I, Proteus

The lesson was learned long ago:
You can't raise shields after foes pounce.
I grew to take another tact.
No shape-shifting, no lions nor snakes,
Though still tough to grasp as water.

Many mansions are in this house,
Whole neighborhoods and borroughs too.
By predicting and reacting,
I'll lead you where you want to go
And show you what you wish to see.

What I leave out you'll just ignore,
Convinced by your hypothesis
And that what's not there is hidden,
As opposed to not existing.
I know how you present yourself.

I'll tell you fundamental truths,
But couch them in ironic tone.
Then, outrageous inanities
I'll present with staunch conviction.
It's not my job to think for you.

Denigrating, deprecating,
I attack myself gleefully,
Knowing well that, though you might smirk,
A part of you believes my jests.
Who'd say such things if they weren't true?

Adaptive gestalt, mosaic,
I simply play with perspective.
Defense in depth, testing if you
Can see the forest for the trees.
In truth, it is quite plain to see.

For when words and actions diverge,
Follow not what I say, but do,
And then you will know all that is.
I remain whom I've always been.
I dance in light. I hide in sight.

I, Proteus

It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

Tomorrow the Mayans will sadly prove their prescience and we'll all be cast off the surface of the planet and into the limitless abyss or some great Cthulhu will rise from the Laurentian Abyss to devastate us in its Old God fury or hot places will freeze and cold places will melt and terror wind will spin us all to death in ice-sharded flame. Hell, why not all of that together?

Why not? Because post-diluvian apocalypses have not occurred, at least not since Toba, 70,000 or so years ago. Oh, they've been talked and written about, ad nauseum, but here we are, still prepping and predicting.

And yet, I think the preoccupation with apocalypses doesn't have to do with the mass deaths, but, paradoxically, with individual life.  No matter the apocalyptic prophecy, there are always survivors who must struggle in the post-apocalyptic era, be they the gas diviners of Mad Max, the Father and Son of the cannabalistic wastes of The Road, the bumblingly incompetent fools of The Walking Dead, or, perhaps, even all of us today since the ancient historian Josephus claimed that the Holy Spirit fled the world at the destruction of the Temple by the Romans in 70AD. Even the Christian Revelation, for all its horror build-up, ends with judgment of the living and dead. We all, secretly, despite the scarring torment of seeing our friends and family die, want to believe we have what it takes to make it through.

"*They* might die.*They* might have to die. But not *me*. *I* won't die. *I* can't be killed. *I* have a plan."

Three years ago, I was having dinner with a buddy and the bubbly waitress, cute as a button and as smart as one to boot, chatted us up.  Somehow, she got wide-eyed and asked us if we were scared of the Mayan Apocalypse that was coming in a few years.  I explained I was a former Army officer just getting ready to willfully go to Afghanistan and he was a Force Recon Marine who'd served in both warzones so, no, we weren't particularly scared.  She pressed. 

"But what if they're right?"
 
"Oh, well, then I suppose I'd go to the coast, find a sailboat, and ride it out.  You don't want to be on land for the apocalypse.  Noah taught us that." 

"Can you sail a boat?" 

"I used to be able to. I have a few years to get this all figured out."

"Can I come with you?!"

"Sure, we need pretty girls to rebuild civilization."

"I don't know how to build anything."

I looked at my buddy. He looked at me. I kept my straight face.

"I'll explain it to you when it's time."

"How will I find you?"

"Head to the coast. Stay off the main roads.  I'll be in the sailboat."

"Okay!"

At that point, she went off to fetch us another round of beers. He asked me if I needed to borrow his wheels to take her out after she got off shift. I declined because I don't mess with button-smart women, regardless of how cute.

I mention all of that because, again, deep down, I think we all want the apocalypse, any apocalypse, to happen, prepostrous as it might seem.  For Y2K, my cousin and friends and I stayed up at my pop's place in the mountains. I joked we should do it there because if everything went to hell, it is eminently defensible.  Of course I was joking, but, you know what?  It *is* eminently defensible.

It dawned on me this morning, perhaps the last we'll ever know if/when the Mayans are right, that I now live on the coast. I bought a sailboat and learned how to use it (sorta), and I live a 30-minute, weapon-laden run from my marina.

Mandee, wherever you are, head to the coast, stay off the main roads, and look for me in the sailboat.  Bring scented candles and some wine.  We'll rebuild civilization. Trust me.

1st Open Mic: I am *NOT* a Comedian

So, Tuesday is Trivia night.   It just is. I go, I yell out answers to questions the part-time comedian/part-time journalist/part-time trivia host asks and often times, my friends and I get free drinks or, God Willing, cash.  The host asked us out to an open mic night at a local place where he was going to perform.  A friend and I said we'd go.

I've kept a scrolling list of standup bits for years.  Something hits, I'll write it down and email it to myself so I have a record of it.  Last night, I started listening to the local amateurs (no judgment with the term; just fact; they ain't being paid) and I got the itch.  But like Luke with his targeting computer, I turned off my phone.  Most of getting comedy across is the delivery and style, moreso often than the words.  That's what I was getting from listening to the guys read off their notes.  And earlier in the day I'd listened to a podcast where Louis CK extolled the virtues of winging it.

So on the fly, I came up with an angle, and I wrote it down, and I wanted it real so I'd remember it without having to read it much (because reading kills it) and slugged a few beers and asked the guy to let me go on.  I got to go on last.  The host introduced me as a "first time comedian." So the recording starts after that.

Below, I'll type out the transcript of what I wrote, and I'll attach the mp3 of what I actually said (look, I pay all this money for this damn phone, so you're damn right I recorded my first attempt).

The audience was encouraging or at least not pissy (which would be weird since open mic means they all want to succeed and see others succeed, but I wouldn't say they felt I revolutionized comedy).  Since my wheelhouse is that uncomfortable place of "that's either rude/depressing/angry or hysterical" and I start by going after the audience (people trying to be comedians) about their jobs, I think the smattering of applause when I hit the required beats are about right.

Whatever. I'm hysterical.
 

_____________________________________________________________
What I meant to say/what I wrote down (NSFW):

"I'm not going to be a comedian.  I can't be.  It's fine.  I'm cool with it.  It is what it is.  You know how I know?

Comedians work food and bev, retail or some "clearly I'm biding my time til my stadium tour" bullshit job. "I host trivia!"

I work a job. Like, a career.  And, holy fuck, it's not even my first career.   I have a gay man bullseye on my face and I was in the Army.  But, I want to be clear, I didn't stab babies in the face, or anything like that.

Not. NOT that I was against that, but because I was an officer.  I had other people do the "distasteful" stuff.  But that kinda sucked.

Which is weird.  Because growing up, until people could do them back at me, I thought explosions. were. awesome!

"FIRE! God, I have such a boner right now! AMERICA!"

But then it was

"IED! Fuck you! You shit yourself too!  Do I still have my dick? Praise Jesus! I want my mom..."

But now I work an office job.  I sit at a cubicle.  You can't be funny doing that shit.  There's no escape.  When shit is bad and your boss sucks, you laugh, because laughter's the best medicine, but years with no escape and it's not funny.

It's depressing and your soul dies and you just rage.  But you rage and you'll get fired.

And I'm not funny at work.

But, and this is key, people, office drone "I'm excited about shopping on Thanksgiving" fuckwad assholes aren't funny either.

However, and this is my saving grace, they have TVs and they know the sound of someone trying to be funny.  "Bah, dah-dah-dah-dah bah!" and then wait for the laugh...which, frankly, is fucking weird in any other context.

But whatever.  Normal people are polite and don't want to admit they don't get it and they want to fit in.

When I started this career, the mundane horror was funny and I did that and what I said, regardless of what I said, I said the "funny" way and so they laughed and I became the office "funny guy."

Which, thank God, because now I'm dead on the inside and drunk most of the time and I say hateful shit...and they LOVE it.

Like I'm a deadpan absurdist.

"Gail, if you don't fill the coffeemaker again, I will burn your house down and fuckstart your face."

"Oh, you rascal!" she laughs.

"Bob...Bob...Just...fuck off..."

"Oh ho! That boy's going places!" Bob says, delighted.

"Yeah," I respond, "the bar"

"Ha!" he chortles.

"And then over to your house to fuck your fat wife."

"Ho boy! What a joker."

Diana Neptune Aeolus Pluto

The moonlight danced upon the dappled dales,
And shattered as it struck the frothy hills.
And though it gave the sky its navy hue,
It could not penetrate the dark below;
No verdant scape, instead, a shimmering,
A play of lightning upon mottled ink.

As each crest approached, spurred on by the blast,
I reacted to the pitch and yaw.
Instinctively, I rolled and flexed and braced,
Still acrobat, mindless upon the till,
I felt and heard and saw the mighty air.
My game: to catch it in my canvas grasp.

At peak! At trough! At roar! At lull! O Sea!
O how spritely does thy rolling action
Soothe one as softly as the Sirens' call?
With the celerity of lover spurned,
Thy metronomic face morphs dissonance,
Thy sweet and supple lips 'come terror maw.

As men since dawn of time, all grace then fled,
In quest of life, I grappled, jerked and heaved,
I struggled all my force unto its brink,
All to weather the maelstrom symphony.
Better to withstand cacophonous tune
Than succumb and be embraced in silence.

I am mine

He's mine! he screams.

He's mine! she roars.

You bitch!

You motherfucker!

Whose am I?

I think I know,

but I do not.

For I am but a child.

The judge gives

his decision.

I am awarded.

He's mine! he triumphs.

A few years and

same again.

I am awarded

but this time

He's mine, she says,

in spiteful glee,

but weary.

I travel time.

I decide what is all that can be true.

I am,

have been,

will always be

my own.

G. Roapers' Fun Time Saloon (Seeking Investors)