Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Heavy Mettle at RennFest
Edited by Patrick White
Some friends and I take a trip out to the Maryland Renaissance Festival. The serfs in the marketing department decided to brand it RennFest. The public doesn't have time to pronounce all those syllables anymore. And that's the great challenge before this place: to retain an old-timey aire, capable of whisking you away to King Henry VIII's Royal Court while still meeting the fire code.
After navigating a parking lot with what seems like fifty thousand other people, its time to piss out the road sodas. I venture to the port-a-priivy's and there are two wenches-about-town using Olde English to direct the hordes to unoccupied shitters. It’s our first opportunity to suspend disbelief, but a New Jersey lilt (as opposed an Old Jersey one) breaks through and I can’t help wondering where this chick got her tweety bird tattoo in 17th century Leads. But she is enthusiastic, and that weighs heavily. I tidy up with some Purel antibacterial to balance my humours and head into the grove.
It’s a beautiful setting. For ten months a year, an epic oak canopy shrouds an abandoned midiaevil village. In late summer it wakes the hell up. Hundred of stalls become a bizarre bazaar. Hordes flock to games of chance, several stages, a jousting arena and even a castle (turned climbing wall). Sounds of merriment ride sunbeams that blaze through the trees. Acrobats hang from the trees by satin shrouds. Maiden’s corsets overflow with limp titmeat.
The proverbial elephant in the room (as opposed to the actual elephant frightening children over there) is a general lack of pestilence. We can’t seem to find the flowing streams of urine characteristic of the age, nor the gnawing gremlins of plague. Teeth are white and abundant. However, a croissant sundae stall spreads the modern plague throughout the village. The Black Fat.
I really wish we’d come in costume.
Like any theme party, the more people who dress up, the better. There are a lot of folks here who’ve precisely dialed in their look, but there are inconsistencies. A perfect likeness of Gimley the dwarf is having a cigarette with a guy who looks like my physical therapist.
Some people take the opportunity to wear anything remotely historical under the guise of the Renaissance. A Victorian dandy mingles with Eric the Red, but who’s counting centuries. Several gentlemen take the opportunity to wear their Patty’s Day tartan. A ‘blacksmithy-look’ associated with Olde England inspires a contingent of whorish doms and blatant metalheads. There’s guys who just want to look like Neo from the Matrix and have finally found a place to get away with it while noshing on a turkey leg.
My mates and I make a pact to return next year in costume. We will be dressed as cyborgs from the future. I’ll get the blacksmith’s attention: “psst.” I’ll say, “you’re going to be needing this.” I’ll stealthily slip him a brick of titanium, wink, and slip away.
Which brings me to weapons. Despite a sign hanging at the entrance that reads ‘no weapons’ the place overflows with swords, sabers, scimitars, maces, bludgeons and anything else that cuts, bashes, or smears human flesh. It’s like when you go to a stadium and try to bring your own Mountain Dew. Gotta buy it inside, properly supervised. I try on something that looks like a saber-tooth tiger claw and think about how few chances I get in the average day to use such a thing. And how often a RennFester gets to. I’m jealous.
I wonder what these people talk about, as they hang out in costume. What happens to the conversation once they’ve exhausted the topic of the authentic raccoon tail sassily poking out from their chain mail skirt? There are clearly strong bonds formed here, and these people are passionate about something. For a second I let my hipster armor down and want to join in, full tilt.
We walk into a fur shop and pet some pelts and then start to feel creepy. There is more death in this place than Gettysburg. Alpaca are incredibly soft, it turns out. So are arctic fox, deer, rabbit, mink, and black bear. I would think that a sixteenth century fur-lust should worry the modern beaver.
We are very excited when a flurry of trumpets leads us to the Jousting Ring. Fully clad knights parade bifurcated flags beneath the royal bench, shouting platitudes up to the blushing Queen. Fluffers stoke the crowd into a fervor as the horses snort by the grandstands. I don't like yelling HUZZAH in general, but when I do, ‘tis for blood.
The main event disappoints.
The knights gallop down a lane, spear wooden blocks and then hold them up for the courts approval. I, for one, do not approve. A waste of a perfectly good lance. I could see more bloodshed at the ear-piercing tent. But the kids are so into it, it’s great. Makes me wish that I came to this sort of thing as a kid… Fully able to lose myself in the fanfare and drunk on the sounds of iron splitting wood and the passing glances of boobstuffs.
We sit to have a falafel pocket (the influence of invading Moors, I presume). The sack-of-nuts salesman walks by in all his pubescent glory and shouts a favorite one-liner. I really like it here. An unbelievable amount of craftsmanship and collaborative effort goes into creating this other world. There are plenty of home-schoolers and IT guys jousting and playing clanky gourded instruments, but there are also vetted artisans, and last masters of ancient crafts. Women weave with historical exactitude as they rock in handmade chairs. A whole culture of people are willing to suspend their lives, pause their ipods, focus intently on the details of a bygone age, and convince each other that they could have survived the plague.
We shuffle through the crowd to the gates as dusk settles. As weathered villagers totter off to their Pontiacs and the world outside, I think that I’d like to come back and visit my newfound, old-timey village. Maybe I’m a Renaissance man. I could take up a craft. Like horseshoesmithing. But I’ll probably just download the Iphone app.
Some friends and I take a trip out to the Maryland Renaissance Festival. The serfs in the marketing department decided to brand it RennFest. The public doesn't have time to pronounce all those syllables anymore. And that's the great challenge before this place: to retain an old-timey aire, capable of whisking you away to King Henry VIII's Royal Court while still meeting the fire code.
After navigating a parking lot with what seems like fifty thousand other people, its time to piss out the road sodas. I venture to the port-a-priivy's and there are two wenches-about-town using Olde English to direct the hordes to unoccupied shitters. It’s our first opportunity to suspend disbelief, but a New Jersey lilt (as opposed an Old Jersey one) breaks through and I can’t help wondering where this chick got her tweety bird tattoo in 17th century Leads. But she is enthusiastic, and that weighs heavily. I tidy up with some Purel antibacterial to balance my humours and head into the grove.
It’s a beautiful setting. For ten months a year, an epic oak canopy shrouds an abandoned midiaevil village. In late summer it wakes the hell up. Hundred of stalls become a bizarre bazaar. Hordes flock to games of chance, several stages, a jousting arena and even a castle (turned climbing wall). Sounds of merriment ride sunbeams that blaze through the trees. Acrobats hang from the trees by satin shrouds. Maiden’s corsets overflow with limp titmeat.
The proverbial elephant in the room (as opposed to the actual elephant frightening children over there) is a general lack of pestilence. We can’t seem to find the flowing streams of urine characteristic of the age, nor the gnawing gremlins of plague. Teeth are white and abundant. However, a croissant sundae stall spreads the modern plague throughout the village. The Black Fat.
I really wish we’d come in costume.
Like any theme party, the more people who dress up, the better. There are a lot of folks here who’ve precisely dialed in their look, but there are inconsistencies. A perfect likeness of Gimley the dwarf is having a cigarette with a guy who looks like my physical therapist.
Some people take the opportunity to wear anything remotely historical under the guise of the Renaissance. A Victorian dandy mingles with Eric the Red, but who’s counting centuries. Several gentlemen take the opportunity to wear their Patty’s Day tartan. A ‘blacksmithy-look’ associated with Olde England inspires a contingent of whorish doms and blatant metalheads. There’s guys who just want to look like Neo from the Matrix and have finally found a place to get away with it while noshing on a turkey leg.
My mates and I make a pact to return next year in costume. We will be dressed as cyborgs from the future. I’ll get the blacksmith’s attention: “psst.” I’ll say, “you’re going to be needing this.” I’ll stealthily slip him a brick of titanium, wink, and slip away.
Which brings me to weapons. Despite a sign hanging at the entrance that reads ‘no weapons’ the place overflows with swords, sabers, scimitars, maces, bludgeons and anything else that cuts, bashes, or smears human flesh. It’s like when you go to a stadium and try to bring your own Mountain Dew. Gotta buy it inside, properly supervised. I try on something that looks like a saber-tooth tiger claw and think about how few chances I get in the average day to use such a thing. And how often a RennFester gets to. I’m jealous.
I wonder what these people talk about, as they hang out in costume. What happens to the conversation once they’ve exhausted the topic of the authentic raccoon tail sassily poking out from their chain mail skirt? There are clearly strong bonds formed here, and these people are passionate about something. For a second I let my hipster armor down and want to join in, full tilt.
We walk into a fur shop and pet some pelts and then start to feel creepy. There is more death in this place than Gettysburg. Alpaca are incredibly soft, it turns out. So are arctic fox, deer, rabbit, mink, and black bear. I would think that a sixteenth century fur-lust should worry the modern beaver.
We are very excited when a flurry of trumpets leads us to the Jousting Ring. Fully clad knights parade bifurcated flags beneath the royal bench, shouting platitudes up to the blushing Queen. Fluffers stoke the crowd into a fervor as the horses snort by the grandstands. I don't like yelling HUZZAH in general, but when I do, ‘tis for blood.
The main event disappoints.
The knights gallop down a lane, spear wooden blocks and then hold them up for the courts approval. I, for one, do not approve. A waste of a perfectly good lance. I could see more bloodshed at the ear-piercing tent. But the kids are so into it, it’s great. Makes me wish that I came to this sort of thing as a kid… Fully able to lose myself in the fanfare and drunk on the sounds of iron splitting wood and the passing glances of boobstuffs.
We sit to have a falafel pocket (the influence of invading Moors, I presume). The sack-of-nuts salesman walks by in all his pubescent glory and shouts a favorite one-liner. I really like it here. An unbelievable amount of craftsmanship and collaborative effort goes into creating this other world. There are plenty of home-schoolers and IT guys jousting and playing clanky gourded instruments, but there are also vetted artisans, and last masters of ancient crafts. Women weave with historical exactitude as they rock in handmade chairs. A whole culture of people are willing to suspend their lives, pause their ipods, focus intently on the details of a bygone age, and convince each other that they could have survived the plague.
We shuffle through the crowd to the gates as dusk settles. As weathered villagers totter off to their Pontiacs and the world outside, I think that I’d like to come back and visit my newfound, old-timey village. Maybe I’m a Renaissance man. I could take up a craft. Like horseshoesmithing. But I’ll probably just download the Iphone app.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
A Phishing Scam Reply
My friend Adam got one of those fishing scam emails, and decided to respond to it. Our friend Robert got in on the action, as did I. The email back and forth is as follows. We anxiously await Mr. Nelson's reply:
From: Remond Nelson [mailto:rem_nels@europe.com]
Sent: Tuesday, July 29, 2008 7:08 PMTo: undisclosed-recipients
Subject: I NEED YOUR ASSISTANCE
Greetings Compliments of the day to you and your family. I am very sorry to embarrass you with this email as I did not mean to intrude in your privacy if not for thepeculiar situation I have found myself. I have contacted you because I believe you have what it takes to carry out the request I seek of you. I am currently suffering from a terminal disease called Cancer and my doctors have informed me that I have a few months to live and I want to try and do something special with my life now that the end is near.
Before I was diagnosed with the disease I was a very successful businessman who made a lot of money but also lived a very rough life filled with too much lust for women and more money. In the course of my illness my family members have bled me dry of nearly all my possessions and abandoned me to my fate. I presently have no friend or family as I am all alone in this hospital.Luckily I have some money totaling Twenty Five million Five Hundred thousand us dollars($25.5Million) that I had stashed away in a finance facility somewhere in Europe and I would be willing to donate all of it to charity. All I want is for a foundation to beset up in my name so I would always be remembered for my good deeds in lifeafter I pass on. If you are willing to assist you would get a handsome percentage of the money and also a place in heaven as God would abundantly reward you. Please get back to me ASAP so I can give you more details.
Thanks and God bless you
Remond Nelson
Adam's Response:
This is a very moving letter. I have to thank God for people that can see the err of their ways and turn over a new leaf. Because you have had the courage to do so, I would love to aid you in your request.I'm not really sure about going about setting up a foundation, but I've asked my son for help, and he's going to look into it.What sort of information do I need from you?
Mr. Nelson Replies:
Dear Beloved Friend,Thanks for your mail and your concern.. In my last mail to you I introduced myself and gave you a summary of the present predicament I have found myself and how I lived my life(financial-wise). My failing health has necessitated my present over view of life and the meaning of life itself as it relates to day-to-day living. Even surgery which is a last resort has been done but the disease has already spread into most parts of my body.
I hope my first mail did not embarrass you? if it did, I apologize for this. The fund in questions is privately kept and I wanted to put it in capable hands for disbursement. Other such funds that I left to my relatives to disburse to charity were all plundered and used for their personal purposes.For this reason I have decided that within the confines of my hospital room and the privacy of my computer (to which I have limited use of the internet connection) to look for a suitable person to transfer ownership of the deposit to, and after claiming the money, disburse 80% of the $25.5 million dollars to various charitable organizations of your choice in various countries and then retain 20% of the money for your effort. the $25.5 million dollars is deposited in the security vault of a private finance/security company in Europe. This is not a business proposal and I do not expect any returns or share of the money. I am dying and I have distributed most of my earthly possessions to various individuals, groups and organizations. This deposit of $25.5 million dollars is the bulk of what is left. It is unknown to my other relatives. If I do not find a suitable person to disburse the funds as I plan to, then on my death the finance/security company holding the deposit would have to notify my next of kin to claim the deposit as stipulated on the deposit agreement. And from what I have seen of how they spent the other funds I designated for the same purpose, leaving the fund in their care would be a colossal waste of all I have worked and lived for. If you would be able to help me fulfill this last living request, I would need you to get back to me on the following issues, after reading and understanding this few lines.
1. That you are in a position to be trusted with such a large amount of fund, and that you have a heart for charity and thus would not have any problems locating the right charity and human aid groups to disburse the fund to. It would be nice to know what charities you have in mind to donate the money to and that there are reputable charitable organizations that would use it for the right cause..
2. That you are willing to contact the security company holding the deposit to discuss the terms of releasing the funds to you.
3. That you fully understand this transaction up to this stage and you are ready to proceed under these terms. Please send your full contact details as I requested in my first mail. I will need you to send me your direct tel/fax number and your full postal address so I can send it to the security firm so they can get in touch with you immediately. I await further communication.
Best regards,
Remond Nelson
Adam's Response:
Remond,
I'm so sorry to hear that you cannot trust your family to carry out your wishes regarding your hard earned money. That must cause you some distress in an already challenging time.
My son and I would love to help you. I'm not sure how it is that you even got my contact information, but I will count it as the will of God who must want me to help a brother in need. It warms me to hear that you've decided to turn away from lasciviousness and spend your money in service in others.
I will do all that I can to aid you in your struggle.
Sincerely,
Adam
445 S 44th st
Philadelphia, PA19104
Our Friend Robert Contributes the Following:
Dearest Remond,
I hope this finds you in good spirits.
Your email below has come to me by way of my father, your acquaintance, Adam Remich. I am his son, Robert Y. Remich and I have been touched by your story.
I have quite an opportunity for you. I have discussed your predicament with my boss, a famous American documentary filmmaker and he has an interest in your case. He has informed me that, not only will he donate to your cause, but wishes to make a film about your life. He has already assembled a camera crew and filming rights and we are only waiting for you to give us the name of the city and hospital you are in. With the film, we hope to bring attention to your life and draw many celebrities to your cause.
Please send me your address, as the production crew is eagerly waiting our departure from New York City. We Cannot wait to see you and talk to you in person.
Yours,
Robert
Adam Follows up:
Remond,
I have wonderful news! As I told you in my initial email, I asked my son to help me in this cause. I am an older man, and I don't really have as many contacts as he does.
Currently, Robert, my son, works for a major film production house in the United States. They have been producing documentary pieces for many local television stations.
After he heard your story, he immediately contacted me to tell me that he thinks that your story would be an amazing human interest story. He also believes that your story is so moving that he would most likely be able to enlist the help of some celebrities that he works with in order to help contribute to your overall contribution.
Please let us know if you would be willing to participate in a short documentary that focuses on your quest.
I would love to meet you in person, and do hope that you recognize the great opportunity to spread goodness that this proposition puts forth.
Sincerely
Adam Remik
Robert Continues:
Dear Remond,
My boss, the filmmaker, has informed me that his financiers, Balki Bartakumous and Larry Appleton, have agreed to fully finance the documentary. We are just waiting on your correspondence. We have already had interest from several celebrities, including David Hassehoff, Nell Carter and Alf. Please contact us ASAP regarding your current location.
With much love and best wishes,
Robert Remikk
Adam Continues:
Remond!
I believe that the hand of God moves in all things. Upon receiving your initial email a little under an hour ago, great things have already come of it. My youngest son Robert, the filmmaker, has already found financial sponsorship from his bosses Larry Appleton and Balki Bartakumous. Who would have thought, that the meeting of a couple of perfect strangers could accomplish so much, in so very little time. Robert has told me that he has contacted you, and that he's eagerly awaiting your response with some of your vital information. Please forgive our haste, it's just that I feel the Spirit in me at this moment, and am willing to do anything to help you cause. We have a talented flim crew amassed, and waiting for your confirmation; upon which we will rush down to your location with our full production capabilities. Please contact myself, or my young son Robert at your earliest convenience. I know this is a lot to take in in your fragile condition. So, if it turns out to be too much, too fast, we can take it slower, get to know each other before we seal the deal and consummate things. I have to say that I don't think I can wait much longer,
I feel like I'm ready to explode!
Your,
Adam Remick
I Follow up With:
Dear Mr. Nelson,
I recieved your information from Adam and Robert Remmick (CC'd), dear friends of mine and fellow brothers in religion. Robert is also currently in my employ. I am a very important New York City film producer named Seamore Keener. Please feel free to look up my work on one of the internets.
I was deeply troubled to hear of your predicament with CANCER and the fascinating story of how you wish to turn your life around. I have assembled a top television crew and a litany of important celebreties and we would like to make our way to Europe to videotape your final wishes being carried out. A man as generous as you should not have to leave the world in obscurity, but should rather be introduced to the world as one of its great benefactors. We, of course, realize that you are in fragile condition and have taken the necessary precautions to preclude any disadvantages to your health. All my crew has been vaccinated and we are all HIV negative.
As time is of the essence (I have some of my celebrities on a retainer- Tom Bosley alone is costing me nearly $1500/ day!), we would like to come to your country in the next 3 to 5 weeks. We were looking at dates around August 20th to begin shooting scenes with you. I have arranged a gala event in Geneva with Godiva chocolate to present you a humanitarian award sometime that week. Hopefully, you are well enough to travel. If not, we would be more than willing to set up a live feed and a jumbotron.
You'll have to forgive me being so forward, but it is necessary that I move this project along. My executive producers, Balky and my cousin Larry (I believe Mr.'s Remmick mentioned them to you), are getting nervous about our schedule. As we have already spent $42,300 in preparation for this documentary, I am in charge of making sure everything comes together. Mr and Mr. Remmick have already recieved finder's fees for brtinging us your story in excess of $13,000 each. It is so nice to spread the good will! Perhaps your story is infectious!!! (We just hope the cancer is not!!!) (Just kidding!!!).
Anyway, please respond in a timely manner. We need to get good dates and location from you, as well as your sizes for wardrobe. We will need the following measurements: shoe size, coat size, waist size, arm length, inseam, and hat size.
Thank you very much and we look forward to meeting you!!!
Seamore Keener
Vandalay Industrial Motion Pictures
1165 Fifth Ave.
New York, NY
10029-6931
We will let you know how Mr. Redmond responds...
From: Remond Nelson [mailto:rem_nels@europe.com]
Sent: Tuesday, July 29, 2008 7:08 PMTo: undisclosed-recipients
Subject: I NEED YOUR ASSISTANCE
Greetings Compliments of the day to you and your family. I am very sorry to embarrass you with this email as I did not mean to intrude in your privacy if not for thepeculiar situation I have found myself. I have contacted you because I believe you have what it takes to carry out the request I seek of you. I am currently suffering from a terminal disease called Cancer and my doctors have informed me that I have a few months to live and I want to try and do something special with my life now that the end is near.
Before I was diagnosed with the disease I was a very successful businessman who made a lot of money but also lived a very rough life filled with too much lust for women and more money. In the course of my illness my family members have bled me dry of nearly all my possessions and abandoned me to my fate. I presently have no friend or family as I am all alone in this hospital.Luckily I have some money totaling Twenty Five million Five Hundred thousand us dollars($25.5Million) that I had stashed away in a finance facility somewhere in Europe and I would be willing to donate all of it to charity. All I want is for a foundation to beset up in my name so I would always be remembered for my good deeds in lifeafter I pass on. If you are willing to assist you would get a handsome percentage of the money and also a place in heaven as God would abundantly reward you. Please get back to me ASAP so I can give you more details.
Thanks and God bless you
Remond Nelson
Adam's Response:
This is a very moving letter. I have to thank God for people that can see the err of their ways and turn over a new leaf. Because you have had the courage to do so, I would love to aid you in your request.I'm not really sure about going about setting up a foundation, but I've asked my son for help, and he's going to look into it.What sort of information do I need from you?
Mr. Nelson Replies:
Dear Beloved Friend,Thanks for your mail and your concern.. In my last mail to you I introduced myself and gave you a summary of the present predicament I have found myself and how I lived my life(financial-wise). My failing health has necessitated my present over view of life and the meaning of life itself as it relates to day-to-day living. Even surgery which is a last resort has been done but the disease has already spread into most parts of my body.
I hope my first mail did not embarrass you? if it did, I apologize for this. The fund in questions is privately kept and I wanted to put it in capable hands for disbursement. Other such funds that I left to my relatives to disburse to charity were all plundered and used for their personal purposes.For this reason I have decided that within the confines of my hospital room and the privacy of my computer (to which I have limited use of the internet connection) to look for a suitable person to transfer ownership of the deposit to, and after claiming the money, disburse 80% of the $25.5 million dollars to various charitable organizations of your choice in various countries and then retain 20% of the money for your effort. the $25.5 million dollars is deposited in the security vault of a private finance/security company in Europe. This is not a business proposal and I do not expect any returns or share of the money. I am dying and I have distributed most of my earthly possessions to various individuals, groups and organizations. This deposit of $25.5 million dollars is the bulk of what is left. It is unknown to my other relatives. If I do not find a suitable person to disburse the funds as I plan to, then on my death the finance/security company holding the deposit would have to notify my next of kin to claim the deposit as stipulated on the deposit agreement. And from what I have seen of how they spent the other funds I designated for the same purpose, leaving the fund in their care would be a colossal waste of all I have worked and lived for. If you would be able to help me fulfill this last living request, I would need you to get back to me on the following issues, after reading and understanding this few lines.
1. That you are in a position to be trusted with such a large amount of fund, and that you have a heart for charity and thus would not have any problems locating the right charity and human aid groups to disburse the fund to. It would be nice to know what charities you have in mind to donate the money to and that there are reputable charitable organizations that would use it for the right cause..
2. That you are willing to contact the security company holding the deposit to discuss the terms of releasing the funds to you.
3. That you fully understand this transaction up to this stage and you are ready to proceed under these terms. Please send your full contact details as I requested in my first mail. I will need you to send me your direct tel/fax number and your full postal address so I can send it to the security firm so they can get in touch with you immediately. I await further communication.
Best regards,
Remond Nelson
Adam's Response:
Remond,
I'm so sorry to hear that you cannot trust your family to carry out your wishes regarding your hard earned money. That must cause you some distress in an already challenging time.
My son and I would love to help you. I'm not sure how it is that you even got my contact information, but I will count it as the will of God who must want me to help a brother in need. It warms me to hear that you've decided to turn away from lasciviousness and spend your money in service in others.
I will do all that I can to aid you in your struggle.
Sincerely,
Adam
445 S 44th st
Philadelphia, PA19104
Our Friend Robert Contributes the Following:
Dearest Remond,
I hope this finds you in good spirits.
Your email below has come to me by way of my father, your acquaintance, Adam Remich. I am his son, Robert Y. Remich and I have been touched by your story.
I have quite an opportunity for you. I have discussed your predicament with my boss, a famous American documentary filmmaker and he has an interest in your case. He has informed me that, not only will he donate to your cause, but wishes to make a film about your life. He has already assembled a camera crew and filming rights and we are only waiting for you to give us the name of the city and hospital you are in. With the film, we hope to bring attention to your life and draw many celebrities to your cause.
Please send me your address, as the production crew is eagerly waiting our departure from New York City. We Cannot wait to see you and talk to you in person.
Yours,
Robert
Adam Follows up:
Remond,
I have wonderful news! As I told you in my initial email, I asked my son to help me in this cause. I am an older man, and I don't really have as many contacts as he does.
Currently, Robert, my son, works for a major film production house in the United States. They have been producing documentary pieces for many local television stations.
After he heard your story, he immediately contacted me to tell me that he thinks that your story would be an amazing human interest story. He also believes that your story is so moving that he would most likely be able to enlist the help of some celebrities that he works with in order to help contribute to your overall contribution.
Please let us know if you would be willing to participate in a short documentary that focuses on your quest.
I would love to meet you in person, and do hope that you recognize the great opportunity to spread goodness that this proposition puts forth.
Sincerely
Adam Remik
Robert Continues:
Dear Remond,
My boss, the filmmaker, has informed me that his financiers, Balki Bartakumous and Larry Appleton, have agreed to fully finance the documentary. We are just waiting on your correspondence. We have already had interest from several celebrities, including David Hassehoff, Nell Carter and Alf. Please contact us ASAP regarding your current location.
With much love and best wishes,
Robert Remikk
Adam Continues:
Remond!
I believe that the hand of God moves in all things. Upon receiving your initial email a little under an hour ago, great things have already come of it. My youngest son Robert, the filmmaker, has already found financial sponsorship from his bosses Larry Appleton and Balki Bartakumous. Who would have thought, that the meeting of a couple of perfect strangers could accomplish so much, in so very little time. Robert has told me that he has contacted you, and that he's eagerly awaiting your response with some of your vital information. Please forgive our haste, it's just that I feel the Spirit in me at this moment, and am willing to do anything to help you cause. We have a talented flim crew amassed, and waiting for your confirmation; upon which we will rush down to your location with our full production capabilities. Please contact myself, or my young son Robert at your earliest convenience. I know this is a lot to take in in your fragile condition. So, if it turns out to be too much, too fast, we can take it slower, get to know each other before we seal the deal and consummate things. I have to say that I don't think I can wait much longer,
I feel like I'm ready to explode!
Your,
Adam Remick
I Follow up With:
Dear Mr. Nelson,
I recieved your information from Adam and Robert Remmick (CC'd), dear friends of mine and fellow brothers in religion. Robert is also currently in my employ. I am a very important New York City film producer named Seamore Keener. Please feel free to look up my work on one of the internets.
I was deeply troubled to hear of your predicament with CANCER and the fascinating story of how you wish to turn your life around. I have assembled a top television crew and a litany of important celebreties and we would like to make our way to Europe to videotape your final wishes being carried out. A man as generous as you should not have to leave the world in obscurity, but should rather be introduced to the world as one of its great benefactors. We, of course, realize that you are in fragile condition and have taken the necessary precautions to preclude any disadvantages to your health. All my crew has been vaccinated and we are all HIV negative.
As time is of the essence (I have some of my celebrities on a retainer- Tom Bosley alone is costing me nearly $1500/ day!), we would like to come to your country in the next 3 to 5 weeks. We were looking at dates around August 20th to begin shooting scenes with you. I have arranged a gala event in Geneva with Godiva chocolate to present you a humanitarian award sometime that week. Hopefully, you are well enough to travel. If not, we would be more than willing to set up a live feed and a jumbotron.
You'll have to forgive me being so forward, but it is necessary that I move this project along. My executive producers, Balky and my cousin Larry (I believe Mr.'s Remmick mentioned them to you), are getting nervous about our schedule. As we have already spent $42,300 in preparation for this documentary, I am in charge of making sure everything comes together. Mr and Mr. Remmick have already recieved finder's fees for brtinging us your story in excess of $13,000 each. It is so nice to spread the good will! Perhaps your story is infectious!!! (We just hope the cancer is not!!!) (Just kidding!!!).
Anyway, please respond in a timely manner. We need to get good dates and location from you, as well as your sizes for wardrobe. We will need the following measurements: shoe size, coat size, waist size, arm length, inseam, and hat size.
Thank you very much and we look forward to meeting you!!!
Seamore Keener
Vandalay Industrial Motion Pictures
1165 Fifth Ave.
New York, NY
10029-6931
We will let you know how Mr. Redmond responds...
Sweet n' Sour Maple Cleansing
Prologue
I've decided to do the lemonade cleanse, or master cleanse, or maple syrup diet, or cayenne pepper fast, depending which of these word combos is most appealing. Hopefully, at least one of these ingredients will be because that's all I'll be eating for the next ten days. Concieved by the eminent nutritionist Stanley Burroughs back in 1941, this decision goes against a few core instincts I have- 1) eating from any cookbook written on the brink of war, and 2) trusting one of the guys who is in the credits for the TV show Cheers (or so I remember it- that drunken yellow font...) But I'm gonna do it. My tall, slim frame will be tested in its elasticity and my mind in its steadfastness. The idea is that your intestinal lining and colon walls will be stripped of years of guts-tartar that's built up over years of miseating. Chemicals, fats, addictions, and extraneous hitchikers will be left by the wayside as the cayenne fumes through the pipes at about a gallon a day. Lately, I've just been feeling sluggish. Haphazzard in my dealings. Slopey, mopey, and moist at work. Especially after lunch. The napping urge I thought I left behind at college has swollen up in puffy eyes and I just feel slowggish. Not quite crisp. As such, I somehow believe that shitting and pissing until theres nothing left but thoughts and whispers to excrete is the right thing to do. I've also got this romance for ascetisism that I like to waltz with once in a while. Colon as clean as a stoic marine.I have a few rules for myself, just to make it an earnest fast. 1) Speak to no one about it as I go (except my girlfriend- the lemons are a bit suspicious). Tis for two reasons. First, I can get objective input from observers around me, if any. "Wow, your pizazz and produtivity, your pizazzitivity has gone up 20%!" my boss will say. "You've got that acetic aesthetic!" says a coworker. "Where did Chris go?" asks my younger cousin as I disappear into a pile of clothes before his eyes. There's supposed to be very positive effects for the skin, energy, and demeanor. We'll fucking see. The other reason to tell no one is to quietly giggle as they observe me inexplicably and constantly drinking from a large gallon of what looks like gorilla urine.Rule 2) Don't complain. I promise to avoid saying "I'm hungry", "I want food", or "kill me" for the duration. This is just to see if I can keep this activity in a positive vein- think of it as good medicine. Be the grown up that feeds the tablespoon to the inner child. (Plus I hear that it tastes not too bad, hopefully like Triaminic, my favorite boyhood sauce).I'm committed, and I'm off to Safeway to buy the ingredients. They don't carry anything resembling Grade-B organic maple syrup. Snag one. Should I consider this a sign to quit before I start? After an inner struggle, I resolve to wake up early and make it to Trader Joes before work. I can't sleep this night with anticipation for what I'm doing. I keep having dreams that I accidentaly eat something and ruin my fast. This before I even start it. I may be screwed.
The Fiery Furnace Fast- Day 1
Blarrrgh. Like it came from the bubble over a comic book character. I hear myself make this sound as I drink the requisite quart of tepid salt water that is supposed to start your day. There's something so adverse to my instincts here. I believe that perhaps early on in utero, we all take an ambitious gulp of amniotic brine, only to revolt at the mistake of it. From then on, we instinctually know that we cant imbibe in mother ocean without consequences. An avid surfer myself, full pints of sea have been shoved down my throat by cantankerous Neptune, and I know the unpleasantries following. Thusly, to voluntarily drink this morning cocktail felt, tasted, went down wrong. But stayed down, barely. Squeezed the lemons and filled the gallon with a teaspoon of cayenne and the lemon juice. At Trader Joe's I find that Organic Grade B maple syrup retails for about $7 for a cup and a half, or my daily px. Dammit. I will now reveal another motive for my fast. I thought I could save some damn bucks. But after the syrup and the lemons and all, I'm about breaking even. Another reason to quit. Might as well start gathering those. I just realized I vowed not to complain to anyone, but here I am making a fully fortified blog of complaint. Well, fickle ghosts of amended resolve, haunt me no more. I am resolved ONLY to complain here.I mix the syrup in and take a look at the jug. It looks like iced tea, with a little suspension of lemon pulp and cayenne particles. It tastes pretty good. Sweet and lemony and hot. Imagine that. We'll see how long I can taste it. I think I might start to hate the stuff. All this from the first sip. And then I touched my eyeballs by accident and it feels like I'm wearing swimming goggles stuffed with bees. Cayenne, you're not just a town in Wyoming. Off to work......Here about 4pm and they're having the weekly birthday cake for one of us jobbers. A whole group gathered accross the way. Celebrating their love of food. I have to say that I'm not particularly hungry, which is impressive- I'm a big boo. But I do miss (already. pftthp~!) the daily ritual of selecting which food to eat and putting that food in my mouthtrap and shutting it over and over again. Sofar, today has been one long drink. I get up to walk around and I do feel a bit spacey. I would say I feel a bit high but I don't want to exaggerate. Bit I can certainly say if not high, light. Like I tied a few balloons onto the armchair, but not enough to spill my beer. The deluge has not yet come out from within. I am retaining......at 6:22 some curious things have left the building. I have realized that one thing I always count on during the day is food. If the day is shite, at least there's lunch. Without that to fall back on, the day can be unrequited shite. Today has been alright though. Very minimal lunchtime tiredness. My belly feels like a kiddie pool filled with syrup...
Syrupy Starvation - Day 2
So I'm writing at the end of day 2, mad as all hell. Fuming like old man Vesuvius, peppery magma rumbling in my tummy. I have the unfortunate superpower of being able to smell everything. I could smell the hot dog vendors' fingers at the cart three blocks away. Actually smell around the hot dogs themselves and into the cracks in those fingers. Mustard. Just the word is beginning to sound less juvenile and more significant. Maybe that's where Colonel Mustard came from. A hungry board game designer. Mustard calling the shots. I sniffed my way around the office today, through 7 continents of lunch choices, viciously brought to the floor by my coworkers (yes, antarctica- someone was eating a chipwich- as far as I would like to believe they are assembled in antarctica). Had to stay focused through the haze. Focused on not-food. It honestly wasn't the hunger that was the problem. It was moreso that food is so often what I'm doing. All breaks involve food. The time between events is so often stuffed with food. Such a welcome segway is food.Also, I was sitting at a red light today and a funny thing happened. I stared at the pedestrians in the crosswalk and began to think of them all as Other. They were Food-Eaters. I am currently, not. My girlfriend is a food-eater. So are my friends. I drink syrup. I turn down lunches (had to cancel three this week). I bring a cup of gorilla urine to Caribou when I accompany a friend to 'go get a cup of coffee'.Things begun to leave me this morning. Things that I was unknowingly storing for later. Something resembling a miniature Duraflame. The tint of these things is a strange one. Somewhat greyish. Lighter and deader than what I'm used to. Sometimes these things come freely as a chubby boy down a waterslide. Other times they are a rubber suit on a silver sliding board, squeaking their way down. My body seems to look the same from the outside, but in here I continue to feel lighter. There's also this wierd fear that maybe I'm going to die. I guess its not that wierd. But then I fight that with a rational faith in this prescription, that internet blogs by survivors don't lie. This is indeed the beginning of the worst part, supposedly. Day three is fastly approaching. Pardon the pun. Punis. The other ammo to shoot down my mortal fear is the thought that I am eating something, rather 3 great things:1) Cayenne Pepper. Cayenne contains a substance known as capsaicin. This is the stuff that's in pepper gas. I hereby deduce that after this ten day vaccine, I will be immune to pepper gas as sprayed by old ladies, riot police, and my girlfriend on "no" nights.2) Lemon juice, or liquid sunshine3) Maple Syrup. This is the one I'm really counting on. This is where all the calories and other nutrients (or lack thereof) are really coming from. I can contentedly picture myself ingesting the essence of Maine's greatest and strongest trees. I will grow strong like them. I will become flexible to the winds. I will have things that look like shrews coming out of holes in me. Mostly, I will be vibrant and verdant as a maple leaf in full spring. That's the prize.Off to make some laxitive tea, to see what other creatures I can coax out of hiding.
The Drawer-Dropping Diet - Day 3
I dreampt about a steak last night. I ate it slowly and deliberately, as though I were starring in a hostage situation with my captors watching, draped in black hoods above me. Couldn't show too much pleasure, nor distaste. I know where this dream comes from. It's this fear that if I start eating normal again now, I'd blow up. Supposedly, as you flush your body of all the bottlecaps and shoehorns and bad stuff lodged in the piping, you also rid it of helpful bacteriaeus (plural of bacteria). This is the stuff that digests your meals and so without it, you run the risk, I suppose, of ending up with an unslurried slice of pizza in your stomach for days. They call these helpful bacteriaueue 'flora', which, to clarify, is super gross. There's some helpful Vietnamese 'florist' within me picking just the right bouquet to digest each bowl of Pho I eat. A pushy Italian tries to sell me the longstems to romance the shit out of each bowl tortellini. And at the moment, if I swallowed a filet mingon, I suppose there would be no flora there to make it feel welcome. And I would die.I feel fine, though. I was grumpy as hell last night and this morning, but it's slowly clearing. Not hungry yet. Just miss the ritual of breakfast that I suppose I took for granted. It's only day three. I can't believe I'm such a sentimental puss....God damn lunch time. The smells again. I normally keep a tissue box on my desk but I must say I haven't needed it since my new diet. My nasal passages feel very clear. This is particularly cruel, because now I am more turned on by that takeout spaghetti across the room (smells like the one in my old elementary school lunches- my favorite day) than I ever have been but I can't go get me an order because I'll blow up....5 pm...Let's do some math. Number one equals one. Number two equals three, because it always comes with number one. So far today, I am up to exactly sixteen....I go to a Washington Nationals game with my girlfriend to see if I can stand it. God knows the only possible justification for going to a baseball game is having a lovely excuse to sit down for a while and ingest a bunch of crap and beer. So we surveyed the "food" stands, from pulled pork to half smokes, and Ali set her sights on the chili nachos. Actually, to be fair, she felt bad and I had to convince her to eat something, and when she tried to get just plain nacho chips, I talked her into chili and chese and other fixins'. This was sort of massochistic, really. She didn't really want all that detritus. I wanted to smell it, and watch her eat it- as a member of Opus Dei massages his back with a bullwhip. Can't say I actually wanted to eat that ballpark smarniak, just smell. I'd sell my thumbs for a falafel pocket, however. That, I'd eat...bedtime. My grand total for the day is twenty-one. Black jack!
The Lemonade Longing - Day 4
I had the dreams again last night. Seriously. I dreampt that I "accidentaly" ate a full cheesesteak. It was New Years Eve, and I remember getting caught up in a festive mood, and before I knew it, I realized that I had betrayed my commitment to the tune of 12 bite cycles of said cheesesteak. I remember feeling ashamed to come before the half-my-cousin-Eddie half my-x-boss character in the dream and reveal that I had eaten. It somehow threw off everyone's plans, and left me a villain. I had lots of other dreams, too. Very vivid and memorable. I wonder if this has to do with the diet.Woke up late so had to chug the saline solution. Warm and Salty Morning (sounds like a great name for a tea). I've adjusted to this part of the procedure quite well. I really rejected the salt water the first day, but now it goes down smooth. I may, like the warm amniosis of the womb, grow to miss it when it's gone. It bores through you like an ice road trucker late delivering a drill bit to the oil fields.Today I have one of those achy tongues that usually comes from eating too many Mike n Ikes with a tall cup of Coke at the movies. Sugar tongue. From all the syrup. Day four is supposed to be, as day three, the widowmaker. This is when you're really feeling hungry. I hear that.
The Withering- Day 5
Forget about writing today. My mouth is aflame with sores from eating only sugar. What the hell am I doing? Perhaps following the whimsy of some pschyzophrenic in the 1940s who owned a syrup farm, that's what.
The View through Time- Day 6
I went to a concert today, outside. I have been dreading this day because there's so many temptations. Beers as big as Double Gulps that cost 14 bucks. A picnic on the lawn. Music to shake to, assuming there's something left to shake. And me and my tainted slurry, hanging along side the group trying to fit in:"Hey, CK, want a brewskidog?""No thanks, man, I'm cool", I say, showing him my gallon."Is that urine, brodoggie?" (this is how I imagine people talk in lawn seating)"Might as well be," say I.But let me tell the truth. I can see through time. I feel clear. A vapid sort of clarity that lets the clouds drift right on by and welcome the incoming thunderstorm with a feline alertness. It pours rain down on the crowd and I feel freaking fantastic. It becomes a point of pride that I am not indulging in the excess all around me, but rather letting it slip on by. I am smooth as trout.
Fuque Thisse - Day 7
I wake up grumpy as a mudpuddle. I don't have any syrup left, so I decide to run off to play some tennis and I'll make my drink afterwards. It is about 104 degrees out, most literally, with humidity like cave breath. We start stroking it. My tennis partner and I. Within about fifteen minutes I begin to disintegrate before his eyes. My arms turn to tentacles. My legs are like fronds of wheat, gently blowing in the wind, with a big sweaty carcass suspended above them. I try to buy a water from a vending machine and it's not water at all, but water with some strawberry flavouring (emphasis on the extra u, to signify that it's not quite flavoring at all, but rather some newer, improved, engineering of flavor). Fookin gross. Doneski. Last straw. I quit the court. I decide to go to Georgetown and get some syrup. I get there and I'm angry as a cat in a waterpark. I opt for a liter of blood orange juice. This is traditionally the first thing to drink when breaking a fast. Brings the body back to the realm of foodstuffs on a liferaft. Slowly kicking along in the warm wind. I am delirious. I forget to continue to fast. It is not a fully fledged decision, but more a letting go of something I no longer need. In one of Andrew Bird's songs he says that sometimes moderation can be a kind of extreme. I have decided to moderate, and be extreme. Extremely disappointed in myself for not going 10 days? That creeps in. Extremely hungry? Not really, though definitely looking forward to food. Extremely clear, vibrant, etc.? I do feel pretty good, yeah. Nothing all that extreme though. Would I reccommend this diet? Yes. Why? I don't know. Because it's good to experience something different. It's good to look at a buffet table full of Lebanese Taverna and deny it. Just to know that you can. With the help of a little syrup.
I've decided to do the lemonade cleanse, or master cleanse, or maple syrup diet, or cayenne pepper fast, depending which of these word combos is most appealing. Hopefully, at least one of these ingredients will be because that's all I'll be eating for the next ten days. Concieved by the eminent nutritionist Stanley Burroughs back in 1941, this decision goes against a few core instincts I have- 1) eating from any cookbook written on the brink of war, and 2) trusting one of the guys who is in the credits for the TV show Cheers (or so I remember it- that drunken yellow font...) But I'm gonna do it. My tall, slim frame will be tested in its elasticity and my mind in its steadfastness. The idea is that your intestinal lining and colon walls will be stripped of years of guts-tartar that's built up over years of miseating. Chemicals, fats, addictions, and extraneous hitchikers will be left by the wayside as the cayenne fumes through the pipes at about a gallon a day. Lately, I've just been feeling sluggish. Haphazzard in my dealings. Slopey, mopey, and moist at work. Especially after lunch. The napping urge I thought I left behind at college has swollen up in puffy eyes and I just feel slowggish. Not quite crisp. As such, I somehow believe that shitting and pissing until theres nothing left but thoughts and whispers to excrete is the right thing to do. I've also got this romance for ascetisism that I like to waltz with once in a while. Colon as clean as a stoic marine.I have a few rules for myself, just to make it an earnest fast. 1) Speak to no one about it as I go (except my girlfriend- the lemons are a bit suspicious). Tis for two reasons. First, I can get objective input from observers around me, if any. "Wow, your pizazz and produtivity, your pizazzitivity has gone up 20%!" my boss will say. "You've got that acetic aesthetic!" says a coworker. "Where did Chris go?" asks my younger cousin as I disappear into a pile of clothes before his eyes. There's supposed to be very positive effects for the skin, energy, and demeanor. We'll fucking see. The other reason to tell no one is to quietly giggle as they observe me inexplicably and constantly drinking from a large gallon of what looks like gorilla urine.Rule 2) Don't complain. I promise to avoid saying "I'm hungry", "I want food", or "kill me" for the duration. This is just to see if I can keep this activity in a positive vein- think of it as good medicine. Be the grown up that feeds the tablespoon to the inner child. (Plus I hear that it tastes not too bad, hopefully like Triaminic, my favorite boyhood sauce).I'm committed, and I'm off to Safeway to buy the ingredients. They don't carry anything resembling Grade-B organic maple syrup. Snag one. Should I consider this a sign to quit before I start? After an inner struggle, I resolve to wake up early and make it to Trader Joes before work. I can't sleep this night with anticipation for what I'm doing. I keep having dreams that I accidentaly eat something and ruin my fast. This before I even start it. I may be screwed.
The Fiery Furnace Fast- Day 1
Blarrrgh. Like it came from the bubble over a comic book character. I hear myself make this sound as I drink the requisite quart of tepid salt water that is supposed to start your day. There's something so adverse to my instincts here. I believe that perhaps early on in utero, we all take an ambitious gulp of amniotic brine, only to revolt at the mistake of it. From then on, we instinctually know that we cant imbibe in mother ocean without consequences. An avid surfer myself, full pints of sea have been shoved down my throat by cantankerous Neptune, and I know the unpleasantries following. Thusly, to voluntarily drink this morning cocktail felt, tasted, went down wrong. But stayed down, barely. Squeezed the lemons and filled the gallon with a teaspoon of cayenne and the lemon juice. At Trader Joe's I find that Organic Grade B maple syrup retails for about $7 for a cup and a half, or my daily px. Dammit. I will now reveal another motive for my fast. I thought I could save some damn bucks. But after the syrup and the lemons and all, I'm about breaking even. Another reason to quit. Might as well start gathering those. I just realized I vowed not to complain to anyone, but here I am making a fully fortified blog of complaint. Well, fickle ghosts of amended resolve, haunt me no more. I am resolved ONLY to complain here.I mix the syrup in and take a look at the jug. It looks like iced tea, with a little suspension of lemon pulp and cayenne particles. It tastes pretty good. Sweet and lemony and hot. Imagine that. We'll see how long I can taste it. I think I might start to hate the stuff. All this from the first sip. And then I touched my eyeballs by accident and it feels like I'm wearing swimming goggles stuffed with bees. Cayenne, you're not just a town in Wyoming. Off to work......Here about 4pm and they're having the weekly birthday cake for one of us jobbers. A whole group gathered accross the way. Celebrating their love of food. I have to say that I'm not particularly hungry, which is impressive- I'm a big boo. But I do miss (already. pftthp~!) the daily ritual of selecting which food to eat and putting that food in my mouthtrap and shutting it over and over again. Sofar, today has been one long drink. I get up to walk around and I do feel a bit spacey. I would say I feel a bit high but I don't want to exaggerate. Bit I can certainly say if not high, light. Like I tied a few balloons onto the armchair, but not enough to spill my beer. The deluge has not yet come out from within. I am retaining......at 6:22 some curious things have left the building. I have realized that one thing I always count on during the day is food. If the day is shite, at least there's lunch. Without that to fall back on, the day can be unrequited shite. Today has been alright though. Very minimal lunchtime tiredness. My belly feels like a kiddie pool filled with syrup...
Syrupy Starvation - Day 2
So I'm writing at the end of day 2, mad as all hell. Fuming like old man Vesuvius, peppery magma rumbling in my tummy. I have the unfortunate superpower of being able to smell everything. I could smell the hot dog vendors' fingers at the cart three blocks away. Actually smell around the hot dogs themselves and into the cracks in those fingers. Mustard. Just the word is beginning to sound less juvenile and more significant. Maybe that's where Colonel Mustard came from. A hungry board game designer. Mustard calling the shots. I sniffed my way around the office today, through 7 continents of lunch choices, viciously brought to the floor by my coworkers (yes, antarctica- someone was eating a chipwich- as far as I would like to believe they are assembled in antarctica). Had to stay focused through the haze. Focused on not-food. It honestly wasn't the hunger that was the problem. It was moreso that food is so often what I'm doing. All breaks involve food. The time between events is so often stuffed with food. Such a welcome segway is food.Also, I was sitting at a red light today and a funny thing happened. I stared at the pedestrians in the crosswalk and began to think of them all as Other. They were Food-Eaters. I am currently, not. My girlfriend is a food-eater. So are my friends. I drink syrup. I turn down lunches (had to cancel three this week). I bring a cup of gorilla urine to Caribou when I accompany a friend to 'go get a cup of coffee'.Things begun to leave me this morning. Things that I was unknowingly storing for later. Something resembling a miniature Duraflame. The tint of these things is a strange one. Somewhat greyish. Lighter and deader than what I'm used to. Sometimes these things come freely as a chubby boy down a waterslide. Other times they are a rubber suit on a silver sliding board, squeaking their way down. My body seems to look the same from the outside, but in here I continue to feel lighter. There's also this wierd fear that maybe I'm going to die. I guess its not that wierd. But then I fight that with a rational faith in this prescription, that internet blogs by survivors don't lie. This is indeed the beginning of the worst part, supposedly. Day three is fastly approaching. Pardon the pun. Punis. The other ammo to shoot down my mortal fear is the thought that I am eating something, rather 3 great things:1) Cayenne Pepper. Cayenne contains a substance known as capsaicin. This is the stuff that's in pepper gas. I hereby deduce that after this ten day vaccine, I will be immune to pepper gas as sprayed by old ladies, riot police, and my girlfriend on "no" nights.2) Lemon juice, or liquid sunshine3) Maple Syrup. This is the one I'm really counting on. This is where all the calories and other nutrients (or lack thereof) are really coming from. I can contentedly picture myself ingesting the essence of Maine's greatest and strongest trees. I will grow strong like them. I will become flexible to the winds. I will have things that look like shrews coming out of holes in me. Mostly, I will be vibrant and verdant as a maple leaf in full spring. That's the prize.Off to make some laxitive tea, to see what other creatures I can coax out of hiding.
The Drawer-Dropping Diet - Day 3
I dreampt about a steak last night. I ate it slowly and deliberately, as though I were starring in a hostage situation with my captors watching, draped in black hoods above me. Couldn't show too much pleasure, nor distaste. I know where this dream comes from. It's this fear that if I start eating normal again now, I'd blow up. Supposedly, as you flush your body of all the bottlecaps and shoehorns and bad stuff lodged in the piping, you also rid it of helpful bacteriaeus (plural of bacteria). This is the stuff that digests your meals and so without it, you run the risk, I suppose, of ending up with an unslurried slice of pizza in your stomach for days. They call these helpful bacteriaueue 'flora', which, to clarify, is super gross. There's some helpful Vietnamese 'florist' within me picking just the right bouquet to digest each bowl of Pho I eat. A pushy Italian tries to sell me the longstems to romance the shit out of each bowl tortellini. And at the moment, if I swallowed a filet mingon, I suppose there would be no flora there to make it feel welcome. And I would die.I feel fine, though. I was grumpy as hell last night and this morning, but it's slowly clearing. Not hungry yet. Just miss the ritual of breakfast that I suppose I took for granted. It's only day three. I can't believe I'm such a sentimental puss....God damn lunch time. The smells again. I normally keep a tissue box on my desk but I must say I haven't needed it since my new diet. My nasal passages feel very clear. This is particularly cruel, because now I am more turned on by that takeout spaghetti across the room (smells like the one in my old elementary school lunches- my favorite day) than I ever have been but I can't go get me an order because I'll blow up....5 pm...Let's do some math. Number one equals one. Number two equals three, because it always comes with number one. So far today, I am up to exactly sixteen....I go to a Washington Nationals game with my girlfriend to see if I can stand it. God knows the only possible justification for going to a baseball game is having a lovely excuse to sit down for a while and ingest a bunch of crap and beer. So we surveyed the "food" stands, from pulled pork to half smokes, and Ali set her sights on the chili nachos. Actually, to be fair, she felt bad and I had to convince her to eat something, and when she tried to get just plain nacho chips, I talked her into chili and chese and other fixins'. This was sort of massochistic, really. She didn't really want all that detritus. I wanted to smell it, and watch her eat it- as a member of Opus Dei massages his back with a bullwhip. Can't say I actually wanted to eat that ballpark smarniak, just smell. I'd sell my thumbs for a falafel pocket, however. That, I'd eat...bedtime. My grand total for the day is twenty-one. Black jack!
The Lemonade Longing - Day 4
I had the dreams again last night. Seriously. I dreampt that I "accidentaly" ate a full cheesesteak. It was New Years Eve, and I remember getting caught up in a festive mood, and before I knew it, I realized that I had betrayed my commitment to the tune of 12 bite cycles of said cheesesteak. I remember feeling ashamed to come before the half-my-cousin-Eddie half my-x-boss character in the dream and reveal that I had eaten. It somehow threw off everyone's plans, and left me a villain. I had lots of other dreams, too. Very vivid and memorable. I wonder if this has to do with the diet.Woke up late so had to chug the saline solution. Warm and Salty Morning (sounds like a great name for a tea). I've adjusted to this part of the procedure quite well. I really rejected the salt water the first day, but now it goes down smooth. I may, like the warm amniosis of the womb, grow to miss it when it's gone. It bores through you like an ice road trucker late delivering a drill bit to the oil fields.Today I have one of those achy tongues that usually comes from eating too many Mike n Ikes with a tall cup of Coke at the movies. Sugar tongue. From all the syrup. Day four is supposed to be, as day three, the widowmaker. This is when you're really feeling hungry. I hear that.
The Withering- Day 5
Forget about writing today. My mouth is aflame with sores from eating only sugar. What the hell am I doing? Perhaps following the whimsy of some pschyzophrenic in the 1940s who owned a syrup farm, that's what.
The View through Time- Day 6
I went to a concert today, outside. I have been dreading this day because there's so many temptations. Beers as big as Double Gulps that cost 14 bucks. A picnic on the lawn. Music to shake to, assuming there's something left to shake. And me and my tainted slurry, hanging along side the group trying to fit in:"Hey, CK, want a brewskidog?""No thanks, man, I'm cool", I say, showing him my gallon."Is that urine, brodoggie?" (this is how I imagine people talk in lawn seating)"Might as well be," say I.But let me tell the truth. I can see through time. I feel clear. A vapid sort of clarity that lets the clouds drift right on by and welcome the incoming thunderstorm with a feline alertness. It pours rain down on the crowd and I feel freaking fantastic. It becomes a point of pride that I am not indulging in the excess all around me, but rather letting it slip on by. I am smooth as trout.
Fuque Thisse - Day 7
I wake up grumpy as a mudpuddle. I don't have any syrup left, so I decide to run off to play some tennis and I'll make my drink afterwards. It is about 104 degrees out, most literally, with humidity like cave breath. We start stroking it. My tennis partner and I. Within about fifteen minutes I begin to disintegrate before his eyes. My arms turn to tentacles. My legs are like fronds of wheat, gently blowing in the wind, with a big sweaty carcass suspended above them. I try to buy a water from a vending machine and it's not water at all, but water with some strawberry flavouring (emphasis on the extra u, to signify that it's not quite flavoring at all, but rather some newer, improved, engineering of flavor). Fookin gross. Doneski. Last straw. I quit the court. I decide to go to Georgetown and get some syrup. I get there and I'm angry as a cat in a waterpark. I opt for a liter of blood orange juice. This is traditionally the first thing to drink when breaking a fast. Brings the body back to the realm of foodstuffs on a liferaft. Slowly kicking along in the warm wind. I am delirious. I forget to continue to fast. It is not a fully fledged decision, but more a letting go of something I no longer need. In one of Andrew Bird's songs he says that sometimes moderation can be a kind of extreme. I have decided to moderate, and be extreme. Extremely disappointed in myself for not going 10 days? That creeps in. Extremely hungry? Not really, though definitely looking forward to food. Extremely clear, vibrant, etc.? I do feel pretty good, yeah. Nothing all that extreme though. Would I reccommend this diet? Yes. Why? I don't know. Because it's good to experience something different. It's good to look at a buffet table full of Lebanese Taverna and deny it. Just to know that you can. With the help of a little syrup.
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