December 31: part 2

So I’m terrible about updating this thing. Anyway, here is part two to that short story I started a while ago (scroll down to read the first installment). Its not fully done, but I think its getting there. As always, I’d love feedback. I kinda like where this is going, and I have some ideas of how to maybe expand it.
-Paul

The sound was overwhelming. Everywhere people were shrieking with laughter or yelling over the music that was booming from giant speakers hidden somewhere in the bowels of the party. There were so many people dancing and grinding on one another that the moist air of the living room reeked of body oder, perfume, and hormones. Daniel awkwardly bumped his way through the crowd, following his brother to the kitchen to deposit the drinks.
He set his bag down on the linoleum counter-top and took a deep breath. Mark had already forgotten about him and was high-fiving some of his lacrosse team mates. He desperately scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Maybe by some fluke one of my loser friends got invited to this shit-show he thought to himself, but had no luck locating one. While he recognized most of the people at the party, and actually knew quite a bit about several of them through numerous rumors and prevalent hearsay; he had never so much as spoken a word to any of them. In his mind these people weren’t worth knowing. Heather was a trashy whore, his brother was a moron jock, and in Daniel’s opinion any of the slack jawed buffoons that associated with them were repulsive by association.
Daniel’s eyes wandered aimlessly through pulsing knot of people now crawling over top of each other to get drinks. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? He asked himself hopelessly. He cursed his mother for forcing him into this. If my bitch of a mom would just treat me like a fucking adult and let me stay home alone I wouldn’t have to be here with these jackasses. Defeated, Daniel flopped down on the couch and sneered at his classmates who were clamoring excitedly, drinking as much as they could as quickly as possible.
As the party raged on, Daniel decided he was perfectly content to sit in that spot the entire night in silent judgment of these people. He wasn’t a part of this, nor could he be. These people existed on some baser level of existence, one where it was perfectly acceptable to get hammered and indiscriminately fuck each other like animals. The whole scene made Daniel so angry. Why didn’t these people know how terrible they were? And why were they so god damned happy about it? Their happiness only intensified Daniel’s bitterness with the whole situation. If I hear one more person say the word “dude” I’m going to kill myself he thought, leering at a group of seniors he recognized as football players. They had taken their shirts off, their muscular bodies drenched with sweat and beer foam, and were seeing who could drink a can of beer the fastest; however, they all ended up laughing and spewing beer on each other.
“Goddamn barbarians…” Daniel muttered. He then noticed a group of girls all taking pictures of themselves in “sexy” poses, examining the pictures they just took, and bursting into laughter at each one. With this, Daniel’s frustration and exhaustion overwhelmed him and he could no longer stand to be in the same room as these people. He quickly walked down the hallway, shoving his way though the tightly packed bodies, flung open the first door he came to, slammed it closed behind him and locked it.
He was in Heather’s brother Zach’s room. Zach had graduated from Anderson last year and had gone to music school somewhere out west. Having only been a freshman when Zach was a senior, Daniel really knew little about him other than that he was in a band that had some mild success at school and that he was probably infinitely more interesting than his terrible sister. He sat down on Zach’s bed to collect himself.
The room was cluttered with dirty clothes, empty soda bottles, CD cases, and various musical instruments. Numerous band posters and show fliers covered most of the deep blue walls. Some of these Daniel recognized, but most he did not. Three different guitars rested against a small drum kit in the corner and various pedal’s wires tangled hopelessly with various amplifiers. Daniel now regretted not having known Zach, and fantasized that the two of them might have actually been friends. However, he thought to himself, he may only like the idea of Zach in his absence, and that the real Zach was probably a prick just like everyone else at that damn school.
Even in the closed off room in the back of the house the low thud from the music’s bass was still enough to give Daniel a headache. As he grimaced and rubbed his temples slowly he noticed a large bottle of vodka under Zach’s desk. Either Zach had left his personal supply sitting out from the last time he was home, or one of the people at the party had stashed it for later. Daniel was not a drinker. On occasion he would take a sip of his mom’s wine because it made him feel sophisticated and once back in 8th grade he and Kyle stole six of Kyle’s father’s beers and drank them together out in the woods behind the park. He remembered how powerful he felt that afternoon, running wild in the cold dusk with Kyle. Somehow his bond with his friend that day seemed unbreakable. He thought about how Kyle tripped over that those roots and scraped his forearm pretty badly on that rock, how they watched Kyle’s blood staining the dry autumn leaves crimson and how they laughed so hard their stomaches ached.
He reached under the desk and grabbed the bottle. He removed the cap and swirled the clear liquid around, examining it closely. It seemed slightly thicker than water, and smelled like a citrus cleaning solution mixed with cough syrup. Bacardi Orange was written in red script diagonally across the frosted glass. Well why the hell not? he thought and he swallowed a mouthful.
His lips went numb and he felt a slow burning coming up from his stomach. His face twisted and contorted, and his mouth filled with saliva. It tasted almost exactly how it smelled, and the sickening sweetness lingered, mingling in the back of his throat with that awful scathing sensation. Instinctively his body wanted to vomit and he had to struggle to keep the awful stuff down. However after a few moments of fighting against his natural urges, a strange calm came over him. His head felt lighter and he felt a warmth radiating from his core. His muscles relaxed and he took another, much smaller sip finding this one to be much more manageable.
He continued to take little nips off the bottle in silence, enjoying the solitude of Zach’s room and the relaxing effects of his alcohol. He thought about his brother and his shirtless friends pounding beers in the living room, looking like savages, and laughed to himself.
His thoughts slowly turned to memories of Kyle. How they used to skateboard together behind the bowling alley, and how Kyle had always been much more talented at this, but was never boastful. He thought about the Friday nights they would stay up watching Army of Darkness, reciting every line. But as they always did, these pleasant thoughts gave way to his memory of the accident.
It was April 14, 2004. Kyle’s Dad had picked them up from the skate park and he was headed back to kyle’s house to spend the night. It had rained pretty hard while they were inside the park and when they came out steam was rising up from the wet asphalt. They were about 10 minutes from Kyle’s house, crossing the bridge over the river when the car hit a puddle at the wrong angle at the wrong speed. Daniel, who was sitting in the back seat, could only remember brief moments of the crash, like snapshots. Kyle’s dad frantically ineffectively turning the wheel, trying to keep the back end of the SUV from coming around. Violently bumping his head into the roof as they went off the road. Shattered glass and blood as they smashed headlong into the tree.
Daniel woke up in the blindingly bright hospital room in immense pain. The doctors there had to put a plate in his left leg and had to put 14 stitches into his right to stop the bleeding from the gruesome compound fracture. He was told he was lucky, that if the EMTs hadn’t arrived when they did he would have bled to death there in the Ford’s mangled carcass. Daniel later found out that Kyle’s father had been killed on impact when the airbag failed to deploy and the steering wheel caved in his chest, breaking his ribs which in turn perforated his lungs. Kyle, who was always forgetting to put on his seatbelt, had been ejected from the vehicle and was found crushed and torn apart about 40 feet from the crash.
Daniel took a long pull from the vodka, remembering the double funeral. It was a bright Sunday afternoon, a pleasant day absolutely unfitting for what was happening. He didn’t speak to anyone as he took his seat in the church house. Kyle’s mother had asked Daniel to speak, but he refused. Daniel couldn’t accept his friend’s death, and speaking at the funeral would mean having to deal with this fact.
At the ceremony all he could think was how ironic it was that Kyle was being morned in a church. Kyle and Daniel both hated religion, skipping youth group to go smoke cigarettes and skate in the parking lot of the mega-church their parents attended. He remembered walking up to Kyle’s coffin, touching it to say goodbye because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, and had seen people do that in movies. Tears were steaming down his face but they didn’t feel like he was crying. His actions weren’t his own; he felt like they had been recorded a long time ago, and he was watching himself act them out. The hysterical weeping, collapsing to his knees in front of the casket, having to be carried to the car by his father, he wasn’t in control of any of this.
Daniel realized that he was crying. He had drank nearly a quarter of the bottle and a sudden, unshakable desire gripped him to go to his friend’s grave. He had to go there tonight. He had to apologize for not reminding him about the seatbelt. He had to apologize for not being a better friend and for not having the courage to speak at the funeral. He had to be close to his friend again. He stood up, a little wobbly but absolutely determined. He would tell his brother to drive him there. He would speak with authority and confidence and they would leave immediately.
However while stumbling through the party to find Mark everything went wrong. He tripped and fell in the hallway, grabbing on to a large blond girl for stability. She shrieked and pushed him, knocking him to the floor. Like a punch drunk fighter Daniel staggered to his feet, slurring curses at the girl who he then recognized as Ashleigh Brok, a member of the dance squad.
“Fuch… yew… tubby.” he slurred, defiantly raising his middle finger to the chunky girl. Ashleigh gasped, but before she could respond Daniel had stumbled off to find his brother.
He wasn’t in the living room and after what seemed like hours Daniel discovered Mark in a corner of the kitchen, groping some faceless girl as they were violently kissing each other.
“Mark… I wanngo. We’ve gottago to… to tha grave… to to tha cemetory… well… you just gatta tach me there now.”
When Mark, who’s back was to Daniel, didn’t respond, Daniel grabbed his brother and pulled him off of the girl, who happened to be Heather.
“Hey what the fuck man?” Mark yelled, shoving his brother’s shoulders with both hands. This caused Daniel to tumble back into a crowd of people waiting to make drinks. He was vaguely aware of the sound of glass breaking and his brother screaming furiously. Mark jerked his intoxicated brother off of the floor and slammed him hard into the wall.
“What the fuck are you doing? How did you get so wasted?” Mark demanded. Daniel’s head rolled from side to side. His limbs were heavy and he could feel his insides churning.
“We… we… need… Mark we need to go see… Kyle.” Daniel at last whispered, the tears returning to his eyes. Daniel could feel the intense pressure around him. Everyone was angry at him, and he couldn’t figure out why.
“Kyle is dead!” Mark screamed, his face red with rage, “he is dead and you need to fucking get over it!”
Involuntarily Daniel’s face contorted as he began to weep. He wept so violently that his startled brother let go of his shirt, causing Daniel to collapse to the floor. His face burned and his stomach felt like it was turning itself inside out. Screams erupted from the stunned onlookers as Daniel emptied his stomach onto the dirty hardwood floor.

Daniel first became aware that he was freezing. He rubbed his burning eyes and realized he was laying on a padded porch swing facing out over Heather’s vast front lawn. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted like tangerines and battery acid. As he sat up he realized his teeshirt had been ripped slightly around the collar from where whoever drug him outside had grabbed hold. The snow was now falling heavily and it silently accumulated in pure white undulating drifts. From inside Daniel heard the party continuing without him. High pitched screams and laughter competed with the throbbing beat from some pop song unknown to him. Suddenly the music stopped and a countdown began. Excited voices were screaming “Ten! Nine! Eight!…”
It took Daniel a moment to register that this was the official countdown to the new year. 2004, a year so awful and black in his mind, was finally coming to a close. As the count reached “One” and the party inside erupted into celebration Daniel hung his head. The momentary fleeting hope that this year would be better was crushed by the unshakable dread that it never would.

Fuck the Police, Coming Straight from My Living Room

I’m going to post the last two parts of that short story, but first I wanted to get this up. This is a non-fiction piece about how I was wrongfully thrown in jail. Enjoy.

-Paul

Make no mistake. Without money or connections, you have no rights or power in this sickening Empire of ours. Recently I was arrested and incarcerated for nearly 2 days. A time during which I was humiliated, violated, and abused at the hands of those fucking vermin whose expressed duty it is to “protect and serve.”
I woke up Wednesday morning, not particularly enthusiastic to be headed to work, but headed there non-the-less. However before I got to work, I planned to stop at the bank to purchase a 25 dollar money order for a citation which I had to pay off soon. It was an absolute bullshit fine for an equally inconsequential infraction, but rather than waste a day in court fighting it I opted to just pay the fucker and get it over with.
I walked out of my apartment building, set my bicycle on the curb, mounted it, and shoved off into the street. I hadn’t gone six feet before the officer in his cruiser flagged me down. Police have stopped me before in my neighborhood (I’m one of maybe 10 white people living in a 3 mile radius) to ask me what I was doing. I went over to the thug’s car thinking I would only have to suffer some asinine questioning and a slight inconvenience before I could be on my way.
“Do you know why I stopped you?” The officer asked.
“Honestly, no.” I replied.
“Well, its illegal to ride your bike on the sidewalk.” He informed me.
I was absolutely speechless. This bastard had seen exactly what I had done. My bicycle’s wheels had traveled on the sidewalk for maybe 2 feet and now he was harassing me for it in the middle of a neighborhood absolutely infested with real crime.
“Well… as you saw officer, I wasn’t “riding” on the sidewalk. I pushed off of the sidewalk and was riding in the street” I informed him.
“Do you have any ID on you?” He asked sternly.
I handed him my drivers license and endured the standard questions. What are you doing in this neighborhood (I live here), where do live (about 10 feet from where I now stood), and if there was anything he should know before he ran my license. I told him about the 25 dollar ticket I was on my way to pay and he told me to go wait on the curb.
After a few tense moments he and his partner stepped out of the car. As the officer spun me around, tightening his handcuffs around my wrists he informed me that I had a warrant out for my arrest.
“No, that has to be a mistake. I am on my way to pay this damn thing, and I still have a day left before the court date.” I stated bluntly. “You can’t fucking do this to me.”
Well guess what? Turns out he could, and did. He then proceeded to illegally search my person, my bag, and confiscated my property. As I sat in the back of the cruiser, watching several more cops trying to force my extremely expensive Italian racing bicycle into a 15 passenger van I was absolutely seething. These fascist swine were taking me to jail for no fucking reason, other than the fact that I am poor, I live in a poor neighborhood, and they knew they could fucking get away with it.
I sat in the precinct for about 4 hours listening to the real criminals screaming and shrieking like caged animals. I was made to strip naked so they could inspect my body for weapons and contraband. (Thank Christ I had left my 6 kilos of methamphetamines and 12 pack of hand grenades at home that day, Har har.) I was fingerprinted, photographed, and given absolutely no information as to why I was being held there or what the duration of my stay might be.
After the bastards decided I was sufficiently degraded and dehumanized they graciously allowed me to be taken downtown to central booking where my home would be for… however long they decided I should stay there. After my processing, which involved more physical and mental abuse, I was shoved into a room approximately 12×20 feet along with 40 or so other men of varying degrees of mental health and personal hygiene. The floors were covered in shit, piss, and vomit, and the diseased rats and infectious biting flies outnumbered us a thousand to one.
And it was there that we waited. And waited. And waited. Occasionally one of the more vicious pigs would pass by to reprimand us- we, the “fucking scum,” for whatever it was we had done to end up in such a sorry state. Some of the reasons I discovered were: Falling asleep on a subway bench, “suspicion” of the intent to purchase narcotics, and my personal favorite- being in the company of someone who was in the possession of fireworks. That poor son of a bitch… he was fucking 16 years old (being held illegally, mind you. You have to be 18 to be in central). He was god damn horrified and wept for the duration of his stay. No one I talked to while in central booking was there for a legitimate reason, meanwhile the murderers and rapists and maniacs who live next door to me were watching TV in their living rooms while sipping cheap beer.
And still we waited. They were calling names in groups of 5 or 6 to go before the judge. Night fell. Or at least I think it did. We were not allowed to see outside or look at a clock. Psychological torture straight from the Guantanamo Bay handbook. Have you ever had to use your shoes as a pillow? Because I have. We slept on the shit covered floor and crammed our shirts under the barred cell doors to keep the crocodile-sized rats from eating us alive during the night. What little sleep I had was punctuated by awful fever dreams of capsizing ships and humongous blue-clad angler fish tearing the flesh from yellow rotten bones.
Sometime in the late afternoon/ early evening of the next day my name was finally called. I met with my public defender who, after I told what I had done to end up in jail replied with a flat “…are you serious?” She went on to tell me that there was no way such a case would stand up in court, and that it, along with the 25 dollar ticket which landed me in the tombs to start with, would most assuredly be thrown out. I was relieved by her confidence, but something was still really bothering me. I knew the warrant they arrested me on had to have been a mistake, I was about to pay off the ticket well within the time frame allotted, so I asked her about to explain to me just what the hell had happened.
She informed me that they purposefully use misguiding language on little nonsense tickets like that to ensnare people and haul them off to jail. The ticket itself read that I had within 10 days of the date given to pay it off. The court date was more than a month and a half away from the day I actually received the damn thing, so I figured it was like any other citation in existence and I had up until the court date to pay it. She told me that yes, that is how 99% of citations work, however for this particularly insidious one you have 10 days to pay from the date you receive it. This means that should you decide you want to go to court to fight it, for almost a month, regardless of your guilt or innocence, you will have a warrant out for your arrest. Don’t be fooled, these fuckers know exactly what they are doing, and what they are doing is arresting innocent people in droves in order to drive up their numbers to receive more funding.
She went on to explain that the reason I was in the system for so long- for absolutely no reason at all- was that they can only count the prisoners who stay for over 24 hours in their official reports for funding. The myth that these fucking vicious swine are here to protect us is utterly false. The police force and justice system as a whole are nothing but businesses, just like any others, and to them the weak and the powerless are fucking commodities.
I stood before the judge for no more than 45 seconds. He didn’t even bother to read the officer’s statement, nor did my lawyer even need to speak. He simply read the charges leveled against me, and with a bang of his gavel dismissed the case. Just like that I was free to go. 36 fucking hours later. I had missed two days of work, my girlfriend was horrified, and my friends were beginning to think I was dead. I spent weeks cleaning up the mess this ordeal caused. These rabid monsters with their badges and revolvers roaming our streets like packs of feral dogs are not there to help you. They are not your friends, and you should be more terrified of them than the “real criminals.”
I honestly took pause before writing this, because its embarrassing and unprofessional to end up in jail, but you know what? Fuck it. I’m glad this happened to me, because it opened my eyes to just how totally broken our legal system actually is. It is run by crooked thieves and staffed by an army of sub-human savages. And the sad part is we let them get away with shit like this every single fucking day for the sake of some false sense of safety and protection. But know this: the only thing they are protecting is their own interests, and without great wads of cash to keep them from breaking down your door, you are not fucking safe.
Now honestly, I understand the necessity of a police force, in theory. I’m not stupid. Most of humanity is a collection of dumb beasts, utterly incapable of self-governance… However we need our police to be committed to the safety of our communities, not simply to the business of being a cop. So to all the upright officers out there, all 8 of you who truly have a dedication to protecting those who need protection and destroying the monsters in our societies who deserve crucifixion, I thank you. But to any of the officers involved in my illegitimate incarceration, I hope you die screaming without dignity or honor, and I hope that in your absence your wives and children are torn apart by wild animals.
And to those who would take offense to this piece, those who would seek to (under the Patriot Act) raid my home, harass my beloved girlfriend, and unlawfully size my property, I will bring down upon you an entire army ACLU lawyers. We will storm the courthouse screaming and swinging- all fists and elbows. This time I will come prepared and the guns, night sticks, and tear gas canisters will finally be turned around on you, you bottom-feeding cowards.
So let my story be a lesson. Sharpen your machetes, and fortify your homes my brothers. Don’t be fooled. The next time they will be coming for you.

-Paul D. Kemp

December 31: Part 1

This is a short story I have been toying around with for a while… It is not exactly where I want it to be, but I feel like its at least readable in its current form. I’m going to post it in three parts over the next week due to its length. I hope you enjoy it.

-Paul

The rain was beginning to freeze as it beat down on the old Honda. Daniel sat in the passenger’s seat and stared listlessly up at the low hanging gray blanket of clouds. Inside the liquor store across the parking lot Daniel’s brother Mark was using his fake ID to purchase alcohol for Heather Price’s New Year’s party. Daniel sighed as he saw his brother emerge carrying four bulky brown paper bags. He was hoping that Mark’s ID would be refused, that he would be too embarrassed to attend the party he had promised to supply, and they could just go back home. Mark opened the rear door and placed the alcohol on the floorboards, carefully covering it with his dirty lacrosse sweatshirt and letterman jacket.
“Listen,” he told Daniel, “I know you don’t want to go to this, and I didn’t want you to come either.”
“Gee thanks, dick” Daniel snidely retorted, still gazing out the window.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Mark said hesitantly as he slid into the drivers seat. “I just don’t want you being… weird at this party.”
At this Daniel turned and glared at his brother “What do you mean ‘weird’?'” Mark ignored his brother, and turned the key in the ignition causing the Honda’s engine to laboriously sputter to life. He backed out of his spot, and slowly merge into the street. “Look, I don’t want to go to your stupid fucking jock party” Daniel exclaimed, turning to his brother, “All your friends are douche-bag meat-heads and the only reason I’m even here is because Mom wants to go out and won’t let me stay at home alone for some dumbass reason.” He added, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“I know Dan,” Mark replied viciously, “Mom told me the only way I could go have fun is if I brought your mopey ass with me. She probably just doesn’t want to come home and find you with your wrists slit in the fucking bathtub.”
“Oh fuck you!” Daniel exclaimed and dramatically put on his headphones. As he was trying to find a specific song he heard his brother mutter,
“Jesus, if you just fucking lightened up maybe you would have some fun once and a while.” Daniel turned up the volume up and went back to staring out the window.
Heather lived in more rural area about 45 minutes north of their suburban Richmond home. As they rode together in silence the rain began to turn into a light snow. The roads were slick and shining, reflecting the red brake lights and yellow street lamps in the quickly fading dusk light. The windows of the car were beginning to fog and Daniel idly drew shapes in the moisture with his fingers. He could hear the hiss of the tires on the wet pavement over the music coming through his headphones which was providing what he thought to be a most appropriate auditory backdrop for his setting and specific situation.
Hang it up now or never /Hang it up again/ Doesn’t seem like anything anyone is saying or doing/ is making any sense/ Long distance drunk/ Long distance drunk/ Long distance drunk…
The cramped strip malls, convenience stores, and planned communities began to give way to open fields dotted with an occasional pine tree. Out in these expanses enormous yellow machinery slept like giants, collecting snow for now, but poised to rip up the earth and belch black smoke come tomorrow. The four lane highway became a two lane road as they drove farther and farther from the bright lights of Richmond.
Heather lived right on the county line, and was districted to attend Anderson High School with Daniel, Mark, and some 2,400 other adolescents. Daniel was a sophomore at Anderson now, and had yet to “find himself” as his mother so often put it. However Mark, a senior now, never had any problems making friends. He was a starter on the lacrosse team and was a staple of nearly every party or social event at Anderson. Colleges were already offering him full scholarships, and it seemed come next fall he would be able to take his pick. Daniel however had never really recovered after the unexpected death of his best friend Kyle. Ever since the accident his grades had been in a steady decline, he seemed to have shut down emotionally, and was becoming increasingly disinterested in the lives of those around him. Rationally Daniel knew that his mother, in her round about confused way, was only trying to help by making him to go to this party, but it only served to make him resent her more, and to strengthen his resolve not enjoy himself or the company of his peers. Daniel had become satisfied with the distance he had put between himself and his surroundings. It wasn’t exciting, but it was comfortable.
The sun had fully set and the Honda’s headlights barely penetrated the quickly thickening snowstorm. At one point Mark took a turn too fast and struggled to keep the old tires from slipping on the slick pavement. A brief vision of a the car careening out of control and exploding in slow motion as it crashed into a gnarled oak tree; glass, blood, and fire mixing together and illuminating the night flashed through Daniel’s mind. Then there was a cold, bright hospital room with masked doctors all murmuring to one another, drowned out by the various beeps and wines of the life support systems. Daniel closed his eyes.
“So seriously Dan, can you at least try not to embarrass me?” The sound of Mark’s voice snapped him back. It took Daniel a moment to register his brothers words.
“I’ll stay out of your way.” He replied flatly. “I won’t be weird.” Daniel’s non-confrontational tone took Mark off guard.
“Well… I didn’t mean it like… I mean…” Mark stuttered.
“Don’t worry about it.” Daniel interrupted.
After another ten of fifteen tense minutes, they finally arrived and parked on a dark road along with a dozen or so other cars. A long unpaved driveway wound up a gently sloping wooded hill to Heather’s home. Feeling a little more like himself Daniel scoffed, “Is this a fucking meth lab?” as they got out of the car.
“Just help me with the booze.” Mark replied and shoved a heavy brown sack into Daniel’s chest. The two brothers began trudging up the icy drive to the small one story residence. Warm yellow light radiated from its windows and the elongated shadows of party-goers stretched out onto the well maintained lawn which was now blotted with patches of snow. Daniel could hear the muffled music and muted shouts of revelry coming from within and it caused his stomach to sink. He was really there. He would really have to deal with this now.
Mark rang the doorbell several times before Heather flung the door open.
“Mark! I’m so glad you’re here! And you got the alcohol! I love you!” she squealed, throwing her arms around Marks neck. Her delight was palpable and it nauseated Daniel. He didn’t directly know Heather, but definitely knew of her. Her ineffectual parents were always leaving her alone, sometimes for entire weekends, leaving her house void of any type of authority. The nearest neighbors were almost a mile away, so noise was not an issue. And while Daniel had never actually been to one of Heather’s parties, rumors ran rampant through the hallways of Anderson of alcohol soaked nights ending in sex and violence. And now there he was, at what was promised to be the biggest party of the year. Fantastic. He thought to himself as he followed his brother inside.

Scrawled Notes from a Twisted Traveler’s Journal

So I haven’t been keeping up with this thing. Apologies. I have been writing a lot, I’ve just been incredibly busy. Here is a little fiction piece I wrote to enter into a travel writing contest. I think it was a bit too raw for serious consideration. I hope you enjoy it though.

-Paul

We were flying out of Miami at 6 am for a month long stay in South America. It was decided that the best course of action would be to get in around 10 pm, stay up all night involved in whatever debaucherous actives we could get into, and then hopefully flee the place in the morning as the sun lazily rose out of the ocean.
Now let me get this out of the way. I don’t smoke marijuana often. I don’t really enjoy the mind scrambling effects it has on me, but in certain situations (such as driving down the interstate at 90 miles per hour away from a miserably failed relationship and towards an unknown future) it seems appropriate. Needless to say when we got to Miami I was out of my mind. I remember being on a beach looking at the moon with my traveling companions, trying to plot out or next move. The waves slowly rolled in and licked our bare toes. I tried hard to remember the last time I had seen the ocean, its power and its beauty. It seemed almost shameful that something so lovely and pure was butted up against the gaudy sinfulness of Miami. It was decided that drink must be involved if we were going to last the night, so we hit the strip in search of hard liquor.
A confusing mixture of pulsing neon lights, pounding Reggeton music, and wailing police sirens assaulted my already dangerously scattered mind while a constant barrage of scantly clad harpies hawking their bar’s drink specials tempted my parched throat and starved libido. From somewhere we heard “Two for one Long Islands! Two for one!” and it was settled. We sat down on the patio and lit cigarettes. The first round of watered down, gut rotting drinks arrived and we powered through them. The alcohol helped soothe my jangled nerves and allowed me to asses our situation realistically. We were almost 300 miles from home already, drunk and stoned in a city we had never been to with the intention of drinking all night until we had to somehow make it to an airport an hour and a half away from our current location. Fantastic. I ordered the second round quickly.
We were beginning to feel that mix of relaxation, and unfounded confidence one can only attain when charging headlong into the strange and utterly foreign with a drink in your hand and your best friends by your side. We spoke about what or expectations were. What we wanted to see, what types of people we wanted to meet, what challenges we were going to face. It was all very Jack Kerouac until the fucking bill came.
80 dollars. 80 dollars? Yup. 80 dollars. For 3 fucking drinks? It would appear so. We looked around in disbelief half hoping that someone would come explain this to us. It had to be a mistake. These drinks were two for one. We called our server over. “Yeah, tough titties, give me 80 fucking dollars. Plus tip, chumps.”
Well god dammit, off to a great start. We decided to leave the strip, apparently even their well liquor was too rich for our blood. Besides, we all had enough poisons in our systems to tackle the next problem, finding a place to stash our car for a month.
We got on the highway still complaining. We might as well have been mugged. It was unanimously decided it was high time to get the hell out of America. We lit another bowl. The city lights were rushing past us. Amber, blue, and green points with trails as long as the Floridian horizon. The headlights of other cars became ominous warnings. Poe’s Masque of the Red Death. Ambulance. Fire Truck. Police Cars. Sirens too loud and lights too bright to handle. “Accident ahead. Someone must have died.” This was the wrong thing to tell me at that point and the paranoia set in deeper. What the hell are we doing? We’re screwed. Miami will eat us alive before we even start our journey. I groaned and tried to sketch out the fear in my soul into my already garbled notebook.
As we approached the airport things seemed less tense than they were on the highway. Salvation was in sight. A few more obstacles and a few short hours and I would be passed out on a plane sailing high above the Gulf of Mexico. Memories of this abominable city and all my American problems would sink into that blue-green expanse and everything could be warm and peaceful upon touchdown. All we needed to do was find a reasonably priced long term lot to store the car.
We drove around for a while looking for the cheapest. One looked fairly promising so we drove up to the ticket window. After a little confusion we decided we could do better and instead of taking at ticket, pulling through the lot, and going through the exit, we backed up about 50 yards to leave.
By this time it was about 4 AM. If we weren’t the only car on the road, we were close to it. The cop obviously didn’t have anything better to do. The inside of our car lit up like fireworks as his blue lights burst our little bubble of comfort. Quickly the realization set in and my soul was chilled to its very core. We were all drunk and high. Our car reeked of pot smoke and alcohol. We had enough drugs and paraphernalia on us to lock us up for much longer than our planned vacation… we would get fired from our jobs… I don’t have the money to post bail… oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…
“Can I see your license and papers?” The cop asked as he rapped on the window with his flashlight. Evan produced them quickly and gave the pig a big shit-eating grin. “Morning officer, how are you doing? Sorry about that little stunt back there, we’re just trying to find cheap long term parking. Do you know of any places around here?” Suddenly pure unadulterated terror gripped me. What the fuck are you doing Evan? I’m too scared to fucking think and you’re trying to make nice? Speed off! Run this motherfucker over! We’re going to go to fucking prison! The cop shined his flashlight in my face and I tried to twist my grimace into something vaguely resembling a smile. The officer grunted and ambled back to his cruiser. “What are we gonna do?! We’re fucked!” I half whispered, half yelled at my friend. “Paul, relax. We’re gonna be fine. Trust me.” he said with all the confidence in the world.
I didn’t share his optimism as the cop walked up to the window again, no doubt with his revolver drawn ready to call for backup. I closed my eyes as I felt the cold handcuffs cutting into my wrists and the billy club crushing my skull. My terrible fantasy was quieted with the sound of a friendly voice.
“Yeah if you go up there a few blocks and make a left there is a lot that something like 200 a month. Have fun on your trip and be safe guys!” The cop handed Evan back his license and gave him a firm handshake straight out of Middle America.
The collective sigh of relief was audible in the next county. To this day I don’t understand the shift in the cop’s attitude. Did Evan slip him a few hundred dollars? Was he tired and didn’t want to deal with the paperwork? Or did he just decide to be merciful to a couple of wasted travelers desperately trying to get out of Dodge before the walls closed in? Whatever the motivation, I owe that man a beer.
We kept our heads down as we slunk into the airport. We managed to get our boarding passes, get on the plane, and drift off into the clouds before Miami could devour us. We got lucky, there was no doubt about that, but how long could that luck hold out? I thought about these and other things as I slipped into the oblivion of sleep high above the peaceful waves.

January

So, the more I read over that story the more I began to hate it. It was too easy and too obvious. I’ve thought a lot about it and have decided to totally overhaul it. Its going to be featuring the same characters, and they will be set in the same places, but I’m going to mess with the situation.

I’m in the notes process now, so give me a minute and the new story will be up in the next few weeks.

shalom,
-Paul

Never Talk about Religion

Lets talk about everyone’s favorite topic. Religion!

Now, I grew up Christian. And by that I don’t mean I grew up white and American, I mean I grew up CHRISTIAN. Like, church at least twice a week, memorizing passages from the bible, praying before every meal, vacation bible school Christian. In college I gave it all up and turned atheist much to the displeasure of my family, but to the benefit of my mental health. It was a really difficult shift and it took a long time to become comfortable again, but I feel like I came to my decision on my terms and I feel like it was the correct one for me. That being said, I don’t think it is the correct decision for everyone. Some people need religion. It can be a really wonderful positive influence in people’s lives. It can also be really negative and horrible. But I digress. The point of saying all that is to express the fact that I don’t necessarily hate religion, its just not for me. If it is for you, and you came to your decision through thoughtful reasoning and introspection, then I totally respect you. There is nothing lamer than hating on someone for their beliefs (a lot of atheists give us a bad name because of this.) Some of my best friends are devout Christians and I love having conversation and debate with them on these this topic. I love them and respect them.

ANYWAY, that was a hell of a preface because you always have to walk on eggshells when you talk about this as to not piss people off too terribly. The point being that I’m not ATTACKING religion with this piece, I’m simply making some observations. Observations that some Christians may not have considered.

One of the deciding factors in my shift to atheism was the story of Job. I’m certain that anyone who considers themselves to be a practicing Christian knows the story of Job. I’ll break it down for those of you who are unfamiliar though. Job was a dude who lived a really long time ago. He had a bunch of wives, a ton of kids, and a shitload of sheep and camels and stuff. By the measure of the day he had it all together and was living the dream life. Now according to the story all his wealth and progeny and camels and shit were a result of the fact that he was utterly and 100% into God. He was basically the best human on earth, and God was rewarding him for his devotion. No problem so far. But, here comes Satan to fuck things up. He sneaks into heaven and God basically starts rubbing Job in his face. “Have you seen my servant Job? Do you see how awesome this dude is?” God asks Satan. “well, yeah, of course he is going to worship you. Look at all the crap you gave him! He has like, a million sheep and all those hot wives and the talented kids. He’s strong and macho and healthy and everyone fucking loves the dude. Why wouldn’t he worship you?” God thinks about it and says, I’ll bet you can take that away and Job will still love me, so he gives Satan the authority to start fucking with him. At first its nothing big, he kills all of his livestock and slaughters all of his servants. Job is like, well that sucks, but I’ll still give God props anyway. Satan keeps going back to God basically asking him for more and more liberty to fuck with Job on a greater and greater scale. God always allows it and Satan ends up killing all of his kids, taking all his wealth, covering his skin in boils, and just generally ruining Job’s shit. It gets so bad that Job’s own wife tells him to “curse God and die!” Thats a fun piece of trivia, tell people that the Bible says to curse God and die. You’re taking it out of context, but you’re still right! Anyway poor ole Job never does that and wallows around in his misery while God basically tells Satan “see, I told you so.” Satan goes “yup, I guess you were right, here is the 20 bucks I owe you.” And thats the end of the story. Oh I think God gives Job some more camels than he had before and some more kids to replace the ones that were crushed to death. No joke. Crushed to death.

But yeah. Thats the story in a nutshell. Now usually people use this story to say when somethings bad in your life, look at poor ole Job. At least its not that bad, and HE never cursed God! And look, in the end he was kind of rewarded or something. Be like Job. And I always accepted that. On a very basic level, that makes sense. No matter how shitty things get, stay true to God and eventually it will get better. That is unless of course it gets a whole hell of a lot worse before it gets better, as in Job’s case. But There is your moral, trust in God.

But hang on a hot minute. Lets look at the facts real quick. As a Christian, you believe that God is the epitome of justice, righteousness, and goodness. You believe that God loves all of us unconditionally and wants what is best for us. Right? Fair enough. Lets look at that first one, God is just. What is at all just about that story? Basically, this guy Job gets shit all over for no reason. None! In fact, the whole premise of the story revolves around the fact that he was the best human on earth! God loved him most! What was all that shit about then, with the boils and the slaughtering of his children? It was to prove to Satan, the epitome of evil, that this dude had no breaking point. That he was so utterly devoted to god that you could beat the ever loving shit out of him and he would lie down and take it. God was right, Job did take it like a champ, but honestly why did God have to prove anything at all to Satan? Was he actually a little morbidly curious himself, to see how much a man could take before completely snapping? I mean, I know that mankind is his creation and everything, and he has all the authority in the universe to act in this way, but if he is the archetype of justice and goodness in the universe and this is acceptable behavior, I think we need to rethink those concepts.

And in that same vein, What about all those slaughtered servants and the kids that got crushed to death? Am I to believe they were all rapists and pedophiles and Carlos Mancia fans that got what was coming to them? Or were they more likely just average humans going about their average lives until one day they are brutally murdered to make a pretty asinine point to the Prince of Darkness? Did I miss something here? I thought God loved each and every one of us and had a glorious plan for our lives. I’m sorry but if his plan for my life is “crushed to death to indirectly prove a point to Satan” I think I’ll pass.

Now I’m not saying that because of this you should throw out the notion of God all together, but it does leave some pretty gaping holes in its construction of his character. I’ve raised these points to numerous Christians and really have never received a satisfactory answer except for one. The Bible is not the infallible word of God. It is a collection of meditations on his nature from numerous cultures, hundreds of authors, quite possibly tens of thousands of translators, and over thousands of years. Of course it is not all going to fit seamlessly together, and when you try and make it do that by saying ITS ALL TRUE DAMMIT, you lose a big part of what the Bible actually is.

I apologize if some of you are offended with this, but its the conclusion that I’ve come to. I always welcome good natured debate and conversation, so if you feel like I’m wrong about any of this, please feel free to correct me.

Much love,
-Paul

Apologies and Announcements

First, l I’m sorry I haven’t posted any new content in such a long time. I’ve been very busy trying not to starve to death in New York, which looks like it won’t happen for now, so hooray! Thanks job at shoe store!

Second, I’ve decided its time to put up or shut up when it comes to this writing thing. I’m going to write a Novella. Its actually more of a collection of short stories but they all center around one high school in suburban Virgina. The tentative title of this project is Calendar Year, but I’m willing to change it if I (or anyone else) come(s) up with something better. I use too many parentheses don’t I? Anyway, My girlfriend who is a fantastic artist agreed to do an illustration for each story, so that will be really badass. But all that is to say I think I’ll post most if not all of the stories on here so I can get some feedback before trying to get it published. And really tell me what you think guys, I don’t just want “oh thats good.”

Anyway, I’m super excited about this and I already have a ton of ideas for directions to go. Some of the stories are pretty well developed and some are still in their infant stages but I think this is going to be a lot of fun, so expect some more content in the coming weeks!

-Paul

Entry for contest

So this guy is having a cover letter writing contest on his blog and I decided to give it a shot. Here is my submission:

Dear New York Times,

Attached you will find my resume which details my many years of experience as an award winning investigative journalist for multiple nationally and internationally renowned publications. I believe that with my intrinsic talent and proven skill as a writer I bring to the table the highest caliber of professionalism and would be a perfect fit for your distinguished organization. Blah blah blah. Thats what you want to hear, right? More ass-kissing and selling myself? I’m fucking sick of this.

I have a degree in journalism from a halfway decent university. I’m not trying to brag, but I’m pretty damn good at what I do. I know how to write a compelling and aesthetically pleasing story. I can use words like “aesthetically” in them. Why isn’t that enough? I’ll tell you why. Merit has nothing to do with it anymore. Its all who you know, New York Times. I’m sure that if my dad was the editor of your lifestyle section I’d be interviewing fucking Martha Stewart about her new pie recipe tomorrow.

There are so many of us out here, New York Times. So many young people with a glint in their eye and a spring in their step. They were going to change the world. But then they realized that the song in their heart wont pay their rent and they have to get shitty jobs waiting tables and they scan Craigslist tirelessly for something, anything, that doesn’t look absolutely terrible. But that never comes, New York Times, its all terrible.

Eventually we get fed up and abandon our dreams of being the next Hunter S. Thompson and we get a job in an office, develop a drinking problem (if we didn’t already have one) and begin that slow steady decline into financial comfort and spiritual atrophy. Well fuck you New York Times, I’m not letting that happen to me. Even if you don’t let me write for you, and lets be honest, you won’t; I’ll still write. I’ll write and write and write and write until someone finally takes notice.

How did you get your job? Was it through hard work and clawing your way up from the bottom? Fucking of course not. You went to college with Steven who works in H.R. You met some editor at a bar and blew him in the bathroom. You have a picture of a board member in Vegas with a dead hooker. I am sure no one in your staff got noticed for the one article they wrote for that now defunct art ‘zine.

I don’t care if you read this or not. This is just a physical manifestation of years of frustration from being shut out of a seemingly closed system. I’m an outsider throwing rocks at windows he can’t possibly reach.

Go to hell,

Paul Kemp

P.S. Fuck Milton Friedman. I hope his Lexus gets stolen and his olive tree gets cut down.

The prize is a can of coffee! HOPEFULLY I WIN!

check it out here: http://sherazsharif.com/coverletterssuck/2009/10/dear-new-york-times/#more-19

Questions? Concerns? Please call 1800-253-7985.

That is written on the back of my toothpaste bottle. Has anyone actually called that number? What kind of question could you have about toothpaste that would actually require taking time out of your day to interrupt another living, breathing human being? What concern could be that pressing? “Does your toothpaste have baby’s blood or any baby’s blood derived products in it? No? Great to know!” And its not just on toothpaste. I’d be willing to bet that 90% of the store bought products in your homes have similar invitations to inquire about you freshness of your Cheese-Its or the proper way in which to operate their company’s sponges.

Now the sad thing is that you know these poor operators must just be berated and abused all day every day. You know the only people that would take the time to call one of these poor bastards a) has nothing better to do with their time and b) actually gets offended that when they opened their bag of potato chips IT WAS ONLY HALF WAY FULL WHAT THE FUCK? It takes a special kind of person to realize, hey, these paper towels were supposed to have twice the absorbency of their leading competitor… but its only 30% at best. Justice must be served!

I’ve worked in the service industry pretty much my entire adult life and I’m very used to dealing with these kinds of people. Waiting tables though, you can deal with it. Because for every one dick-head out there there are at least five or six decent people, and every once and a while you’ll bump into a pretty awesome person. That makes the job tolerable. But answering these sort of phone calls every day? These operators must have a higher suicide rate than a razor blade, noose, and poison factory run by mental patients in a really really tall building. Seriously. The only people they must encounter are people angry about some asinine problem they think has somehow caused them grievous and permanent damage, or someone too mentally inept to figure out where the bread goes in their new toaster. All day every day a never ending parade of the furious and the retarded. I couldn’t handle it.

Thats why I’ve decided to start calling these numbers. Whatever product I see has a 1800 number on the back, I’m going to whip out my cellphone. “Yes hello? I would just like to say your laundry detergent is outstanding. Putting on a teeshirt freshly washed using your product was like being embraced by a hot, female version of god.” Or not even talk about the product. Just ask them how their day is going. Ask them if they have any questions or concerns. Questions about life or sex or relationships or god. Concerns about the future. About if they will ever get that band together or go back to school. How they are going to pay rent or if she is ever going to call back.

Actually Yeah, I have a couple of questions Guy-Who-Works-For-Mayfield-Milk. Why is life so fucking hard sometimes? Why do we have to work shitty jobs we hate so we can pay rent in shitty apartments we don’t want to live in and buy all the useless garbage we use to make us forget how badly we’re getting fucked when all we want to do is write? Why does the cycle keep repeating itself? Why can’t I just write this fucking novel and make a million dollars and never have wait another table ever again? Oh yeah, and your milk is pretty good.

The one where he talks about bikes

Hey guess what! I’m not dead. I just moved to a new house and its taken me a minute to get my shit set up. So read this little rant about how cars suck and bikes are awesome!

So I’ve been holding off on writing this for a while because it will make me sound like an elitist asshole, but today was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I don’t drive a car. I ride a bike. I know that immediate connotations of spandex unitards and douchey “I don’t use fossil fules” behavior come to mind, but I promise you, I’m not that kind of cyclist. I’m the kind of cyclist that is more like “I’m too poor, drunk, and irresponsible to own a car.” Kind of like a homeless person!

That being said, I’m very respectful of traffic. I understand that I am a lot slower than your Ford F-17,000,000. I ride as close to the curb as I can get. I do my absolute best not to obstruct or impede the flow of traffic. I’m polite as a motherfucker.

But regardless I’ve been honked at, screamed at, cut off, run off the road, and run over. I’ve had multiple people actually slow down to my speed, roll down their window and scream at the top of their lungs for me to “GET ON THE FUCKING SIDEWALK.” To which I always reply “RIDING A BICYCLE ON THE SIDEWALK IS ACTUALLY ILLEGAL. NEXT TIME, BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO YELL OBCINITIES AT A COMPLETE STRANGER MAYBE YOU SHOULD EDUCATE YOURSELF A LITTLE BETTER ON THE LAWS YOU WANT ME TO BREAK SO THAT YOU WONT HAVE TO TURN YOUR STEERING WHEEL ONE QUARTER OF AN INCH TO AVOID KILLING ME. THANKS AND HAVE A NICE DAY!” Again, like I said. Polite as a motherfucker.

But lets get back to the topic at hand. The abuse of cyclists at the hands of borderline retarded soccer moms driving armor plated hummers to pick their shitty, screaming, piles of failure they call children up from private schools paid for by their asshole husbands who make their livings giving 56 year old women tits the size of beach balls. Now I’m not going to say that you shouldn’t be able to drive that negative-eight-miles-to-the-gallon-block-up-the-fucking-road-run-over-a-honda-civic-without-noticing-while-putting-on-your-eye-make-up monstrosity. According to George Bush if you don’t have the right to do that, the terrorists have won. But I’m just saying, if you can drive the mechanical equivalent of shoving a stick of dynamite up mother natures ass, I should be allowed to ride my bicycle next to it without you almost killing me on my way to work every day.

Lets examine a few examples of me snatching my mortal soul from the gaping jaws of death while on my bicycle. First on the list:

THE TIME I GOT RUN OVER. OR HOW I LEARNED TO STOP CARING AN LOVE THE S.U.V.
I was riding in a bike lane on my way back to work after my lunch break. Let me reiterate that. I WAS RIDING IN A BIKE LANE. (this will be important later on in the story!) So I’m riding IN A BIKE LANE when this huge jeep speeds up to get around me, and pulls a right hand turn directly in front of me. I have exactly enough time to think to myself “well… fuck” before I collide with him, sending me over my handle bars and onto the pavement where about 60% of the skin on my back was forcibly removed. Somehow I manage to stand up as this guy pulls over. I pick up my mangled bike and walk over to the parking lot where he has stopped. Formalities are exchanged.
DOUCHE WITH NICE SHOES: Holy shit are you okay?!
ME: Yeah I’m okay. My bike is kind of fucked up though.
D.W.N.S.: Well hey man, I know you’re on a bike and everything, but you need to watch out.
ME: …what?
D.W.N.S: I mean, the same rules of traffic apply to you as they do to me.
ME: oh you mean the rules where you accelerate to cut someone off, make a turn through their lane of traffic, collide with their vehicle, almost kill them, and then have the fucking nerve to act like it was their fault? Yeah, next time I’ll try and follow those rules better, you fucking ass-hat.

So that fucking sucked… but here is what prompted me to write this little rant on car/bike relations.

STORY NUMBER TWO: THE ONE WHERE I GET CALLED A BITCH.

I was riding home from work today when I come up to a stop light. The car stopped there has left very little room to squeeze through between his ugly gas guzzler and the curb. As I’m squeezing through to make my right turn, I put my hand out to steady myself against his car. Now lets get this straight. I don’t punch his car. I don’t slap his car. I don’t bust off his side view mirror with my U lock. I put my hand on his car to steady myself and then I ride away. He catches up to me about two blocks later, slows down, rolls down his window and screams “DON’T TOUCH MY CAR, BITCH.”

Don’t touch my car… bitch. Really? Really. You’re going to yell at someone for putting their hand on your car? REALLY? I wanted to ask him to step out of his gnarled ass Nissan and talk to me for a second. I wanted to understand why this man got so worked up over someone TOUCHING his car. I wanted to ask him if he screams at birds for landing on it. If he would punch a tree if its leaves fell on it. If he fed his neighbors cat antifreeze for leaving its footprints on the windshield. Unfortunately before I could ask him these questions he flicked me off and sped away.

I really don’t understand these people. I don’t. These must be the type of people that scream at Burger King employees when they asked for NO ONIONS. JESUS CHRIST ON A CRUTCH I SAID NO ONIONS ON MY WHOPPER. HOW FUCKING HARD IS YOUR JOB?! NO. ONIONS. MOTHERFUCKER YOU JUST FUCKED UP MY ENTIRE UNIVERSE BY PUTTING ONIONS ON THIS THING. I’M NEVER EVER EVER GOING TO BURGER KING AGAIN AND THAT MOTHERFUCKING KID ON HIS BIKE TOUCHED MY CAR.

Share the road, assholes