jeanplaisance

[jeanplaisance]

Mutual Humanity: Behind the Scenes

If I had to summarize my teenage experience, it was being a bleeding heart to people who didn’t give a shit. Even my best friends were pretty cold to my attempts at evoking some kind of emotional response from them.

Now those same two best friends, more than a decade later, are closer than ever to me and they are every bit as expressive and in touch with their emotions as I wanted them to be back then. Which is great, but also upsetting to me because I got hurt and they got better. Just great. I’m a little hung up on that, but I’m looking forward. Don’t worry about that.

It makes me wonder, “What changed?” Did they have no emotions and suddenly one day woke up to them? I know my own experience which is that I always had them, but I can’t really say for anybody else. I’ve always been expressive of them too. Put in the simplest way, it’s like the transition between saying “lmao words can’t hurt” and then one day acknowledging “words are meaningful and important.” From cold to sympathetic. How does one make that kind of transition?

I considered how I should approach this. I see now that they’re the thinking, feeling, intelligent people that they are. I don’t doubt that people have a mind of their own, but there’s a certain genuine “I really can’t say for sure�� quality to my feeling about it. These days, I do try my best to embrace the assumption that all people are thinking, feeling, and intelligent but perhaps struggle to show it for some reason or another. So where was that when we were kids? I ask this not necessarily to understand our relationships with each other or get some kind of closure, but so that I can maybe do the right thing with the people I meet in the future. I want you to keep that line in mind: with the assumption I’m making that people are thinking, feeling, and intelligent, but fail to show it, I am also making the assumption that they are living a sort of tortured existence like wanting to scream but not having a mouth.

So I asked them in plain simple words. “When we were young, I often viewed you as edgy and short-sighted. You never had any concern with the big ideas like connection or meaning. Was that really the case? Can you tell me what you were thinking then, now that we’re mature enough to talk about it?”

Let me give some background about my own character before I jump into theirs. I think that while I was diligent in my own efforts of articulating my feelings to others as a kid, I don’t mean to suggest that I was a sympathetic character in my own story. It simply is what it is. I believe that my intentions were good, but I lacked the necessary experience and soundness of mind to really be a reliable individual. Struggling with my own issues, I was still as unstable as anybody else and prone to lashing out in frustrations that didn’t help the situation.

I was very much so the “I am 14 and this is deep” type. Kind of obnoxious, yeah, but I don’t regret it. Think about somebody who takes Kingdom Hearts seriously. Christ. It was kind of edgy, but I think it invited sympathy. I ate up media that was full of sob stories. Games, movies, books. I really romanticized heartache and kinda turned my nose up to things that lacked substance. Not to mention, I struggled with loneliness as I had a lot of feelings that I tried to share with people but only found rejection. Y’know, since that kind of person is a real bummer. I’m talking about it in a somewhat dismissive way, but I really do think that teenage heartache deserves respect. I respect children and the difficulties of growing up. So when I talk about myself and my friend, I think it does warrant serious consideration as a human experience beyond simple entertainment.

My friend says he was concerned with those bigger ideas. However, wracked with his own insecurities, he never had the confidence to stake his ideas. He even mentioned getting mooshed back into his box after trying to take part in a discussion with a mutual friend and me once. You know the meme. We insulted his intelligence on the one rare opportunity that he did try to reach out. So even while I was trying to coax expression from him as kids, my own volatility did some damage. Looking back, I see other opportunities where he did express some degree of vulnerability and while I appreciated them, I don’t think I gave them the recognition that they deserved. I was interested in the idea of emotional vulnerability, but I wasn’t entirely equipped to deal with it.

To give you an example of both of those at once, I remember this enormous moment in our relationship with one another. I was talking with a mutual friend about something. I can’t remember what it was. Something like starving children in Africa. Again, I was 14 and this was deep. Have mercy on me. My friend made a comment about it that apparently didn’t strike me in a good way, so in a VERY exasperated way, I told him straight to his face, “Alright, I get it. You don’t give a shit about people. You don’t have a soul.”

I had apparently done this a few times in the past because at this point, I was tired of our interactions. This is the volatility I was talking about. Where my rejected attempts at bonding on that level had been repeatedly met with rejection, I had become aggressively dispassionate with him. But he didn’t take it this time. He didn’t react violently either. I just remember in a moment of lucid clarity that I had rarely seen, he told me that every time I accused him of lacking heart, it was a very subtle needling to him that very subtly grew to really piss him off. He wasn’t loud or aggressive. He simply articulated that he was deeply bothered by that.

I never said it to him again.

Looking back, I think that was exactly the kind of thing I was looking for. If I had heard this kid say that back then, I would’ve thought all the world about him. That minor act of expressing your discomfort articulately without anger is an act deserving of the highest respect. I didn’t stop out of intimidation, but I suppose I did respect that expression even though I can’t remember thinking too much about it later on. Though clearly it made quite the impression that I remember it a decade later.

With his explanation about the insecurities and this fond moment giving me more than enough evidence that it was exactly as he described, I felt somewhat validated in my belief that my assumption was correct. He was thinking, feeling, and intelligent but never really showed it. And maybe, we weren’t so different after all. Both just lonely with our thoughts and feelings. I talked to people about my feelings even if they weren’t always well received. I asked him, “Did you have anybody to talk to about this? Anybody at all?” He didn’t. It really does strike me as a sort of negligence that kids have to grow up this way. And a reminder, I’m telling you all this not so that I can get closure for myself, but because I have a dream for the future generations. 

It makes you wonder though, doesn’t it? I was one of those students in the “Gifted And Talented Education” program where I remember that the theory of the class was to foster all sorts of growth in children who seemed exemplary. What stands out was that it wasn’t just fostering raw intellectual strength, but emotional intelligence too. I did well in school before I discovered the internet in middle school, so I assume that’s why I landed in there.

I’m not telling you this to jerk myself off like some kind of idiot who peaked in elementary school. I’m telling you this because I believe my friend was every bit as thinking, feeling, and intelligent as I was, why the fuck were these qualities not being fostered in him as well? It didn’t show up on paper exams? Maybe he didn’t demonstrate it, but did the system just overlooked him because they had a different assumption? He was just a kid who needed someone to foster these qualities in him as well.

They assume differently, and he was alone.

Sure, I tried to make that contact as a kid and he was alone all the same.

Despite this, it’s unbearable for me to think that it couldn’t have been different. We had good times, fond memories, and we both grew up healthy and well (I guess), but it feels like a failure at every level for my friend for the most important part of his being at one of the most vulnerable periods of his life. I was a child so it’s arrogance to think that he was my responsibility, but I’m an adult now and that’s where it counts for kids. They need to see it in their authority figures.

The outcome in this case was fine, but the principle of the matter is what bothers me. The schools, the family, and friends all came up short. Coming up short came out in the wash, but outcomes vary… and so do the severity of the consequences. If I thought less of people, it wouldn’t bother me as much as it does, but that’s not what my assumption is about.

I’m lazy and selfish, but the absurdity of emotional isolation despite the ubiquity of the experience troubles me. I want to believe in our mutual humanity. I keep an eye out these days for those subtle signs of character in others so that I can cling onto that shred of hope, if not just to feel a little less lonely myself.

[jeanplaisance]

Deconstruct this, you fucks

One of the most important facets of my life was given to me by my first MMORPG. When I was a teenager, I picked up Ultima Online and then my life went downhill as I obsessed over it and MMOs to come. 10/10, great time. Would do it again.

At any rate, Ultima Online really stood out to me as one of the first MMOs due to a very unique system that the game embraced as part of the gameplay and story. That was a system of virtues. If the player behaved in a certain way, they could accumulate virtue points that could then be spent for various benefits. Not all of them were implemented, but I really took to reading about them since they were quite romantic. Things like:

Justice is Truth, tempered by Love.

Sacrifice is the Courage to give one’s self in the name of Love.

Honor is the Courage to seek and uphold the Truth.

The root of all these virtues was humility. What a concept humility was. We talk about humility as being humble, but in light of this game’s lore, it felt much more profound to me. I think it was phrased somewhere that “Humility is the fertile soil from which all virtue grows.” At the same time, Humility was one of the more difficult virtues to understand since it was described as “the opposite of Pride, [which is] the absence of Truth, Love or Courage.” I don’t really understand even today what it means to be humble except through the definition of being the opposite of pride. 

Let me make a quick aside: this isn’t the pride that people think of. It’s okay to be proud of yourself, something you’ve made, somebody else, etc. That’s a different kind of pride than what’s being spoken of here. The kind of pride that is being spoken of is the form of pride that infects a person’s character, limiting their growth. The kind of pride that prevents you from asking for help. The kind of pride that draws lines between yourself and others. If pride separates you, then by embracing the opposite of separation, you should come together.

All according to Ultima Online’s lore, that is. I ended up taking the right of psychology because this game’s philosophy manifests in a ubiquitous human quality: ego. I know the ego is more of a philosophical concept than empirically justified, but it serves as an excellent point to reflect upon when looking introspectively.

I’ll say time and time again, the younger generation is excellent at the deconstruction of culture. We scrutinize and pick ideas apart like we’re ravenous beasts. It comes naturally. I think this is a very handy quality to have and that it should be used on personal development as much as it is used in the world outside. We conclude culture is meaningless, yet many of our inhibitions are founded on internalized culture. That culture enslaves us in subtle ways. 

As a quick example, a fear of looking stupid or being found wanting is one of the most common facets of the ego. It’s a barrier that impedes virtually every human being. The path is obvious: you need to be a beginner. You will struggle. You will become better. You can’t skip that step. There is no way around it. That’s just the fact of the matter. Therefore, it is obvious and clear what needs to be done in any case AND YET DESPITE THIS SIMPLICITY, we hesitate. We procrastinate. We turn away. If it’s so simple and we feel like we want it, why all the fuss? If you’re lost, isn’t it obvious to ask for directions?

Deconstruct that, you fucks.

I’ll say time and time again, the younger generation is excellent at the deconstruction of culture but they’re terrible at reconstruction. That’s why we’ve all got existential crises fringing upon your consciousness because we ripped the world apart and we’re not really sure what to do with the materials. A good exercise, but we’re not done.

To that point, I urge people to think about the ways that ego (pride) manifests in their life and limits them. We have things that we want in life like love, affection, belonging, and it can be simple fears manifesting in a perverted sense of pride that inhibits one from what they want.

I get the feeling like I’m speaking from a high horse as if I claim to be some guru without ego but I try to speak as somebody who is aware of and has a relationship with it. In all improvement, in every clawing of your way to a better tomorrow, it is a small concession that you are flawed. In that way, elimination of your pride and an embracing of humility becomes the ground from which life springs.

[jeanplaisance]

I feel lonely.

One of the most influential scenes I ever read in a book was Fahrenheit 451's opening scene. When asked if he was happy, the main character retorted of course! As if it were some kind of silly question. Moments later, reflecting in the privacy of his own mind, he broke down admitting his misery, remarking that it was as if that very question had ripped off his mask and run away with it.

When I was a teenager, I had this habit of asking people about their lives and in a way that kind of forced the idea that asserted that maybe they weren't happy. Of course, this is because I wasn't satisfied with my life. I wasn't. I'm still not. Things are better than they've ever been, but I still get that gnawing feeling all the same. It's not in a bad way that makes me sad. It's a want for more. To chase some ideal or romantic notion about proper living. So I'm dissatisfied, but not exactly miserable.

Of course, everybody always insisted that they were happy. That things were fine. I didn't think and I still don't think that's true for just about anybody and surely the reason a person wouldn't share is a matter of personal vulnerability, but damn if the feeling of isolation still hasn't changed from when I was a teenager. I don't want people to be miserable. I want people to share this feeling with so I won't be alone, and by extension, I hope they would find some comfort in sharing theirs with another.

I think I’ve expressed this before and gotten plenty of reassurances, but reassurance only worsens the feeling. If I’m feeling lost, I don’t want somebody telling me that they’re not lost even though they must assuredly are. I want to be lost together.

[jeanplaisance]

Share Porn with your Friends

I’ve remarked many times in my life, and I will continue to do so: sharing pornography with your friends is a testament to the depth of your intimacy with one another and I recommend it to everybody.

I’m joking. But I’m also not joking. I’m also quite serious. I mean what I said. However, it’s not about the pornography. It’s about the vulnerability that comes with it, since it’s well known that people are as broad and different in their personal affections as they are in their hobbies and interests. Except sharing what you’re into is waaaay more tricky than sharing that you like riding bikes on the weekend. Unless of course that’s the Ass Pounder 4000: Never Stop PumpingTM.

In my own perspective, I think, “I can’t share this. They’ll think I need to be committed.” But there is another side to this: maybe they also need to be committed. YOU FOLLOW? There’s a certain amount of risk involved, but in being a crazy mother fucker, you set other crazy mother fuckers free who maybe don’t have that same level of confidence. You show them that you are a person that they can put their faith in. Maybe you don’t share the same interest, but having somebody else put that kind of faith in you that they can open up… c’mon. You can’t help but feel touched that they feel that way. Just don’t let ‘em get anything on you. Unless that’s your thing, of course.

Power to ya.

[jeanplaisance]

The Goon Squad 2

For your listening enjoyment while reading this short story about the audacious endeavors of a select group of dysfunctional individuals, please use the following playlist for your selection of background music:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-WzMovyzUA&list=PLWhQLCK89W8BDlgoZ-Rcp75q2WSjKRhGn

In the middle of a wasteland, the squad had set up a small encampment under the umbrella of an acacia tree’s foliage complete with a campfire pit and a tent large enough for the three of them, excluding the Gimp who preferred to endure the elements. It was here they had settled just outside of the ruins of a large city, a brief distance away from the shattered remnants of a highway.

“Leslie!! The Gimp is acting weird!” called out the Kid.

Leslie, without stopping his knitting, mocked, “Oh if I had a dong for every time I heard that…” With some pull and strain, the Kid managed to drag the Gimp out from behind the tent and into Leslie’s line of sight. He had equipped himself with a harness and was harassing the kid in a dog-like manner as if he wanted to be walked.

“Oh! Go find Fred! The Gimp wants to go somewhere. Why didn’t you just say so?” The Kid grimaced, as if to suggest that this question somehow stupid. Meanwhile, the gimp was nodding furiously to indicate that Leslie’s interpretation was correct. The kid groaned, bracing himself for the humiliation that was the cart.

The Goon Squad may be lacking in most classical faculties that one would consider necessary to proper human conduct, but they well understood energy preservation when it came to long distance travel in the wastes of society… Needless to say, fighting dudes on the beach was not conservative in any capacity. And thus, the gang all squeezed into a shopping cart hooked to the Gimp via harness and they began their uncomfortable, bumpy journey into the city. The Gimp gave no consideration to pot holes, believing them to build character, especially for a vehicle with no cushioning or shock support. Bumps were no factor in Leslie’s knitting abilities, and he proceeded unhindered.

You might picture that this group was recklessly barreling down the highways, speeding recklessly on the downward slope of overpasses, blazing through intersections and doing wheelies in parking lots. However, the Gimp is an obedient creature at heart. He obeys traffic laws. He stays in his lane, signals when appropriate, yields to oncoming traffic, and comes to a full stop at stop signs. He is fully concerned with the safety of his passengers, understanding that while he likes abuse, he should not assert that on others. He would obey the speed limit as well, but he will never reach speeds that mattered. Not with that attitude, at least.

Most of the city was desolate. Stores had been stripped of any and all supplies long ago, becoming operational bases to local bandits. Yet, one stood unphased by the catastrophe that struck. Sitting under an exceptionally high overpass, there was the Mega Mini Mart. Like a mini mart, it had only simple supplies, but unlike a mini mart, those supplies were in abundance. Where a mini mart might have cough drops, deodorant, band-aids, and cat food, the Mega Mini Mart had cough drops, deodorant, band-aids, cat food, deodorant, cat food, cough drops, band-aids, band-aids, band-aids, deodorant, cat food, cough drops, and deodorant.You see the difference? This is not to be confused with the Mini Mega Mart, which was a miniature scale model of the mega mart next door which has excellent variety in the products it offers. Its primary customers were ants and was run by fruit flies. Yet, everybody knew that the fruit flies were a front and the store was actually operated by yellow jackets in an effort to oppress ants through price gouging conventional living goods. At any rate, I digress.

True to its name, most everything about the store was plus sized. The sliding glass doors were at least three stories high, and centered above them read:

M E G A

M  I  N  I

M A R T

Which took up the next few floors worth of advertising space. The Goon Squad approached the doors, and like any other mart, the doors automatically opened and welcomed them in.

The inside was no different in concept and was truly a civil engineering masterpiece. The aisles towered far above, lined with countless shelves of the same product in abundance, but all neatly faced on the shelves for the image of a perfect consistency. Classic supermarket stocking technique. It was as if no warehouse supplied this store and the store was the warehouse itself, but trust me: you don’t want to know about the Mega Mini Mart warehouse.

Accompanying the squad’s fruitless effort of following the aimless Gimp around was the constant, overbearing presence of terrible, easy listening grocery store music belonging to a long lost period of humanity. It played unrelentingly, adding an uncanny feeling to the mysterious absence of anybody else in the store. And so, they wandered.

After about 30 minutes though of walking up and down aisles, and even going in circles, the Kid had to put his foot down on the Gimp, figuratively. “Okay guys. That’s enough. Stop.” They listened for once. “What are we doing? Where is the Gimp taking us?”

Fred shrugged. “I don’t know. He just kinda figures it out. It’s hard for a guy who can’t read, but he finds what he’s looking for.” The Kid leaned in, surprised. “He can’t read?” Looking over to the Gimp, he could see it plainly spelled out on the Gimp’s face that he couldn’t read. Not because he looked like an idiot, but because there was nowhere on his mask for him to see out of. The Kid startled at this revelation. Turning back to Fred and Leslie, he pointed back at the Gimp in shock, “Wait, how does he get around like that? He brought us here! He stopped at stop signs!”

Leslie and Fred shrugged. “The Gimp works in mysterious ways.”

Putting their faith in the Gimp, they finally came conveniently to a shelf of baby powder on the first floor of Aisle 147. There is pain, and then there’s inconvenience and the Gimp was starting to chafe. How he had come to find this went unquestioned, quelling all disbelief from the Kid. From here though, it was simply about navigating to the front of the store and checking out. A simple task. Straightforward.

Yet, the mysterious absence of people was finally answered. With half a hundred check out lines, they were all closed except for Register 1. All the people were waiting in line to checkout. Their arms tired from their groceries, as they so boldly skipped out on a basket like so many fools before, underestimating just how many items they would find they truly needed. It was horrific as they shifted their weight, trying to relieve their sore arms from carrying these groceries. And the line. The merciless line! It extended all the way from the front of the register to the tabloids at the end of the checkout. Rather than seeking alternatives, the squad resolved to endure this test of patience.

Oddly enough, the checkout was normally sized, meaning there was roughly four people in line besides the squad. By this time, Leslie had finished his knitting, producing a nice blue woolen cap for the Kid who accepted it graciously, but was embarrassed to be wearing it in public.

There they stood, waiting in line, with their single container of baby powder inching its way forward slowly across the conveyor belt to the register. Past the register was the exit, guarded by two large men in berets and sunglasses, armed with assault rifles. They stood like statues at attention.

Beep. The attendant placed the baby powder over by the bags at the end of the checkout.

“That’ll be 37 dong, sir,” said the register attendant.

Fred leaned over the counter, incredulously. “37 dong? For some baby powder? You can’t be serious.”

“Have you tried the Mini Mega Mart next door instead?” repeated the attendant.

“Have you tried an asskicking?” Fred was his wit’s end, but conceded. Fred stuffed his hand in his pocket, but followed up with a quick pat down when he realized he’d forgotten something. “Oh shit, I forgot my wallet.” They all met eyes, except the Gimp who can’t fucking see. “Quick, Kid, give me some dong from your purse.”

“What?!” He exclaimed defensively. “Also, it’s a satchel!”

“Purse, satchel, whatever. I know you’re holding out on us.” He gestured to fork it over.

“Awww, c’mon, Fred! I found it! Why do I have to spend it on the Gimp?”

Fred sighed exasperatedly, rolling his eyes with great vigor. “How many times do I have to tell you, THE GIMP IS A VALUED MEMBER OF THIS FAMILY AND GOD HELP ME IF YOU-”

Fishing out some bills from his purse, the Kid forked over a handful of bills to Fred, clearly displeased. “FINE! TAKE THE STUPID DONG!”

The register attendant was completely unphased by this display.

“Let’s see... “ Fred flipped through the dong. He paused at the end, and then thumbed through it again. He stared off into space for a moment nodding, before he thumbed through it again. Leslie leaned over his shoulder and whispered into his ear. “You have 35 dong.”

Fred turned to him, “I knew that. I was getting there. I was just…  making sure.”

“That means we’re two dong short,” Leslie continued.

Again, they were at a crossroads, waiting each other out. Fred eventually caved, and took off his shoe, pulling two additional bills out of it, crumpled from being stuffed into the tip. The flustered Fred tossed the money carelessly across the counter to the register attendant who proceeded as if this was merely an everyday situation. Yet for some reason, Fred made no move to pick up the baby powder, simply staring at the attendant instead.

“Uhh… can I help you, sir? There are other customers waiting.” The attendant pointed down the checkout, where a short, balding man with curly hair was standing with some box mac and cheese.

Fred sat there bouncing his leg, now giving stink eye to the attendant. Leslie approached him, gently placing his hand on his shoulder, “Fred, is there a problem?”

After a moment of strained silence, Fred finally spoke. “You son of a bitch.”

“Sir, is there a problem?” asked the attendant.

“Look, just bag the fucking baby powder.”

“Sir, that’s not in my job description. The customers typically-”

“I did not just pay 37 dong to bag my own baby powder. Are you fucking with me?”

“Sir, that’s not in my-”

“Yeah, you said that already. I heard you. Just bag the powder kid.”

The pair of armed guards had abandoned their post and were now approaching the register in light of the scene that Fred was making. Leslie and the Kid were growing anxious now, pleading with Fred to abandon his pride. He didn’t even need a bag. Just pick it up and take it with him.

“It’s about the principle of the matter now! Just because the vietnamese took over the world, this guy thinks good ol’ human decency is now out the window and we’re living in some kind of post-apocalyptic nightmare where a guy has to bag his own groceries!”

The attendant was picking up his phone and getting ready to dial. “Sir, I am going to have to call my manager if you continue making a scene. Sir, just-”

It was too late. Fred had jumped into the counter, and was trying to grab the phone from the attendant from the other side. “You let me speak to your manager!” One of the guard’s aimed down his sights… and fired.

Everybody flinched from the shot, and when they opened their eyes… they found a man dying on the floor. He coughed and sputtered, but through his pain, uttered his dying words. “Daryl, I know things between us never could have worked out, but…” He turned over and looked up at Fred, whom he had taken the bullet for. It was the balding man from behind them in line. Upon seeing Fred’s face, he collapsed back into the floor. “Oh for fuck’s sake…  I thought you were my ex Daryl from behind. Who the fuck else would wear shorts with juicy written on the back… ?” He trailed off as he passed away.

The squad stared in horror at the armed guards, anticipating the worst.

“Hey bro, toss me some more ammo,” whispered one guard to another.

“What do you mean toss you some more? You only fired one shot!” The other was whisper yelling back.

“Yeah, but that was all I had. Now c’mon!”

“... I don’t got any.”

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t got any?!”

“I thought you had us covered.”

“What?!”

“I didn’t wanna sound dumb, but I didn’t find none.”

“Al, we’re guards!”

However, their argument was cut short because a fight broke out immediately. The Gimp, Leslie, and Fred had taken the opportunity during their arguing to rush the guards, taking them by surprise! With a single devastating back handed bitch slap, the Gimp felled one of the guards, devolving their squabble into a wrestling match on the ground. Fred assisted by kicking and stomping, hitting friend and foe alike. Leslie and his guard were pulling each other around the floor by each other’s shirt collar, scratching at one another’s face and pulling hair.

The Kid took no part in the abuse of the store staff, beet red with embarrassment at the display before him.

The fight was swinging ever further into the Goon Squad’s favor when it was interrupted by the flash of lights turning on somewhere in the darkness above near the monolithic store’s ceiling. The fight ceased and everybody turned to find the silhouette of a man standing proudly on the railing of a cat walk far above. In a graceful sweep, he leapt from the catwalks and in perfect form, dropped the entirety of six stories to deliver a single devastating elbow drop onto the Gimp, defeating him immediately. Rising was a man in laced boots and trunks with wrist cuffs on and a luchadore mask. Along his trunks read, “THE MAN-AGER” and countless tick marks designating numerous customers defeated.

He called out in a booming voice of showmanship, “Who dares to harass my staff?! Speak now, for I have arrived!”

Fred answered his call with a weak right hook, to which the manager dodged. Grabbing Fred by the shoulder and hip, he lifted him above, threw him on the floor, and defeated him instantly with another flying elbow drop. He rose once more.

Leslie came in with one of his famous flying drop kicks, “YEET, B-” But he was cut short! The Man-ager side stepped Leslie as he dropped helplessly to the floor, opening himself up to yet another devastating flying elbow drop. Yet to The Man-ager’s surprise, Leslie had blocked the blow to his ribs with his arm.

Standing once more, The Man-ager was grinning. “Hoho! A worthy foe! A mere elbow drop isn’t sufficient for the likes of you, but we’ll see how you feel about my Muay Thai Body Obliterator.”

I apologize for the interruption, but I cannot describe this move to you. So far, these stories have been rather tame and I would not want to pain any readers with the details the likes of which are involved with the Muay Thai Body Obliterator. I assure you though, that the Muay Thai Body Obliterator is a devastating move that has been banned in all forms of martial arts contests for its lethality and striking disregard for the sanctity of human life. I regret to inform you, that Leslie is the one who must endure such a technique, but fret not! Leslie’s a tough ol’ bird with plenty to live for. He has no time for dying.

The exit was now thoroughly demolished and the setting sun’s light was now pouring onto the shattered tile floor of the Mega Mini Mart. The Squad had been defeated, save for the Kid, who refused to participate in the fight with the staff. Though unconscious, nobody paid with their life. The Man-ager was now wandering from one to another checking up on each person. He straightened himself and turned his focus to the Kid.

“Hey, I sure do appreciate your staying outta cahoots with these here hooligans. Doesn’t do my heart much good to have to hurt folks like this.”

“Oh, no problem! I’m sorry you had to do this. I can take it from here and get them out of your hair,” offered the Kid.

But The Man-ager just laughed and shook his head. “Oh no, that’s not quite how this works I’m afraid.”

The Kid froze. “What do you mean? Surely you want to get rid of us.”

“These fellas have caused me a bit of property damage and I do believe I am in my right to be seeking reparations. I have been in need of some overnight stockers to help me out with runnin’ this operation...”

This was not part of his plan. In his mind, by staying out of the fight, he was demonstrating good will, he was going to apologize on behalf of the others, and everybody would be on their way. This wasn’t the first time things had gotten a little out of hand. Suddenly, however, he was the only one going on his way from this fiasco.

“I don’t need to remind you, but we are closing in 15 minutes.” With that, The Man-ager tossed up the unconscious Gimp over his shoulder, and began making his way over to Fred as well.

“Wait-”

“Unless you would like to join them, I would suggest you take your groceries and see yourself out.”

The Kid was left standing out in front of the Mega Mini Mart, a wool cap on his head and baby powder in his hand, and the sun was now setting.

[jeanplaisance]

The Goon Squad

It was a bright and sunny day at the beach. Except it was a little overcast, and muggy I’d say. Actually, it wasn’t so much of a beach either, it was more like a lakeside where the lake had dried up and the shores had turned to caked mud, but the idea was there. The idea was there and people appreciated it all the same. This was the vacation spot. This was the beachside.

On the beach, there was three men and a boy lounging about. It was a picturesque scene. A moody teenage boy in his swim trunks with a shirt on under the umbrella, sitting up with his knees up and his face buried in his crossed arms. In nothing but swim trunks, two men laid together several feet apart. One was rather average and the other was more like he had sculpted his body from marble. At the very end of them was an unidentified individual in a black leather gimp suit that covered his entire body, perfectly sealed as to reveal not a single bit of skin, sunbathing all the same in the blazing heat.

The buff man sat up from his beach towel, and pulled his shades onto his face where they sat on top of his heavily sunscreened nose. “Hey, Fred. I need to talk to you for a second.”

The average man opened one eye, unmoving, “What is it, Leslie? I’m trying to relax.”

The man now identified as Leslie whispered, “You see those four dudes over there playing volleyball?”

Fred groaned. “I can’t see them, but you bet I can hear them. Is that the same song they were playing when we got here?” Off in the distance, a boombox stereo on the ground was blaring a bass heavy song with syncopated melody.

“It. Sure. Is.” Leslie nodded, without dropping the stink eye he held on the volleyball players. “Fred, we gotta do something about them. They’re really harshing the Gimp’s mood.”

Besides him, the Gimp was literally writhing in pain on his beach towel. “Huh, that is strange. Guess there’s even a kind of pain and suffering he can’t stand. Alright, let’s go put in our request, Leslie.”

Leslie and Fred made their way over to the volleyball ring embedded in the caked mud where the beach dudes were having a two on two match with their boombox stereo loudly blaring from the side. Fred yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the music.He waved to get their attention but he went unnoticed as their match continued. With no choice remaining, he walked over to the stereo and leaned down to turn off the stereo himself.

SNATCH! Just as his finger hit the pause button, one of the dudes had roughly yanked his hand away from the stereo, crushing Fred’s wrist in his massive hand. In that same blink of an eye, the four dudes had lined up menacingly next to the stereo like soldiers lining up for their drill sergeant, perfectly uniform with the same hair, swim trunks, and sunglasses. “Whoa, bro, like, hands off. Respect people’s property,” the dude commanded in an obnoxiously lax accent.

Leslie stood tall and puffed his chest out, ready to intervene, but the dude let Fred go. With his hands up apologetically, Fred quickly stammered out, “Whoa, my bad! Jeez. Sorry. Calm down, fellas. I was just trying to get your attention so we can talk.”

“So talk,” spit out of one of the cronies.

“Yeah, man,” from another.

Obnoxious. “Look, my friend over there isn’t enjoying your music, so I was wondering if you could turn it down just a little. There are other people on this beach.” There was nobody else on this beach, besides the eight of them.

The dude who grabbed him peaked over his shoulder and behind Leslie. His eyebrow raised. “Is that a guy in a full leather gimp suit?”

Fred waved his hands, blocking his view. “Don’t worry about the details. So, can you turn down the music or not?”

The dude looked back at Fred. He stood there, chest out, stone faced, saying nothing. Another moment passed. The sun was blazing as a bead of sweat formed on Fred’s forehead. The dude opened his mouth… “No.” It quickly devolved into bickering.

We can’t move, it’s a good spot.

We can’t move either, Volley ball net’s here.

We can help you move it.

But we were here first.

Leslie piped in, first by thirty seconds.

First is first.

C’mon.

No.

Please?

No.

“Alright, cool guy. How about…” Fred paused. He needed to add some insult first. “You know, it’s super cool that you guys are sitting here playing with each other.” Nailed it. “How ‘bout some real opponents? We beat you, you move.” Leslie side eyed Fred with concern on his face.

The dude put his finger up to his lip, looking slightly upwards. He then pointed at Fred, “You’re on, bro. We’ll give you sixty seconds to warm up.”

Fred didn’t waste a second heading back to his camp, clapping his hands together repeatedly with Leslie trailing behind. “Alright boys! We got ourselves a game to win. Let’s kick those douches off the beach!”

The kid lifted his head, peering at Fred and then behind him. All the beach dudes were stretching and flexing. He grimaced.

“The kid’s right, Fred,” pleaded Leslie. “Between the four of them, they have four capable, experienced volleyball players. Between the four of us, we have two capable players.”

“Uhh, how are you counting that again?”

“Well, there’s me. The gimp and you make up one person. And the kid’s just an old stick in the mud. Can’t expect anything from him.”

The kid tossed in, “You’re damn right!”

They had some difficulty convincing the kid to join, and it wasn’t until the Gimp snatched the kid’s MP3 player out of his hands that some externally motivating forces were discovered that could persuade the kid. The gimp was truly a subtle master of pain.

Moments later, they had spread out across the mud volley ball court, facing down the beach dudes. The bass heavy music was still blaring, drowning out any attempt at communication. They began with Leslie serving. Being the specimen that he was, Leslie was able to dish out nasty serves from the back of the court, but the dude bros were experts at this game, returning it easily to Fred and the Gimp in the front. Fred returned no spikes, missing every single one that came his way. The only receives that occurred were by the Gimp, taking the full brunt of the spike to his face, but keeping the ball in play. Sometimes it passed to Fred, who only dropped it like the useless trash he was. When it fell to the kid, he watched it fall down without lifting a single player. Truly useless. The only competent member was Leslie, but their coordination was no match for the immaculate sense of unity the beach dudes exhibited.

As they rotated, Fred tried shouting orders to the others, but they couldn’t be heard over the music. Fortunately for the beach dudes, it was as if they were raised in the bass, blessed with the wub, able to communicate without spoken word. Fred, frustrated with the kid, tried to shout at him only to receive shrugs in return. He called a time out with his hands, walked over to the Gimp, and pulled out the kid’s MP3 player from a sweaty zippered pocket. Dangling it delicately in his fingers, he gestured to smash it. A small back and forth exchange of pleading occurred until Fred had won his cooperation.

It paid dividends quickly, because surprisingly, the kid was actually a fairly capable volleyball player. He set. He served. He even tried spiking, to little avail. They were better off now though than a moment ago. As the game dragged on, and the Gimp took damage, he seemed to become more agile. Quicker. Stronger. Pain is gain for the Gimp. Soon enough, the rounds were lasting longer than the beach dudes had expected, only really ending when the Kid tired out or it was passed to Fred for whatever stupid reason somebody would make that mistake.

Sensing the danger their egos would take should the Goon Squad win, in their own mysterious ways, the beach dudes schemed up a plan. They were targeting the kid. They were targeting the vulnerable teenage boy in the one place that a teenager couldn’t handle at their level of maturity. While at the net, one of the beach dude’s yelled across the net successfully to the kid, “YOU’RE PRETTY GOOD. THAT TIME SPANKING IT IS REALLY PAYING OFF.” This instantly flustered the kid. He tried to deny the accusation, but he couldn’t be heard over the music with his quiet voice anyway. The damage was done. He was properly flustered now, and his technique was crumbling.

The beach dudes gained the upperhand once more, but they would lose in the only way that mattered. Fucking up yet another receive, Fred stumbled over his own feet and fell into the boombox, decimating it with an elbow drop as he tried to catch himself. The music stopped and everybody froze. Before Fred could process what was happening, a beach dude was at the box catching him in the face with the slap of his palm at full force. Fred’s world spun as he was stunned from the blow. Now surrounded by the beach dudes, Fred braced himself for the beat down. Yet like a horn of salvation, great words of hope fell on his ears through his daze...

“YEET, BITCH!” It was at that very moment that Leslie delivered a flying drop kick into the beach dude that downed Fred, kicking him in the ribs so hard that one of his kidney’s erupted from the opposite side. A fight broke out instantly.

Leslie took on one beach dude, slapping at each other from arm’s length, neither committed to the fight, inflicting no serious damage.

Fred had clung himself to one beach dude’s leg, biting it while the Gimp provided rear support, spanking the beach dude’s ass as he tried to shake off Fred. No serious damage was inflicted.

The kid was left to fend for himself. He cowered under the towering figure before him. “You and your bros are gonna regret this. I’m gonna kick your scrawny-” and the beach dude’s voice cracked at the y. The kid started to laugh before tearing into this grown man for his voice cracking. The beach dude tried to defend himself, but the kid was now hurtfully accurate insights into the beach dude’s character, laying waste to the beach dude’s self-esteem. Without any creativity or intellectual prowess, the beach was defenseless with only crass insults at his own disposal.. They bickered back and forth, but the beach dude suffered serious emotional damages.

The first beach dude lay in the sand, remembering better times. Once upon a time, his kidney was inside his body and he hadn’t been obliterated with a flying drop kick.

“Dude, my world is going dark...” muttered the downed beach dude.

Collapsing next to him in the dirt, another beach dude soothingly confessed, “Dude, you are my whole world...” “Dude...”

After a long, arduous battle of approximately 45 seconds, covered in mud, blood, bruises, and especially emotional scars for the Kid’s victim, the Goon Squad emerged victorious. Too disoriented to walk, Fred rode on the back of the Gimp who trotted along on hands and knees. As he wavered back and forth, disoriented, he talked as much smack as he could. “Yeaaaah, fug you guyz. Thas whatchu get, you dumb pricks.” He spit on one of the collapsed beach dude’s as he rode past, accidentally spitting out a tooth in the process. Leslie was commending the kid for his exemplary show of sportsmanship and excellence in combat, showering the moody teenager with compliments that would surely help to develop his character as a young adult. Together, the Goon Squad walked back to their beach camp, drinking in the comforting lack of sound on this peaceful, sunny day on the beach.

At this point in time, it had been 15 minutes since they arrived at the beach.

[jeanplaisance]

The Duality of Man

We’re capable of making good judgments.

Drink plenty of water.

Eat plenty of leafy vegetables.

Exercise regularly.

Get plenty of sleep.

Don’t do drugs.

Study diligently.

I think there’s little to debate about the goodness of these things. I think we can all concede that these are good things. Now let’s reflect on the reality:

MAAAAN, FUCK THAT.

Curious how despite coming to an obvious conclusion about these things through reasoning consciously, we do not act in that interest. Something tempts us otherwise. The pleasure of unhealthy foods? The challenge of exercise versus shameless self indulgence, and sleep? You mean miss out on other opportunities? Studying? My shows aren’t going to watch themselves.

I’m one of the worst offenders I know of this inconsistency.

It’s fascinating though, isn’t it? It might suck, but to think that maybe there’s more to ourselves than the conscious experience… that maybe we aren’t alone in our heads... How saucy. That’s some psychological thriller material right there that we experience on a day to day basis. On one hand, our subconscious inclination to lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent behavior seems so much more daunting and powerful than our ability to make good decisions. It wins. Boy, does it win a lot. Anybody who’s ever wanted and never met that goal knows what I’m talking about. It’s reflected in countless attempts to improve ourselves that we ultimately let slip through our fingers.

At the same time, what does the subconscious have over a single second of mental clarity? My favorite experiences in life are always being put in front of others, such as performing in a play on show night or giving a presentation. There’s that hesitation from the subconscious that’s like nononononononoNONONONO please don’t make me do this get me the FUCK OUT. You’re just screaming internally, but consciously, you know you can’t just leave. You know you can’t get out of it. You know you can’t just walk out the back door and run home... And so you put one foot in front of the other as that internal voice hits a fever pitch, and once you’re out there, there’s no going back.

You go exercise for the first time in four years. 30 seconds into your run, your subconscious is like yoooo this fuckin’ sucks. One foot... bail on this shit. In front... get me out. Of the other. All it takes is a brief moment of clarity to keep making one small decision after the other.

You’re sending that text message. That dangerous message. That message full of emotions. That message that could tear your relationship asunder. That vulnerability that you don’t believe you have. The backspace button is right there. All it takes… to commit irreversibly to that decision beyond any mortal power… is to mash that send button with a quick quarter second jab of the index finger. After that, you can huck your phone/laptop/desktop out the fucking window with the reflexes and strength the likes of which you never knew you had, but what’s done is done. You have irrevocably condemned yourself to the consequences of your decision.

It’s kind of romantic, isn’t it? It’s like we’re not alone in our own heads. It’s like there’s two roommates and one is trying their best and the other is a raging slob. But in all seriousness: it’s like there’s two entities, cohabitating in the space that is your own head. You are one of them, but you are not the other. You have your say in one, but you have no say in the other. We can insist to ourselves, but as I’m sure we know, insisting to ourselves has always done little in the affairs of the irrational emotions we feel. Albeit painful and difficult, I think it’s thrilling, honestly. It feels enchanting, as if there is a little bit of magic in my life. It’s somewhat tragic, yet the irony feels like just a semblance of purpose.

[jeanplaisance]

The Rabbit Hole

When I was in the 7th grade, I stumbled upon Alan Watt’s giving a lecture about DMT and Mysticism and I could not for the life of me follow what was going on. I have revisited that video every few months for over a decade now. This is that video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fSiMeJU9YN8

If you don’t know, StumbleUpon was a website where you could tick your interests and then just mash this “Stumble” button for hours on end. It would just keep bringing you sites that were tagged with your interests. I remember I picked up my interest in hydroponics because I stumbled upon Disney Land’s Epcot hydroponics display. Super cool. But that isn’t what I took from it.

I think the greatest gift that Stumble Upon gave me was a Soundcloud blog that went by the name “Dreaming in the Void”. Dreaming in the Void was a site that contained various recordings, lectures, movie clips, etc. on various philosophical musings, conspiratorial thinking, or just sophisticated comedy. Alan Watts, Terence McKenna, George Carlin, Bill Hicks, Michael Tsarion, Aldous Huxley, etc. I found my favorite movie Revolver via that blog. You can still find it today, but for whatever reason, the author had to remove tons of the content that he had. I’d say it’s a shell of its former self, but I still visit it regularly.

At any rate, this video... At 13 years old, I listened to this video and it was like sand in a sieve. I knew there was something there, but I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it. All I knew was that I was hearing Alan Watts talking about what a great human being was, besides that he has the most charming chuckle and way of talking about things. I went so far as to ask this girl I knew to listen to it and see what she could make of it. Not much Now, he’s not crazy. He wasn’t a mad man spewing gibberish. I knew there was something there, and I wanted to wrap myself around that.

What I gather from it now is that there are two parts to what he’s describing: reaching that state and what the state is. Let me start with the latter. The experience he describes as mysticism is a sort of euphoric state, especially one involving their relation to the world around them. It’s a sort of peaceful feeling. To describe it as a simple euphoric state doesn’t quite capture the feeling, as if you listen to the video, it’s so much more than feeling great. It’s more like you pulled back the curtain on reality and saw the inner workings so plainly that the beauty wiped away all your doubts.

Alan Watts asserts that people want this state. It’s the state that makes saints and visionaries out of plain people. And so, in a want to understand and experience this, people insist it upon themselves. They insist, “I feel this way.” I’m sure we all know that changing the way we feel has never been a matter of insisting it upon ourselves. We might change the way we think through thinking, but we can’t change the way we feel through thinking. That simply can’t produce the effect.

It almost feels like somebody saying, “You can’t understand the way I feel.” It feels almost exclusionary. Like you may have felt good about yourself, but here our boy comes to say that, “You might feel good, but you still have no idea what I’m describing.” I love this though. I think this is fantastic. To know that people have felt this way before, it excites me to know that we *can* feel that way at all. I like to imagine all the great people through the ages have been people who felt this way. It makes me think to myself, “I want to feel that way about something.” Knowing that I haven’t, it prods me to keep searching.

And thus, Dreaming in the Void became a common staple of my media consumption. It’s a strange place. It’s bizarre. There’s something fascinating about being unable to tell if somebody’s a complete fucking madman out of his wits or if he’s a genius beyond comprehension. Hell, even if they are a madman, maybe there’s something to glean from their perspective. There’s the whole matter of “you stare into the abyss, it also stares into you” but it’s got some kind of allure for sure.