Enlightening Nonsense

Digging

August 21st, 2011

diggingUpBones

I was given a small spoon

And started to dig

Knowing that you were under there somewhere

And with enough digging

I would find you

With dirt-lined nails

I dug deeper

Into a hole that might have proven to be my grave

Rocks bent my spoon

And soon my only tools of excavation

Were my hands…

and my heart

Through cuts and calluses

I never stopped digging

At times wondering if you were indeed buried below

Or if I had gone crazy

…digging a well in the desert

old man digging

And then I hit something

That was not board or bottle cap

Root or rock

I saw a glimmer

And I knew that I had struck gold

That the treasure that had started to uncover

Was a love that I had long left

But never forgot

My beard long

My face weather worn

My vision strained

My joints swollen

From 20 years of digging

As if possessed

…in vain

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But with thoughts of seeing you again

My heart started to beat

Like a man 20 years my junior

And I prayed it didn’t break

Before I got close enough to touch you

Kiss you

Look into your eyes

And see forever

I went to my cabin to rest

Planning for the next day’s dig

When I would uncover all of you

And remove the final accumulations

Of years apart

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And there she was

The girl from a nearer past

Whose lips I never kissed like yours

Because of obstacles

of boyfriends and health challenges and life

that buttressed the wall that I could not break through or climb

She asked if she could come inside

And I felt powerless to refuse her

Controlled by an inner drive

That had been rendered useless from years of isolation

She told me how she found me

And we took turns telling stories of our past together

…and apart

Laughing our way through the night

Periodically touching a knee or an arm

In a way that was as guilty as it was innocent

It got late and I invited her to spend the night

To which she agreed

I held her in my bed

Intimacy without intercourse

As sleep entered the cabin

And covered us like a blanket

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When I woke up

I was in my bed alone

Passing through a moment of confusion

As I questioned whether last night’s connection

Was only a bond between my imagination and my weariness

…until she called out to me from beyond my cabin walls

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I jumped out of bed and burst through the door

Fighting through the blinding flood of daylight

And into her awaiting arms

The sun shined down upon us

from a clear blue sky that seemed to be painted by a heavenly master

as a background for our embrace

And, just like my waking confusion

I questioned whether we, too, were part of a painting

Created by an artist and hanging on a wall in someone’s home

Frozen in contentment

But without the ability to step out of the canvas

firework-of-love-painting

And suddenly my eyes broke from the high of the perfect portrait

As I looked over her shoulder

my heart stopped beating

my breath disappeared

my face went pale

The hole I had spent the last 20 years digging was completely filled in

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I ran to the loose dirt and dropped to my knees

“What have you done?” I cried

In one morning’s work

She had erased 20 years of effort

“What’s buried beneath that dirt

No amount of resuscitation

Will bring back to life

“What stands before you

Is alive and ready to embrace

Relax into me

And feel my beating heart”

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I realized what I had preserved

In the mausoleum of my mind

Would rot and decay if released

from it’s airtight chamber

That it was unable to breathe the air

That keeps the heart beating

Without the help of an pacemaker

Surgically implanted by the doctor of imagination

I took my first deep inhalation

In 20 years

And filled the lungs of the heart

Unassisted

After 20 years of digging

I had finally found my treasure

And now standing in front of me

Her presence covered completely my buried love

Whose bones crumbled to dust

And left my mind

I got off my knees and went inside the cabin

And washed my face

And shaved my beard

And cleaned under my fingernails

When I reemerged I was a new man

Ready to live the life that was present

And not the one that was past

A memory that had spent 20 years

Trying to escape the prison of the mind

Had finally been executed

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Perhaps in 20 years

Having lived a full life

Through my heart

And not my imagination

I will join my buried love

But only as a corpse

Discarding my body for the worms

My soul will have left for Heaven

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Project Bald Swami

August 19th, 2011

Gimme head with hair

Long beautiful hair

Shining, gleaming,

Streaming, flaxen, waxen

Give me down to there hair

Shoulder length or longer

Here baby, there mama

Everywhere daddy daddy

Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair

Flow it, show it

Long as God can grow it

My hair

—“Hair” from the musical Hair

I had worn long hair not only in my nether region but also on top of my head for some time now but never really figured out how long it was. And then I saw the picture on my fridge of my and my oldest nephew as a baby. My hair was long then and he is now 16 years old. After a few more calculations using a protractor, calculator, a compass of both the “pointy draw a circle” kind and the “point north” kind, a straight edge, a plum-bob, a level and a few chicken feathers I figured it out:

It had been about 18 years since I had a real haircut.

Think about that. I am 43 years old now, which means that (hang on, let me get out my calculator) I was about 25 years old when I started with the long hair. That means that most people who know me today NEVER knew me with short hair. Then again, most people who know me today don’t know that I planned to walk 100 miles in the Sahara Desert naked but had to call it off on the third day due to severe sunburn of the penis.

: It’s a bit “Heavy Metal” but it’s not bad, right? Uh, right? Okay, it’s bad.

Back in college I played with the mullet, which is a white trash haircut that soccer players seemed to find in fashion and since I played soccer, I couldn’t pass up on the latest trend. The mullet is a long in the back, short on the sides and front haircut that makes one look as if the first words they are going to say when they open their mouth is, “Now that is the best garbage can soup I’ve ever tasted!”

FOR THE FULL PIECE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/project-bald-swami

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One Day In Rome

August 15th, 2011

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One day in Rome

Sitting on a couch

In a room

A group of about twelve

Italians and Americans and English

And when our eyes locked

It was like staring directly at the messiah

As all the disciples faded into the white of your light

Providing a frame to a masterpiece that entrapped my eyes

And promised me salvation

You were my savior

If only for one night

Maybe even a single moment on the couch

Reminding me that my heart could feel like breaking

That magic was real

And reality was magic

After touring with a show

That took us to seven countries

And uncountable cities

I was weary and desperate for rest

I found my home in your eyes

And I didn’t want to leave it

You didn’t speak much English

And my Italian was limited to

“Que belle culo”

Which would either get me a smile

Or slapped

But our eyes and smiles and glow

Spoke a language that needed no translation

Leaving me so full

That I was ready to renunciate from speech altogether

I indicated in charades for you to meet me outside

And I left the room

Praying that there was a God and he heard my prayer

Which was not for riches

Or power

Or eternal life

But for you to walk through that door

And be with me

Free from background noise

So I could hear the angels singing through your presence

…And you did

And I was no longer an atheist

We smiled and without hesitation kissed

No thought or planning or map or radar needed to bring our lips together

Your body sandwiched between a blank white wall

And the rainbow of colors

That were emitting from my heart

You melted into me

And I had to open my eyes to make sure that I was not alone

That I wasn’t onstage or in a bus to somewhere new

Always in a moving play

Wishing I could be motionless in reality

Constantly surrounded with cast and crew and a paying audience

Longing to be alone playing serious with you

To my delight…and awe

You were still there

As my heartstrings played their sonata

To an audience of one

I was ready to confess all the darkness inside of me

For there was nothing I wanted to keep to myself

Everything that was mine was yours

And so I told you how I was dating a girl in the cast

And saw your expression drop

As if you had just drunk

A cup of poison from my hands

And once again two star-crossed lovers

Were prevented from crossing those stars

We went back into the room

And now you smiled politely

But the spark behind the eyes had burnt out

And only a faint puff of smoke remained

You looked at me through cloudy eyes

From what only moments before were clear enough to see to your soul

Suddenly the background noise

Became the foreground

And the room started spinning

And I wanted to escape from this nightmare

And go back to the dream in the hallway

Where there was peace in the stillness of your embrace

And never wake up again

And as suddenly as you appeared in my life

Your were gone

The tour bus took us to the next city

Away from Rome

Away from you

To perform—

always acting and never just being me

like I was in the hallway

when I didn’t have to perform to impress

I wrote you countless letters and postcards

Telling you that you were all I could think of

And I was ready to drop all pretending

To step off the stage

And leave my character and costume in the dressing room

And take your hand as my Self

But my letters went unanswered

And days became weeks became months became years…became decades

My tour of duty was long over

And I was shipped back home

Leaving my foreign lover overseas

Wondering if there was a little magic growing inside of her belly

Waiting to be birthed into existence

Proof that I existed and our love was real

I’ve wondered how the years have been to you

If you’ve married

Had children

If you are happy

But endless Internet searches came up empty

And those questions remained unanswered

Another several years and I joined Facebook

And tried one last time

To locate the piece of my heart that I lost on the battlefield of my European Tour

I came across a picture of you

The face that I remember as smooth in perfection as a green-eyed china doll

Now lined from the years

A dog, two kids and two decades

And tears fell quietly from the same eyes that had gazed upon you in Rome

For I wished that I could have been there

And shared with you the time

That transformed your body

But left your soul’s beauty untouched

In the fiction of theater

Out of the ethers

Music is pulled into existence by instruments

And words are drawn off a dead page and projected from mouths resuscitated

And choreography is staged from a dance born in the mind’s ballroom

And relationships are formed and destroyed

As quickly as the stage is set up and broken down

In each city you come like a circus

And leave like a ghost town

There is music and monologues and motion

But just as quickly they disappear

There are ladies and love and lewdness

But only one Katia

And while she has disappeared

Like the last piece of scenery from the set

She has remained forever in my mind

Waiting for a chance to work her way down to my heart

To take her place in the seat on my inner couch

That I have kept vacant for her

All these years

Only this time I will not let her get away

Time can do what he will to our bodies

But he will not take her from me again

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Wet Dog

August 14th, 2011

wet_dog

“I like your smell,” said Ogre. For most people such a comment would make them feel warm and fuzzy but for me it said something very different. If there was concern for accuracy Ogre would have said, “I like the smell of the essential oil cologne we picked up from the Indian guy at the New Life Expo and am glad I can smell it on you.” But this was a relationship masked in insecurities and power plays and accuracy was the last thing of concern.

Smell is our most primitive sense, not meaning it is the least technological of our ways to process the environment but that it was our first sense to develop. While most people function predominantly through their sense of sight, just remembering the smell of the brownies that your mom used to bake when you were a kid is enough to send just about everyone into a state of heavenly glory. It sends me into a coughing fit but that’s because my mother burnt just about everything that went into her oven and by “oven” I actually mean oven and not her vagina.

We tie different associations to different smells. The smell of buttery popcorn to the movie theater; smelling stale beer and puke to waking up in the alley by the bar last Saturday night; the smell of flowers to a field of blossoms. Even if it is just in our mind, smells can transport us to places and times of which not even Star Trek’s teleportation technology was capable.

My friend Dave hates the smell of patchouli. I think he was once with a girl who was wearing it who chewed up his face during a make-out session and thereafter he could never smell the scent without shouting at the top of his lungs, “FOR GOD’S SAKE, WOMAN, STOP USING YOUR TEETH!” This once caused an unnecessary argument between he and his wife when she was giving him a blowjob and the scent of a woman who must have bathed in a tubful of patchouli walked by on the street below and the smell of that bushy herb from the genus pogostemon wafted up and entered his apartment window.

I suppose it is natural for people to associate smells with people. I remember my first martial arts school and how the teacher always smelled like musk from his underarm deodorant. Years later I was training in tai chi chuan and my instructor smelled the same musky way and I was instantly brought back to those early days of training.

But I am a guy who prefers things a little more “natural” in the sense of “close to nature” and less so to mean “common.” I don’t like a woman wearing tons of make-up, unless we’re role-playing and she happens to be playing the part of a whore or a clown or a whorey clown. And I prefer a woman not to wear any perfume, as I like to imbibe the smell of her—her skin, her sweat, her pheromones—and not any store-bought cover-up. If I go down on a girl I want it to smell and taste like pussy and not some peppermint castile soap that she douched with because she is insecure about her smell. Now don’t get me wrong, if I had to choose between the smell/taste of peppermint or rotting tuna it would be a hands down decision for the former; by “natural” I also don’t mean “rotten.”

With more distance and more reflection it is clear to me that there is little about me that Ogre really did like, especially regarding the physical. She liked my body, that much I will concede. I suppose she liked my cock, that is if it was stimulating her and saving her electric bill from using her vibrator each night. But she didn’t like my dress—and not just the red one with the bow on the lapel—buying me clothes that she would rather see me in, never asking me what I actually liked; she didn’t like my hair, suggesting I cut it; she didn’t like my smell, suggesting I cover it; nor did she like my sarcasm, suggesting I shut it the fuck up.

Today it was raining pretty heavily when I took Abandon out for a couple of walks. She came back soaked and smelling like wet dog. Now for those of you who don’t interact with dogs, the smell of wet dog is like a cross between the elephant house at the Bronx Zoo and a horse’s ass. As I dried her with one of my towels, I wasn’t concerned that she would get her funk into it. I just smiled at her looking vulnerable, all wet with her tail hanging between her legs, gave her a kiss on the snout and took a deep inhale to smell her scent. At that moment I realized why dogs smell each other’s privates. They don’t have the human quality of judgment and desire only to smell the essence beyond the Frontline flea and tick collar and shampoos of the ass in front of them.

But more importantly, I actually like Abandon’s smell. She smells like a dog and that is what she is. But more importantly, she smells like her and that is who I love. I am not saying one has to eat their mother’s burnt cooking because, “That is how she cooks.” I am just saying that if one is going to eat his mother’s burnt pussy, he should accept it for what it is and not expect it to be a French soufflé. Did I say, “eat his mother’s burnt pussy”? Now that’s just unnatural!

I look forward to meeting someone who desires to smell the me beyond the body suit and not to cover it up with more barriers.

Posted in Dog Tails, Self-Reflection, Shorties | No Comments »

Kill or Cry

August 4th, 2011

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Perhaps I am a little cocky. “No!” you shout in the same way the fellow recruits called out in unison to John Candy’s character Dewey “Ox” Oxberger in the movie Stripes when he said, “Perhaps some of you noticed that I got a slight weight problem.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bD4xwK13lGk

I never think that anything bad can happen to me. I’ll walk through bad areas, alone in nature, confront seedy people…“What’s the worst that can happen to me?” I think, “That they’ll kill me and I’ll be done with this miserable life? Big whoop.” But while I don’t necessarily care about my own personal safety, I do care about the safety of my beloved Abandon, mostly because I love her but also because I am responsible for her well being and I take that responsibility seriously.

I’ve studied dog training via books and DVD’s and in practice with my girl to the point where something just seemed to click and I was like Keanu Reeves in one of his typical poor acting moments in “The Matrix” when after he was plugged into the martial arts training program he snaps out of it and says, “I know kung fu.” When Morpheus responds, “Show me,” I am not sure if he is saying, “Show me your kung fu skills” or perhaps, “Show me your credentials as an actor because judging from your piss poor acting skills it is hard for me to believe you’ve ever taken a single acting class in your life.”

“I know dog training.” And if Morpheus told me to “Show me” I would bring his black ass to the many clients I’ve had who have raved over the changes not just in their dogs’ behavior but in their understanding of how to best communicate with their dogs to foster a better relationship with which I have helped them.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vMO3XmNXe4

With this confidence, I also thought that I was in control of any situation that may put Abandon at risk, minus starvation from my broke, animal compassionist ways that has resulted in me feeding her nothing but twigs and berries. I found out last week that I was wrong. I am not sure whether this happened because I was not in control, I used poor judgment in assessing the situation or if, as the phrase goes, sometimes “shit happens.”

You have to be demented to enjoy watching something like this.

FOR THE FULL PIECE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/kill-or-cry

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Posted in Casual Encounters, Dog Tails, In The Heights | 1 Comment »

Heaven

July 31st, 2011

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Lying on my back

Sun shining in a blue sky

Dog licking my face

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$400 Lesson

July 29th, 2011

Between working 1-on-1 sessions, teaching a class and taking an advanced class, it was a busy Tuesday night at New York San Da for me. Seafood had just paid me in greenbacks and I put the money in the Velcro enclosed pocket of my street shorts and put them in my locker and changed into my faggy, flowy “san da” shorts. Just then Fagstone popped his head into the changing room and asked, “Do you have a 7:30?”

“Yeah,” I replied, ignoring his lingering look at my Johnson and hussled my butt out of the dressing room, inadvertently not locking up my locker. Now I am pretty much the only one on staff who puts a lock on his locker. Well, Spandex does but he never locks his lock so I’m not really sure if that counts. I’m guessing even the most moronic reader at this point knows where the story is going—and it ain’t Kansas, Dorothy.

FOR THE COMPLETE PIECE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/400-lesson

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Posted in Casual Encounters, Self-Reflection, Truth in Fiction | No Comments »

The Stew Of Nonsense

July 14th, 2011

I had enjoyed a long ride of free wireless access in both my last apartment and this one but just like at an amusement park, the ride came to an end. Also like at an amusement park, it wasn’t all fun and games but included the occasional man in a trench coat who would tell you he’d like to share a “hotdog” with you, that would break up the monotony of good times; often the connection was spotty and I would find myself unable to connect or the connection so slow that it was chemotherapy painful. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this seemed to parallel my connection with Ogre—at times high-speed but often no signal.

So the other day I took my laptop during my walk with Abandon and went to McDonald’s where they have free wireless connection. I prefer to go to the bench outside and connect but did not get a signal there and so I had to venture inland. I told Abandon to sit outside and she said, “I wouldn’t go in there even if you offered me transfat fries!”

: “This won’t be the first time you have a load of beef shoved in your mouth!”

As I started to go through the double doors, some shady looking character started eyeing Abandon, mostly admiring that she was sitting there obediently waiting for me. He said to me, “I’m going to test her” to which I responded, “Please don’t. Just leave her alone.” It was my polite way of saying, “Kindly fuck off.” But he didn’t kindly fuck off.

FOR THE FULL PIECE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/the-stew-of-nonsense

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49 Years

July 9th, 2011

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“This huge event is hers and everybody knows it’s hers, including him. A marriage that starts off that lopsided, crippled with debt, mired in animosity, is already dragging one leg behind it when the couple walks down the aisle.”

—“The Wedding Trap” by Matt Teel in Rebel magazine, Summer 2011

Yesterday was my parent’s anniversary, marking 49 years that they have been married. Together, that is. Almost half a century. Through about twelve Presidential elections. Most of those years with my pain in the butt self in their lives. What is the secret of their longevity? In a word: Oil Of Olay.

I called them on the phone last night at around 10:00 p.m. I would have forgotten about their anniversary altogether if it weren’t for my sister’s reminder emails about all-important events in the X family household. She may be annoyingly organized but without these friendly reminders both my brother and I would never remember anything family related.

One year my brother forgot to call my mother on her birthday—again. He said to me, “Can you imagine what it’s like to forget your mother’s birthday two years in a row?” I told him to ask me next year.

At 10pm my Dad was already asleep. I was thinking about making a joke to my Mom about her sexing the energy out of the old man on their special day but I found the thought of them banging each other a little nauseating and I didn’t want an eruption of the Mt. Vesickius bile volcano that was already rumbling in my gut.

I asked my Mom how she and my father managed to stay together for so long. “Companionship. Similar interests.” Now “companionship” told me one of the benefits of a committed relationship but it was nowhere close to the ballpark of “HOW.” It wasn’t even in the parking lot. And I knew the “similar interests” line was just formula recitation and more parking lot Pinocchio and I didn’t let her get away with it.

“Similar interests? That’s crap. For instance, Dad has always been involved in sports and you had no real interest in that. And you’ve been involved with…uh, you have always…did you ever needlepoint? No? Well, if you did Dad wouldn’t have been interested.”

She told me it was late and that she’d have to think about it some more but did offer me a few nuggets, all of which I forgot because I was multitasking. But I did remember one thing she said.

While she acknowledged that, especially when they were younger, they had some knock-down fights in their time, “We were committed to each other; we knew neither one of us would abandon ship just because of a fight.”

There were many times in my relationships where the girl or me would get in a fight, and one or both of us would eventually abandon ship and jump overboard. Had we made the same commitment my parents made to “stay on deck,” maybe we could have remained dry…and enjoyed the complimentary buffet as well!

I thought about how whenever Ogre and I have gotten into a fight, it would usually end with her storming out of my apartment or telling me on the phone, either via voice or text, “I’m fuckin’ done with you!” While I totally understand the feeling of, “I’ve got to get the hell away from this person!” and the need for space, when a relationship is based on a foundation of quicksand, it doesn’t leave either party really feeling secure enough to commit to building a skyscraper together.

Now I’m not one who happens to believe in marriage. I think it is based not on love but on insecurities and a desire to possess another human being. If they legally enforced “’Til death do us part,” with about 50% of marriages ending in divorce, a mandatory “spousal suicide pact” would certainly keep population growth in check—even with Dominican 20-year olds spreading their seed like a drunken farmer who hit the sauce and then the seed bag.

But I do like commitment. Commitment to Self-Awareness; commitment to finishing a task at hand; commitment to another. That is, of course, if the commitment is based on a higher principle and not based on some obligatory construct, one where you want to see it all the way through not as a default mechanism resulting from it being too difficult to fill out all the paperwork, and pay lawyers, and find another man who is not (at least initially) completely annoying again, but because you have an inexplicable drive from inside that tells you, “This is the one I am to grow old with.”

I have always looked at the marriages of my brother and sister, who have each been married for about 17 years, and my parents whose marriage has just about made the half-century mark, as examples of a legal plantation where there are no masters and only slaves. I’ve seen the resentment, the ball-busting, the petty nonsense and the fights, not to mention the stress of each family raising their three kids, which includes financial as well as emotional turmoil. To me it looks like a nightmare, only one that you never wake up from “Until death do you part,” which would involve at least one of the two parties not waking up at all.

I still don’t see their marriages as anything that I would wish upon myself. What I wish upon myself is an independently wealthy deaf mute supermodel who will support me, feed me, sex me and keep the “f” quiet. She could let the other letters of the alphabet make all the noise they want but that “f” is just such a blabbermouth!

I would also want both of us to be committed to something even beyond each other, for if you are only committed to each “other,” the next step is to be committed to an asylum. But if you are committed to Love, to Truth, to the expression of Creativity, Joy and Self, then, on some level, it doesn’t matter who the “other” is—both of you are just there enjoying Love, Truth, Creativity, Joy and Self and it is gravy that there is an “other” body there with which to share it.

Otherwise the honeymoon will end, hormones will dry up, penises will lose their vigor and little idiosyncrasies that you once found cute will now be grounds for you to fantasize about the other’s “death doing you part.”

It sounds like New Age cheesedome, “It’s all love! We’re all love! Let’s make love!” but I honestly think it is more than that. Unless you make a commitment to LOVE more than you do to the concept of loving an “OTHER,” you are diving off the high board into a pool with no water and you will either have to be prepared for a life of paraplegicism or misery or both.

“But what about those couples—like your parents—that ‘make it’?” This will probably sound unfair but I think that the only thing most married couples “make” are babies. The rest is survival but not thrival. And those who convince themselves they are, in fact, happy are sleeping at the wheel and only “death do them part,”—meaning their death—will open their consciousness to grasp the limited perspective that they had believed to be expansive.

At times I wish for this level of unconsciousness for myself. I’m sick of seeking Truth, seeking Self, and just want to have some basic happiness that isn’t so fleeting. And at times the God of Atheism grants me this wish: like when I have been making love with Ogre and it is not just about physical pleasure but about connecting to something deeper than our genitals. In those few and far between moments, life seems to make sense and I feel truly at peace. Other than that, my life is bursting with misery and I might as well be married.

But when Ogre and I get out of bed, the insecurities, the resentment, the ball-busting and the fights are picked up just like our clothes, to be worn as a covering to naked LOVE…and this has become an unbearable burden to me that has made even my bed no longer a safe haven, for it is hard to lose oneself in love when you know misery is hiding just around the corner with a pipe and is planning on braining you.

49 years. Wow! I wonder what that level of commitment for another even feels like. Through the countless struggles, perhaps there is a sense of peace knowing that you have found your partner and neither one of you is going anywhere, through changes in waist sizes, to graying of hair, to forgetfulness, to health challenges, through even disagreements and arguments…until death do you part.

“When love became the lord of my life, I became quite fearless.”

—Living With The Himalayan Masters by Swami Rama (p. 4)

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Sit On My Facebook

July 7th, 2011

Last month I joined Facebook and in so doing apparently joined the 21^st Century. Well, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t exactly join it—my martial arts teacher signed me up for it. Was he concerned about my hermetic social life as the New York City equivalent of a cave-sitter? No, he’s just a money-grubbing Jew and wanted me to post announcements and items about his martial arts school so he can fill the bag of gold around his neck.

“Why,” you ask, “did I you wait so long?” Is it because Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg turned me down when in a fit of excitement over the legalization of gay marriage in New York I asked him to be my lawfully wedded fag? Is it because I am a paranoid conspiracy theorist who wears tinfoil on my head and didn’t want the government knowing who I poke? Or maybe it’s because I just don’t give enough of a shit to reconnect with high school losers I tried to avoid 25 years ago. The answer: all of the above and a few things more.

I filled out the requisite information—where I went to high school, which teachers in college allowed me to add a half a letter to my grade by jerking them off in the bathroom, twenty-five different ways I have masturbated with a sock—to which I received a personal note from Mark Zuckerberg when I listed #18, “rolled in a ball stimulating my prostate,” asking whether I would suggest he use a natural or synthetic fiber sock. And when I thought I was pretty much done, I hit Enter or Return or Accept or Done and angels sung “Hallelujah” and I was officially indoctrinated into the Flock of Facebook.

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