Ninja Bitch
It was a Friday night and the first day of the New Life Expo. The New Life Expo is all things New Age, from nutrition to UFOs. For a $35 admission, you have access to a whole litany of free talks given by medical doctors to reincarnations of the Buddha. The New Life Expo happens in New York twice a year and I go whenever the freak circus is in town but if I didn’t have connections that get me in for free, I most probably would be demonstrating outside of The New Yorker with a picket sign that read: “DOWN WITH COMMERCIAL NEW-AGISM!”
Most of the talks consist of the following:
“…And this product will change your DNA code from two strands to twenty-four which will boost your evolution just in time for 2012 and avoid the death and destruction that everyone without the 24-strand multidimensional DNA helix will experience—available at my booth for $49.95.”
Everyone’s got the cure for cancer or the key to enlightenment or the secret to immortality or the book that will make Dr. Seuss look like a hack. In their defense, there is some good information and some good products thrown in with all the psychics who charge $350 for a half-hour and couldn’t tell if you were a man or woman without sticking their hand down your pants…and perhaps by chance…they could tell who I am…with green eggs and ham.
I feel much freer now than when I attended my first Expo about 13 years ago, as I no longer believe that anyone outside of myself, no matter which ascended master they claim to have speak through them, has any information that I need to be more whole. I also have all the books I’ll ever want and the Anal Electrifying Pineal Gland Stimulator I bought from an Expo past was the final piece to make my gadget collection complete and my ass always feeling “a good vibe, man.”
But Ninja had never gone to one of these freak shows and, as she is into crystals and spirit channelings and 2012 and everything else that is completely useless for day-to-day functioning in the world, I figured she’d be like a kid in a candy store. Little did I know that she’d be like a diabetic kid in a candy store without her insulin.
The Expo started Friday at 6:00 and, as par for the course, Ninja showed up at my apartment about a quarter to six making us need a Star Trek teleporter in order to make the 6:00 lecture on, I shit you not, the process of making your DNA have 12-strands. I made a mental note to myself to pick up a Star Trek teleporter if any vendor was selling one.
By the time we got there it was about ten after six and the lecture had already started. Within five minutes of hearing this completely useless information about the “12 levels of hierarchy,” which included the Elohim, archangels and a New Age partridge in a pear tree, I reaffirmed to myself that I had little need for any more of these retarded lectures. But as it was Ninja’s first taste of the Expo, I sat mostly quietly, minus a few grunts and groans and eye rolls, as the speaker blabbed on and on about the impractical. And when it came to the actual method to upgrade your DNA—“I’m selling it on CD at my booth.” Surprise, surprise.
I spoke and taught at the second annual Yoga & Raw Food Expo put on by the same carnival barker, Bark Meckman, last year. I talked to Bark about speaking at this Expo and he told me I had to buy a booth, the minimum one being $450 and the size of the small mat of grass that Woody Allen’s past relative had held onto cherishingly in the movie Love And Death. I told Bark that not only did I not have $10 to my name—let alone $450—but that I had no product to sell nor DNA enhancing program to push.
We had a little back and forth where Bark showed me that while a big nose and excessive cheapness doesn’t define one as a Jew, in Bark’s case it didn’t prove the exception. He told me that everyone who speaks or teaches needs a booth. It’s his party and he can cry if he wants to but that just wasn’t the truth; I knew of several people, including a yoga instructor, who had allotted lecture/teaching times and didn’t pay for a booth. It wasn’t until I wrote in an email how I was aware that he asked Roach behind my back if she were seeing me and then tried to dissuade her from doing so by saying that I was aggressive with him, that he discontinued all communication with me, besides a couple of phony smiles and laughs when he walked by me at the Expo.
Ninja didn’t think much of the DNA lecture but she was going in and out of some altered state and I was afraid—like the result of my dog being altered—that this would lead to her being unable to spawn kids. I figured if she started speaking in tongues, I would probably have a better time understanding her than I do with the current set of gibberish that comes from her mouth. Usually when I ask her to blow me it has little to do with being horny and everything to do with shutting her up. [See “STFU” http://rebelyogi.com/3743.html]
I walked her around to check out all the crap for sale. She is big into crystals and we couldn’t pass a booth selling these shiny rocks without her stopping in and waving her hand over them and seeing which ones “resonate with my auric field.” I felt like a father who had a hyperactive child and had run out of Ritalin because he had popped the last of his kid’s pills to numb the effect from his wife’s nags.
We got to another crystal guy who seems to know his rocks, and like to play with little boys’ rocks apparently, and Ninja was like a Jap in a camera store. I let her play—picking things up, waving them over her chakras, smelling them, sticking them in her vagina—and after thumbing threw a few colorful stones myself, I stood in the background. I had a sense that if I had a violent heart attack due to “bad energy, man” and the paramedics came and shocked me with the paddles, that Ninja would not notice, or if she did, it wouldn’t interrupt her fingers from doing the walking through the shiny stones.
The White-Haired Wizard had Ninja put her hands on a crystal skull named Satchmo and then he gave her a reading (when I did this later I heard nothing but the sound of a distant trumpet.) She seemed intent on his words. It was getting close to the next lecture I wanted to attend with Dr. Joel Wallach who was made infamous among the medical profession for his “Dead Doctors Don’t Lie” tape, where he showed statistically that doctors die at a younger age than the rest of the population, his conclusion being that to listen to them concerning your health is asinine. But I didn’t want to interrupt Ninja from her fun.
It would have been nice if, like Abandon on a hike, every now and then she interrupted her self-exploration by looking back to check if I was still there. But she didn’t. It was about five minutes to seven and I broke in lightly and said, “Hey, there’s a lecture coming up at 7:00 that I wanted to check out.” She gave me a quick nod indicating that she heard me and would make a mental note of it. Apparently the note was written on a chalkboard and the white-haired wizard was a wet sponge.
It now was 7:00 and I was feeling a bit antsy. 7:02. I said, “Hey hon, the lecture has already started—”
“You can go on your own. I’ll be here,” she said. And I left.
On reflection, it was nice to see her in her element and enjoying herself and I realized that this trumped listening to another know-it-all share more good-for-nothing information and then try to sell me his product; I would have liked to have been considered, though. From showing up late to my apartment, to making me late for the lecture, it seemed clear that my feelings were taken as always secondary to hers. This was confirmed later when she said this very thing directly, to which the man who can argue about anything had no response.
The ¾ of lecture I saw was pretty good but I was in a weird state of mopy-ness that if someone asked me, “So what did you think of the lecture?” I would have probably responded , “I would kill myself with carbon monoxide poisoning but I don’t have a car or a garage.” I went back to the crystal booth and Ninja wasn’t there and after several text messages and about 15-minutes, we reconnected, well, in body that is.
The big drama, or shall I say the first of the big dramas, occurred at the bookstore run by a husband and wife team who I’ve known for years and consider friends. Pretending I gave a shit, I picked up one big crystal and asked Ninja what it was. “I think it’s a Herkimer diamond,” she said. Examining it more, she found some indented shape in it and said, “You see that? That’s called a key,” or some term she learned from a book exclusively found in the Obscure Wacky section of Barnes & Noble.
Later Sunny, the wife of the book-selling partnership, came back from the bathroom and I held up the crystal to her and asked, “Is this a Herkimer diamond?” She said it was. I then said, right in front of Ninja who was now looking at crystal pendulums, “You see this indentation? That’s called a key.” I added that I got that from Ninja.
Now, my point in asking Sunny the question was just to clarify for certain what type of crystal it was. And my point in mentioning the “key” was to throw props to my girl and to subtly show her that I listen to what she says and value her, even when I don’t value it.
It wasn’t until later when I, metaphorically, picked Ninja’s scab that she flooded me with a river of bitchy puss of which the Herkimer diamond incident was the strap-on that broke the dyke. I thought maybe she was mad that I had “taken credit” for knowing what the fuck a “key” is. That wasn’t it. Apparently, she had seen my asking Sunny for clarification about the crystal as me having no faith in her knowledge. I told her that that thought didn’t even cross my mind. I added, “You said you ‘thought’ it was a Herkimer diamond—and I assumed it was—but I just thought she could tell us for certain.”
Walking to the subway we were arguing about everything from the Herkimer diamond, to her ignoring me and making me late for the lecture, to it’s been 2 ½ months and I only was given one blowjob—seriously, what gives with that? I’m not a Muslim who has no respect for women but it is my humble opinion that if a girlfriend or wife doesn’t give her man head at least once a week, that stoning her to death is an equitable response.
In the subway station, she was in the middle of saying something and we got interrupted. As we were going up a set of stairs, I said to her, “You were saying that you thought the crystal—“
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready!” she snapped. ‘What the fuck?’ I thought. Alright, I might have thought, ‘What a bitch!’ but since I’m retelling it, I thought I’d make myself the heroic victim here with nothing but a nice word for everyone in my vicinity, including the homeless piece of shit begging for spare change—“Get away from me, you dirty, smelly bum!”
“Look, I was just telling you that I am totally listening to what you are saying and wanted to hear the rest of it,” I explained, somehow becoming a douche for doing so.
On the subway ride home, we were sitting mostly in silence. I started to think about a conversation I had with my friend Tommy who always has a booth at the Expo. I had said there was times to kill, such as if a girlfriend doesn’t blow you more than once a week, and he said that he disagreed, that he would lay down his life before killing anyone; I thought his wife must be sucking him off something good. Thinking of a good counterpoint I failed to say at the time, I rolled my eyes in my head—as opposed to when I roll my eyes down the table in a crap game, which always seems to piss off the stickman as he has to scoop them up with his crap stick, which happens to be a funny name, no? “Crap stick”? Sounds like what you would call a twig whose end you stuck in a pile of dog shit and then chased Liz Mitchell around during recess in second grade—and suddenly Ninja pounced on me like she was taking out a sentry.
“Oh, you’re gonna roll your eyes now!”
I was like, “Whoa Ninja bitch, I wasn’t even thinking about you! You can re-sheath your tanto blade—even better, how about you widdle away the giant stick up your ass.”
On the sidewalk near my apartment I said how it seemed that she didn’t take my feelings into consideration and only focused on her own. She pretty much said this was the case, leaving me somewhat dumbfounded. “I focus on how things feel to me and I can’t be concerned with your feelings.”
“Well, I find that unfortunate,” I said. Her bladed tongue came out and cut me a new butt crack.
“’Unfortunate’? Oh, how ‘unfortunate.’ Don’t use that word, like you’re some critic from the outside.” I thought for a moment, pondering if I could call the loony bin on my cell phone before she threw a spiked shuriken into my throat.
“I do find it unfortunate that in a relationship, my partner doesn’t have the desire to consider my feelings. I don’t know what other word I could use, other than ‘cunt,’ and I’m guessing you wouldn’t like that one either,” I defended.
As I got more and more frustrated, I raised my voice at her latest smack to my head with her nunchukus, to which she came back, “Don’t cause a scene! You may like drama but I’ve had enough drama in my life and don’t need any more.” I like drama, it’s true, but if this Ninja bitch thinks that she is not a drama queen herself, ninja please!
Back in the apartment, she was sitting on my couch and I was sitting on the computer chair. We argued and, at times, seemed to make amends—then argued some more. In the midst of our discussion she started looking through her bag and found a paper bag that I had put in there that contained an ox bone carving of a hawk, which might not score me any points in the Vegan Society but I thought might score me some with Ninja, being she had a strong connection with birds and we had seen a big hawk the last time we were in Central Park together.
“What’s this?” she said as she started to go into the bag.
“Do you have to look at it now?” I said, hoping that she could look at it after the particular point we were discussing, which I think might have been one which wasn’t drawing blood, just so that she could experience the gift without distraction.
“I’m going home,” she said. And started to get her stuff together. When she took the hawk out of the bag she said, “What’s this?”
I fantasized about saying, “Something to choke on, you stupid bitch!” but after in my fantasy she kicked my ass for it, I decided that was probably not the best course of action. “It’s a bird I got for you,” I said meekly.
“I don’t want it,” she said and put it on one of the empty boxes stacked in front of her and she got her stuff together and left. I walked her to the station and took Abandon out for a walk, killing two birds with one stone, one of which was the ox bone one. We talked a little and at the entrance to her train station, she acknowledged that she liked the bird I got her. We parted ways and I had felt like I just suffered a mortal wound at the hands of Ninja and whether I survived the blows or not, I wasn’t sure the relationship would.
Arguing specifics, all her assessments were wrong. I wasn’t distrusting her opinion regarding the Herkimer diamond. I wasn’t trying to control her or the conversation when I said, “You were saying?” I wasn’t thinking about her when I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t calling her a baby but only wanted her to enjoy her gift undistracted when I said, “Do you have to open that now?”
But specifics reside on the surface. It seemed that Ninja had some serious trust issues and didn’t trust that I was on her side and was doing my best to be supportive of her. And, as we discussed later, even if she thought I was dissing her on the crystal, why not ask rather than assume, giving me the benefit of, if not the doubt then at least a question.
The next day at the Expo, I went to the White-Haired Wizard and talked to him about the Ninja bitch and our “challenges,” shall we say. He told me that she is a special person. I was like, “No shit, as in ‘Special Olympics.’” He said that she had a lot of growing to do, which especially entailed opening her heart which is a little closed.
He then said something that was playing the grey area of psychic reading ethics. He didn’t say it directly as much but pretty much said in different words, “You should consider finding someone else.” I had these thoughts swirling around my head as well, whether these were just “challenges” or whether they were irreconcilable obstacles. If someone is exhibiting bitchy behavior, perhaps the behavior can be brought into awareness and thereby dissolved. If someone is just a bitch, the only way to dissolve them is a trick I learned when I was in the Mob—with hydrochloric acid in a dirt hole.
I was tired from the stress of yesterday with the Ninja bitch and lack of sleep from staying up all night and cutting up all the pictures I had of her and throwing them in the toilet and pissing on them, in what I justified as a karmic retribution for her shitting on me. I even pulled out my Ronald Reagan voodoo doll, whose stuffing I had removed from his head in order to give Reagan Alzheimer’s, and modified it to look like the Ninja bitch and kicked it around the room for awhile before settling on a game of Ninja Bitch Hacky-Sack. A part of me wished I had some lanky, tye-dye wearing, Frisbee-throwing burn-outs with which to share in a “Hack.” The larger part of me was glad that I didn’t, for I was sure that after 5-minutes of kicking around a Sack, I would like to kick all of those losers in their respective “sacks.”
I went to a lecture on “Spiritual Protection,” not because I think all that “Bathe in salt and slip with a clove of garlic under your pillow and recite the mantra, ‘Out, out, damn spot!’ 78 times per day” serves any purpose but to make you a paranoid freakazoid only a touch more neurotic than the 9/11 Truthers I’ve met when I hung around that cult who couldn’t talk about anything without yelling at the top of their lungs about the 9/11 conspiracy.
“Hi Joe. What a beautiful day, huh? After such a rainy March it is so nice to have a warm, sunny day, isn’t it?”
“”9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB!”
“Hey Joe, that was like right in my fuckin’ ear.”
A sexy young slut approaches. “Hello boys. I don’t know you—I don’t want to know you—I just want both of you to fill all of my orifices in an unprotected way, treat me like a blow-up doll, slap me around a bit and when you are done, for you to grab a couple of sandwiches and beer from my refrigerator. To put your minds at ease, you don’t have to be concerned about disease or pregnancy, as I am at the tail end of my gonorrhea and if I get pregnant I’ll just hanger the little bastard out of there.”
“Well that sounds good to—“
“9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB!”
“Uh Joe, I’m guessing that’s not going to help our ‘get laid’ percentage any.”
“So what do you two studs think?” says the slut.
“9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB!”
“Joe over here obviously thinks that 9/11 was an inside job. Me, on the other hand, thinks that a touch of gonorrhea and one more hacked up baby in the dumpster is well worth getting laid.”
I went to the lecture because it was being given by John Oliver, who I met last year and thought he was pretty funny. He has a “psychic detective” show on television where they go to haunted houses and he says in a scary way, “There’s some entities present—let’s get the fuck out of here!” I pretty much crashed out after the, “Cut the neck of the chicken and spin rapidly in a circle as you spray its blood on all four walls of your room” technique. When the lecture was over, while I didn’t have any clue on how to protect myself if I turned on my television set one late night and a poltergeist sucked me into the screen, I did feel a little more rested. I’ll be sure to check him out at the next Expo if I need a nap.
I had met a girl walking around whoring for her booth and she hooked me right away. Not only was she cute but she said all the right things from the book How To Win Suckers And Influence New Agers by Sri Baghavan Carnegie that made me pull out my check-book and say in a robotic tone, “I will sign all the checks. You fill them out how you please.
“I love your energy!” she said, which in these circles if said by a guy it means, “Let’s go to an unused stairway and fuck like Tantra masters” and if said by a girl means, “I either want you to either buy something for me or from me.” I was kind of hoping beneath the dress lay a cock, as I could use some stairway luvin’. I pulled a Crocodile Dundee from his second movie and put my hand on her crotch. There was no dick and if she wasn’t so set on selling me some New Age crap, I might have gotten slapped.
She was an intuitive and when later we talked about me and the Ninja bitch, she gave the same reading as the White-Haired Wizard, that the Ninja bitch needed to be bitch-slapped to the curve.
While I may be influenced by outside sources, I always rely on my own inner guidance, mostly because the only advice he ever gives me is, “Stick your hand in her groin.” But these two outside wack-jobs were only reflections of what my insides were screaming, “IS THERE ANYONE HERE WHO WANTS TO HAVE STAIRWAY SEX??”
That night I text-messaged Ninja that I thought we should take a break, to allow her to “process,” which is New Age-eze for, “running away from dealing with anything directly under the guise of spirituality” and also to allow me the 72-hours to let my 3-day waiting period for a gun with which to blow off her fuckin’ head. She sent a text message back that opened with the salutation, “Fine A-hole,” which reminded me of the gay prostitute I went to in Amsterdam and how touched I was when our hour ended and he said to me, “That is one fine A-hole you have there.” Of course he said it in German and it sounded a little more like, “Eich bitte kill-the-Jews iche hette gern unt A-hole.” The Ninja bitch went on to say that she was just sick, that was all. Uh no, you were just bitch—that’s all.
Three days passed without hearing from her and while I missed her, I felt a weight lifted from me, which I could only imagine was the removal of her thigh-high leather boot from my face-pressed-into-the-ground neck. A day later and I was ready to troll stairwells for dick or pussy or, as in the case of Jamie Lee Curtis, someone with both.
It seemed clear to me that the Ninja and I could never fully be at peace with each, that I would never be able to fully let down my guard and relax with her for fear that she would take advantage of my vulnerability and plunge her sword into me deeply. I no longer wanted to do battle and so I came to the conclusion that we had crossed swords for the last time. I was sad for a day and then the next day I felt refreshed and renewed, as if I had just come out of a French bathroom and spend a good 10-minutes cleaning my ass with the bidet.
I still couldn’t picking up some crap for her at the Expo. I bought up a set of bird cards, as she really loves birds and seems to connect deeply with them. I thought I could give her the cards and say, “I’m guessing you closest associate with the ‘vulture,’ as you are one who likes to bitch your prey to death and then peck their bones dry.”
I also bought her a pendant from Quantum Balance. The boyfriend of the pendant company used his spiritual assessment method, which involved moving one hand at various distances from each of my chakras while the other hand slowly stroked my penis from base to head. He concluded that the Clear Crown Chakra pendant would be best for Ninja, helping her open to the higher information that I was already pulling in, and that this would help our relationship.
The girlfriend of the pair used her intuitive method, which entailed closing her eyes and thinking about blowing me while pretending that she was thinking about my girlfriend. She suggested the Pink Heart Chakra pendant for Ninja, as this would help to open her to universal love but also the aspect of her loving herself, which I, too, believe to be one of her challenges in the form of self-worth.
I bought the Pink Heart Chakra one, feeling it was more important to help her grow as an individual than for us to grow as a couple. I also picked up the large Herkimer diamond, which I was hoping to slam down on her bitch head.