuel depot/mini-mall, fingers crossed as I leapt from the car and bounded inside. Fuck yes they had Star Crunch.

With a deserving glow of happenstance and glee, I walked directly out into the dead eyes and putrid squalor of what one would kindly refer to as a "bag lady" (though 'lady' seems a bit much, and I saw no bags. Maybe more of a "trash whore". No, that's mean. I guess she can be a lady. A lady-bum).

"Is that your car?!" she screeched through jagged nothings of Cold Piss and Cum-Rot (also copyrighted, for that overdue exposé on the bathrooms in Oak Lawn).
"Pardon?"
She took a step forward, then angrily shot out a bejeweled, cloven reptile wing (some drugs might have taken effect here) to signal my attention to the side of the building.
"There! Your car?"
There was my car.
"There my car" I affirmed.

Unsure of where this was going, I opened the Star Crunch and took in my surroundings. I had absolutely no idea where I was. As I peered back towards my vehicle, some things began to come into focus. One, the driver's door was ajar. Two, the engine was running. Three, there was a shopping cart lying on it's side in front of the car, with crazy homeless apocalyptic debris scattered from it in every direction. Then the lady-bum took my Star Crunch.

"Hey! Give me that back, you crazy old yeast mattress" I totally didn't say.
I understood what had happened, and figured the least I could do was let her get a chocolate fix. Apparently I had just walked out of the car without making the slightest effort to park, and it had rolled into her most precious belongings. No, it wasn't just cans.
As I righted the cart and sifted through the rubble, holding up various pieces of garbage to receive either the nod of approval or disavowal from the future Eliot Liebow interviewee, a haggard man walked up and began to assist me.

"Aw, come on now, you don't need to do that. She's always trying to pull something like this, I swear..."
He said some other things, but I was getting bored and was still hungry, and since he was picking everything up I went to move my car and open a beer.
I had a few hot dogs, and decided that the least I could do was offer one to the lady-bum, to whom I had only been known as some destructive force of chocolate, caramel crisp loving- god damn I wish I could've had that Star Crunch!
After I took a shot of whiskey and grabbed some dogs, I walked over and found that she had gone; vanished into the night, like a gypsy grocery shopper in a landfill of used diapers and tarnished dreams, who also maybe gives reptilian hand-jobs. Luckily the helpful man-bum was there, so we shared some wieners.

Here's the thing that's exceptionally great about giving food to the homeless: they really need it. I know that seems simplistic, but that's exactly what's so god damn beautiful about it. In a world full of massive, soul-crushing issues and perplexities mixed with colossal, catastrophic problems, it's still possible to be presented with a dilemma that is both immediate and easily remedied. This man has no food, nor money to buy any. I not only have some food, but am secure in the certainty of future meals. I give him some food, he lives another day, or at the very least experiences a modicum of rare satisfaction. Short term problem solving is usually the only kind we're blessed with achieving, so it warrants joy and a sense of accomplishment. It's like solving a crossword puzzle.
I did, however, end up shitting on a guy's face.

This is where the denial would come in, but alas, I simply must ask for your mercy. As extenuating as I could make the circumstances appear, there can be no excuse for such scatological treatment of what appeared to be a war veteran.
I think it's the popcorn that did it, though whiskey and wieners and being in a pool all day drinking ever-warming beer between mouthfuls of jalapeno chips and queso probably didn't help. My gut just started to bubble.
We had sat down together, the man-bum and I, on the curb to enjoy some frank-meat and frank talk. This was the sort of Steinbeck masculine fantasy I enjoyed to play out in evenings of inner-city drunken mischief and chance. Would we discuss the politics of being an urban nomad, or the intricacies of daily survival, or even just some kind of sports thingy?
No, he wanted to talk about these "Kardach-eyan" characters.

Now I don't mean to imply that a brief discussion about the Kardashian family made my asshole explode, but that just happens to be exactly what occurred. The distressed man-bum, between vigorous swallows of my under-appreciated gesture of communal beef, wouldn't shut up about whatever gibberish his sordid tongue had begun excreting, at least not long enough for me to scream "I'm-really-sorry-but-a-poop-star-is-about-to-supernova-through-my-cargo-shorts-fuck-shit!"
So I had to be rude and just run away. I slammed through the doors and frantically searched the Gas-n-Sip for a room where my ass could drip from percolation. Unfortunately, the station was not equipped with ‘facilities.’
I raced to the back of the building, shorts sliding off along the way, and finally experienced an ecstasy of relief over a massive pile of scattered garbage. Except that within that pile of garbage there lied a second homeless man, comfortably asleep, dreaming of a better life until someone came along and shit all over his face.
Me. I shit on his face. A lot.

I left before anything else happened. I really wanted to get home and shower, plus the other leftovers needed to go in the fridge. The original man-bum tried to yell something to me as I sped away, but I was too embarrassed and didn't really care what he said to begin with. That hobro-mantic dream was literally a fading image in my mirror as I journeyed onward into further depths of sullen shame.

So I guess the point is that that gas station really had a lot of homeless people. And they didn't even have a bathroom! Can you believe it?

Wow. I really do feel better.

Thanks for the Soda, Asian Prostitute.

There were several factors that led to my eventual and admittedly inevitable patronization of a small Asian prostitute. However, before I take that boner exhausting stroll back down memory layin' (remember to copyright this for Norman Rockwell porn series) I feel it necessary to offer a bit of an author's note.

Specific identities and locations have been altered or left out in order to protect those who shared in/provoked the following immoral self-indulgences. This may seem an unnecessary precaution to those with whom I've previously regaled this tale of lechery, but I feel it's only fair to not endanger certain relationships and professions because of my own need for recitation. Also, this story has a lot of my penis in it (now YOU make a joke!)

Every time I begin to tell a story about myself from the past 9-10 years, I try to preface it by describing how drunk/fucked up I was. I now realize that this may be an unnecessary step, as I really don't have much of a barometer for my levels of altered states through time, especially while living in Denton. Let's just say that this particular chapter occurred somewhere between the haze of the trailer park and the exhaustion of sunrise canoeing. Yes, the duplex days; jugs of Polar Ice and 30 packs of Keystone, kiddie pool beers and rooftop tents, heart attacks, rodents, acid on Thanksgiving and a thin wall between hip-hop and death metal. Simpler times.
In the midst of said times I was to bid a hopefully temporary farewell to a friend who had come into a bit of money to burn before their departure. We took this as an opportunity to take our party level from Dazed & Confused to Fear & Loathing in 3716 #A (yes, our address was #A, and yes, this joke is lame). I can't exactly recall the length of time this extended lost weekend took to complete, but by the time we were headed to the cat-house we were a solid 3 days drunk, jittery from blow, freshly tattooed and contemplating the bottle of Hydrocodone (Lortab?) in the cup holder.
Once we had made the u-turn on I-35, I knew our pilgrimage to the strip-mall brothel was a certainty. It was then that I decided to pop the muscle relaxer, as they had always caused a certain level of, uh, let's say girth induction, in me, which at this point seemed necessary to reach even a moderate level of solidity... balsa wood, if you will.

I've never agreed with the whole 'button on a fur coat' analogy for the condition of cocaine penis. Maybe it's because I'm not sure that fur coats have buttons, or maybe it's because I haven't seen enough fur coats in the orange-ish family. For whatever reason, the simile just doesn't sit right with me. The closest I've come to a proper description is when you've eaten most of the lifesavers and have folded a bit of the paper back over the top.

So we pull into the back lot of a nearly gated off three shop business strip next to a La Quinta Inn and walk in to what resembles the front room of a tiny money laundering shop in England. The woman behind the glass discusses things with my associate, and after a short wait a door is buzzed, unbolted and opened to reveal a tall Middle Eastern woman and a shorter East Asian woman, both in lingerie, both with smiles, both working the 3AM shift on a Tuesday.
The more Amazonian of the two offers to take me back, but I have my eye elsewhere. I had a certain expectation of how this momentous occasion would play out, and it usually mirrored The Pillow Book more than Halfaouine: Boy of the Terraces (this is an amazing joke). As subtly as I thought possible, I indicated my preference. Looking back, it was probably rather foolish to think that my desire of the other prostitute would hurt any feelings, but I truly believe that in my own mis-managed way, I was trying to treat these objects like women. So I went with the Asian whore.
The rest of the evening played out as a ribaldrous game of Saigon Says. We entered a small, romantic room with a few candles, a chair, a massage table and a large,
glaring, obviously two-way mirror. And the seduction began:

"So, what would you like?"
"Um, I don't know... I guess, just the usual, or..."

I had seen enough movies to coach me through the artful dodging of entrapment.

"You want everything?"
"Sure, yeah. Let's do... everything"
"You want take a shower?"
"Uh, okay."
"Okay, you undress."

She stepped out as I gave the mirror some raised eyebrows before a deep breath and a shrug. I pulled off my shoes and socks and carefully placed them to the side by the chair. Then my shirt, then my pants. I have no idea why I felt the need to delicately fold each item and arrange my attire in a respectable stack, but as I've tried to relate, my mind was for a bit of a wander. Now, I could feel that the downers had yet to offset the cocaine, but they had begun to affect my sense of 'giving-a-shit', so I dropped the boxer briefs and stood, staring at the door, waiting for a flicker of dicker.
The great thing was that by the time she walked in I knew that this was all going to happen regardless, so I began to relax and enjoy the ludicrous abandonment of it all. My Geisha in Gilly Hicks wrapped a towel around me and led me down a hall to what pretty much resembled a cleaner version of where Riggs was tortured in Lethal Weapon 1. Maybe not that bad; the lighting was excellent. I think I was by this point so fucked up that everything had that soft-porn glow, like vanilla candles and billowing beige bed canopies, in a Jr. High shower. Along for the ride as ever, I lost the towel and stood while our flirtatious discourse intensified.

"You want hot water, or cold?'
"Hot, hot. I mean..."

I glanced down, as if to notify her of the assistance needed before we could experience "everything". She nodded in approval and pulled out a long shower head extension, whose climaxing member was the cause of both great joy and great envy. The hot water spray-down was working it's magic as Esmeralda from earlier poked her head in and said something in Prostitutian I couldn't quite make out. She then gave me a full body scan and a wolf whistle, which I understood to be placating as I was still hanging cold-water brain.
I was then told to lie down on a sort of waterproof massage table, where I was rubbed head to toe with a washcloth of warm soaps and snake-oil (I presume), front and back. It was easily the best I have ever been washed by another human being. This went on for what felt like 12-15 minutes, and then it was time to go back to the first room. I remember thinking to myself that even if that had been everything, I would be content. Maybe even more so.
Alas, the best had yet to come.

I was told to lay, face-down, on the voyeur-tastic massage table, without my towel. As I did so, I peeked over to see my gracious hostess drop her negligee to reveal... "everything". She climbed onto my back and began what turned out to be a much more sensuous massage than I expected, replete with oils, subtle grinding, and hot breaths on my ears and upper back. As it progressed, I sensed something. A presence I had not felt since... well, probably the night before, or earlier that morning maybe. Almost on cue I was rolled over, still mounted, as her breasts were brought up to me...

The door opened. Jasmine gave us a quick look and informed us, "All finished." She then turned and closed the door.
I had only a moment to assume that she meant her and my compatriot had completed their romp before the Asian hooker's mouth was around my wavering member.

Not business-like at all. For what seemed to be a small establishment, the level of skill and commitment was uncanny. I wasn't prepared to believe that these girls would be so convincing in their portrayals of enjoyment and desire. Not with this location. But sure enough, in what in no way was a side effect of my pre-coital consumptions, we were having hot, freshly-cleaned sex.
Her on top, close and further back, rolled over and continued. And then...
Somewhere, in the cloud of lewdness and revelry I had indulged for days, I thought I should be respectful. I reverted to what at the time was an instinctual act of not only safety, but courtesy. Forgetting my surroundings, my current activity, the profession of my sexual partner... I pulled out.
And as the world began to reappear around me, I looked down to see this woman's soft, patronized face looking back at me with disappointment. She reached down and put her hand around what I had just then realized was my prophylact-ed self. I believe I smiled a bit, and through calming breaths muttered, "force of habit."
I crawled off and sat in the chair across from our now desecrated site of passion, almost merrily awaiting some pillow-talk. She sat up, posturing herself.

"Thirsty? You want a coke, some water?"
"Um, yeah, I'll take a coke. Great."
"Okay."

She left, and I sat, naked and happy. I really believed that she would come back with two soft drinks and we would just shoot the shit for awhile. Maybe I would be the one customer she would open up to, share a little reality with. I'm empathetic, I'm charming. Wouldn't that be nice, a break from all the scum she probably puts up with in here. I think she would appreciate someone really listening to her for once.
She walked back in, no doubt ready for a coke and a smile. She only brought one cola, but so what? I took a long gulp, then looked over to her.

"So, do you have girlfriend?"
"Oh, uh... no, no, not really. No."
"Oh."

I sat still, suddenly feeling the awkwardness seeping in.

"So, should I go?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Oh, okay. Right. Yeah."

I dressed in a hurry and walked out to the waiting room, where my pal sat with a magazine and grin full of excrement. I hung my head a bit before releasing a chuckle, and asked if we were all settled. He said we were, and the ladies waved goodbye as we left.
Feeling almost sober, certainly invigorated, I asked to drive and we pulled away, just as another car was pulling in. After some hesitant, muted laughter we began to open up to each other. I shared my sensual epic of heated depravity, awaiting a story that would rival my own. What I got was this;

"Oh, I just got a blow job."


And she didn't even charge me for the Coke.