Reading the Turner Diaries, '09

My dad doesn't understand any of this. He just looks at me and shakes his head. Tells me not to do anything stupid. What's to happen to him when the race wars start? What's going to happen when the truth comes out, in bursts of fire? Kneed knew how it really is. He had been in prison.

It was his teaching that really got me focused. Before I met him, I was floundering. We all were. On Saturdays we'd go out to Wilheim's ranch to shoot and drink beers. Of course, the main conversation was usually about the problems. But back then we were uninitiated into the truth. We were just skirting around it. I think we all knew. We were pissed off as fuck. We didn't like the way things were going, not with the government, not with the immigrants, not with the multicultural garbage being shoved down our throats. We were all sick to death with the shit they were showing us on T.V. We rejected it all, and not because we knew of anything better than what they were telling us. We rejected it out of instinct. Because, inside each of us, we knew that White Men deserved better. We deserved more respect than what we were given. Why was a full-blooded White Man like myself forced to sit in the same unemployment lines as the n-----s and the immigrants? I knew it was wrong, even before I met Kneed.

But I didn't know how wrong. Once Kneed told me, then it all crystallized. The government was trying to humiliate us White Men. Why? Because the Zionists were afraid of us. They were trying to make us feel small, to make us feel like we were on the same level as the mongrel races. They need to dilute the purity of the White Race. Otherwise, we will oppose their One World Government. Kneed explained things to us. It is the most infuriating thing in the world for me, now that I know, to see some White Man running around with a n-----, or dressing like one of them, or talking like one. Being a traitor to their race. Seeing something like that, it's enough to make a man shoot another man.

They always tell you not to fight. Not to be a violent man. They make violence into the enemy. In order to pacify you. They make you think it is bad and wrong to feel violent urges. They make our natural White Man instinct to dominate into something to feel ashamed of. I always knew that was bullshit, but I didn't know how to voice my opinion. Once I met Kneed, everything changed. Wilheim invited him out to the ranch for the first time, before any of the rest of us had heard of him. Wilheim had met him on the Internet. We were all a bunch of kids to him. He had seen some things. In the 80's, he had been a part of the Order. He had been in on their highway robbery. They took down a armored car. God, listening to that story was a turning point in my life. I was so pumped, so excited. I wanted to live that life of action, just like Kneed had. All the guys felt the same way. It was a big night for all of us.

He knew it. He knew that he had to shape us. He was especially interested in Wilheim, and because of that, Kneed really targetted Wilheim. I think he really saw the potential in Wilheim. Because back then, despite all of Wilheim's enthusiasm, he was a pansy. You could look at him and you'd know it. That's why Kneed started calling him "bitch." We were a little surprised when Kneed first started in on Wilheim, hearing him call our friend "bitch" like that. Like I said, Kneed had been in prison. He knew how things really were. The strong dominate the weak. The bitches need to become men, or they'll be forced to suck off the strong, for protection. Wilheim didn't understand that. He was a rich kid. His dad was a rich CEO, in charge of some health insurance company. Wilheim was a skinny little blondie, just a little kid. I don't doubt that he was devoted to our cause. But he didn't understand that it would take strength. It would take blood, and thunder.

Every night it got worse for Wilheim. Pretty soon we were all calling him "bitch." And we didn't have any respect for him anymore. Then one night, Kneed slapped him in his face. We all just watched. Wilheim got really upset and lunged at Kneed, and Kneed put him down hard. No one did. We were all shocked. We just watched. Kneed reached around and got Wilheim's pants down and then got him bare-assed. Wilheim wasn't really struggling anymore, just sniveling. It was really an important moment of revelation for all of us there that night. We all took turns on Wilheim. Kneed told us we had to, or else we'd just be "bitches" too. You should see Wilheim now. He's 200 pounds of pure muscle. There's no one more ready to die for the cause. It's a beautiful thing. He's a testament to Kneed's teaching. And ever since Kneed was assassinated, Wilheim's been the standard bearer of the man's legacy.

We don't know who took out Kneed. Wilheim found his body, and he thinks it was La Raza. We will have our vengeance soon.

My dad doesn't understand any of this, when I try and talk to him about what's really going on. He tells me he understands that I'm frustrated, but that I'm too angry. He says I'm not being reasonable. He doesn't believe there's going to be a race war.

But there will be. One morning we're going into Sacramento, and we're going to show President Obama exactly how we feel about his gun control laws, his FEMA concentration camps and his Zionist puppet masters. And we'll show him in the only language anyone really understands. My dad doesn't understand. Come 2099, kids will learn my name in history class. They will read about how we saved the white race from multiculturalism, dilution and enslavement. I'm going to go soon and become a martyr. I wasn't sure at first, but now I know it is what has to be.

The night I realized that I would have to be a martyr was the night that Wilheim took me out driving. We went into West Sacramento and he showed me the house. A rich n----- lived there, he said. A n----- that lived like a king. Lording over the white race. Wilheim had checked him out. Do you know how many White Men he had working for him? Lots. Even if he only had one White Man under his heel, that would have been intolerable. Wilheim gave me a shotgun. He told me that a precedent had to be set. I followed him out of the car. We walked straight up the front walk. The shotgun was heavy and cold. It felt like it weighed thousands of pounds. I didn't know how I was able to carry it. He kicked open the front door. An alarm went off and I heard myself screaming. Wilheim walked up the stairs. He walked into the bedroom and suddenly he had a baseball bat in his hands. I watched him beat the man to death, and then the woman. Tears were pouring down my cheeks. There was a noise behind me and I saw myself turn and fire the gun. There was so much screaming, everywhere. A little body fell to the ground without a head, and I was screaming, screaming, screaming. Nothing seemed real. Wilheim grabbed my arm and we seemed to float out of the house like we were ghosts, across the front yard and back into the car and then away, away, away. I stared at the radio. I listened to the voice on the radio. The clock said that two minutes had passed since we went into the house. Had I imagined it all? The shotgun was burning my legs. There was a little body without a head. I was crying. Wilheim was growling at me. The voice on the radio sounded like an alien's. The alien was squawking and making crunching noises. Wilheim punched me in the face. Again and again. I started to hear what he was saying. He was saying, Stop crying! Stop fucking crying! Don't waste your tears on n-----s! You're weak. Do you know what happens to the weak?

He pulled over to the side of the road and told me to get out of the car. He called me "bitch," and ordered me onto my knees. He took my pants down. I wanted to scream, but he told me that he'd gag me if I did. He told me he'd cut off a toe if I made any noise. It was the beginning of my new life, there in the mud and the sticks and leaves.

I haven't slept for more than an hour in the past week. We've been building the bunker on Wilheim's ranch. Wilheim has been bringing in white girls, most of them 13 or 14 years old, to live in the bunker. They are young and scared, but you can tell they are devoted. We have to build up the Aryan race. We have enough handguns and shotguns. Now we need is the assault rifles. Wilheim says that once we get twenty assault rifles, we'll be ready. I spend all day making pipe bombs. I dream about how it's going to feel to die. I've almost stopped sleeping entirely, so I dream while standing up. I dream about 2099. I dream about chewing on bullets. I dream about being engulfed by a nuclear fireball. I dream about parades in our honor, which I will never see. I dream about a headless little body. I dream about Wilheim pushing my face into the mud, hissing at me not to make a noise. I dream that there is blood pouring out of my eyes. I want to scream. I don't make a noise. I don't make any noise at all.

HONORABLE MENTION: THESE AMERICAN ROADS

I dig this guy Jason Diamond. He's a cool dude.

First, I wanna point out the funny picture of Andre Dawson getting hit in the face with a baseball. I've said it before and I'll say it again. The best thing about the Internet is the funny pictures. Thanks, J Diamond, for giving us that one. He's got cool and funny pictures and videos all over his blog.

Second, and more importantly, Diamond writes about all kinds of cool art and music. He lets me know about lots of new, cool stuff that is out there. But he also digs older stuff, like stuff from Bret Jansch, Karen Dalton and Judee Sill, three musicians that I'm into but that I rarely hear anyone talking about. That's good. In general, his blog helps me be less square.

Finally, J Diamond is the man in charge of Hex Education Journal, which you can find at http://hexedjournal.com/ I'm a fan. It's a forum for opinions, art and music reviews, and creative work. One of my short stories is posted over there, which is also good.

Check it out, if you like cool things.

How Far You're Willing to Run Away

Jano called and asked to come over. I told her to come at 5, but she showed up at 3. I let her into my apartment, and immediately became aware of Jano’s situation. She was pregnant, and extremely so.

She was a person I had really, literally once described as “light on her feet.” She was enormous! And she looked so serious! Up until then, she had been such a joker. It was unprecedented. And, as serious as she had become, it really suited her. I’d never have guessed at how attractive she could be. Maybe because she was never pretty, like girls were supposed to be. I had never thought about her as good-looking. But, all that anxiety and stress hanging around her face, she looked like a model. She had high, sharp cheekbones. Her nose was long, and turned up a little at the end. It was some striking architecture, especially with that frown.

She got annoyed by my staring. “So, I don’t know how to break the news to you, but I’m pregnant,” she said dryly, patting it. I smiled.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know. I know what it looks like. I’ve seen pregnancy before on television. Is it Moab’s?”

“Have you seen him lately?” She asked, in a sort of strained way. Then, before I could give any kind of answer, she exhaled loudly. She laughed nervously. “Wow. I’m so stressed out. This clump of cells has been making me feel crazy!”

“I haven’t seen Moab in a while,” I answered neutrally. When had I seen him last? He hadn’t mentioned this.

“Oh, okay,” she replied like she was trying not to sound too disappointed. “Like in the past month?”

I thought about it for a minute. Maybe it had been three months. But where was he? Moab and I had gone out to Joshua Tree one time. It had been about seven months back. He loved it out there. He had said it was the place his spirit lived at, or something else hippie dippie. That was the place to look for him. I almost told her, but I didn’t want to have to drive down there with her. I didn’t know if seeing her would necessarily help. I stood up. “Where is that guy?” I asked. I picked up my cell phone and pulled up his number.

“He cancelled his service,” she said in the most unhappy voice yet.

I nodded and put down the phone. We gazed at each other. “So, what’re you going to name it?” I asked.

She made a terrible face, and then stormed out of my house. She slammed the door shut.

I’d never seen her like that, before. I guess it was the beginning of the transformations that would make her into the woman I know as Moab's wife. Jano before and Jano after, that's the two Jano's I have in my mind. I have this memory, from when I first met her. It’s hard for me to reconcile with the Jano I know now. As silly as it sounds, the memory is of her dancing in the middle of a street. I don’t, for the life of me remember where we were. I don’t remember why there was music playing and why people were out in the street. I guess it was a street fair, or something. The details really don’t matter that much. Maybe I imagined it, or I’m exaggerating whatever really happened. The point is that Jano was a certain kind of person, and now she’s different. In the memory she’s dancing. She's the only one, even though there's music playing. Everyone else is just walking around. She had a Mohawk back then, but it was grown out. Thick, curly brown hair. Skinny legs. She was dancing to make Moab laugh, kicking her legs up and making faces. He was parked in a lawn chair, almost as rotund as he is these days, chortling. Then, suddenly one day she shows up pregnant. And now days, she’s Moab’s wife. What happens to us, in time?

I took off work the next day to drive out to Joshua Tree. The clouds were low and it was a hot, dark day out in the desert. Somewhere near Twentyninepalms the wind picked up so strong I thought I’d lose control of the car. At one point it knocked against me and I wasn’t sure if I was still driving straight. My windshield filled up with a semi’s headlights and I closed my eyes. The force of the truck made the whole car tremble, as it roared past me. I pulled over to the side of the road, to calm down. What would have happened in their lives, if I hadn’t made it down to Joshua Tree? It’s all in the wind.

It was almost dark out when I found his car. The little light behind the clouds disappeared while I hiked around looking for him in the desert. It got damned cold. Maybe a year earlier, Moab’s mom had almost died. It was during some surgery, the kind that doctors say is safe, but, rarely, sometimes is not. Anyhow, before he could get the news that she was going to be okay, Moab took off. Who knows where? But he checked in with his brother after a week or so had gone by, and he found out she was recovering. I don’t know when he would’ve come back, had the news been different. I don’t know about him. I still don't, even these days. We’ve been friends for almost fifteen years.

Moab must have gone about ten miles from the car. I found him at a picnic table, trying to get some coals lit in a barbeque pit. I went and sat down without saying anything.

He jumped up when he noticed me, and then he yelped. His eyes bulging out of his skull. “Holy shit!” he finally said. “What’re you-” He looked around. “How the fuck did you…” Then he stopped, and just laughed.

I shrugged, annoyed that he was laughing. He was wrapped in a blanket and had a baseball cap covering his big, mostly bald head. His face got twisted up, he was grinning like he wanted to start shouting, but maybe he saw that I was annoyed. He didn’t say anything, and gazed at me with that big, giddy smile on his face. I guess he was waiting for me to say something. What was there to say? I thought that me being there was enough to send the message. Anyway, he couldn’t let any silence last too long.

“This place is just a magical location. I shouldn’t be surprised by anything I find out here. Of course you’re here! Hah!” He nodded, satisfied with this stupid statement. “It’s just the nature of this place, man. Magic things happen here. Connections get made. It’s a very special place.”

Magic? “That’s how it’s going to be now, Mo? You’re going to wander around a State Park giving New Age lectures?" I sighed. "That’s why you can’t be a daddy?”

Moab’s face fell. He had really expressive features, so you could really feel it. He opened his mouth to say something, but then decided not to.

“It’s a National Park,” he said. "Not a State Park."

“What?” I scowled at him.

He looked at the ground. “So, I guess Jano is still pregnant?”

“Still is.” I shook my head, bewildered.

He grunted. “I told her to get an abortion,” he said, without much emotion.

“It’s a woman’s right to choose,” I said caustically. It was dark, and I wanted him to light the stupid coals. I wasn’t even hungry for whatever it was he had for dinner. I just wanted something to look at aside from his face and the dark.

“Yeah,” he said lightly. He gazed at me. “I just think that it’s a huge step for me and Jano to take. I don’t know how committed to her I am, or how serious the relationship really is. If anything, we’re really more like friends with benefits.”

“You’ve been dating her for five years, and you’re ‘friends with benefits?’” I asked him. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I don't care what you say. The point is that you have to say it to her yourself.”

“You don’t understand.” He shook his head ruefully. “I would have hoped that you, out of everyone, would understand. You think I haven’t thought this through. But I promise you, I have. I’ve thought about it so hard. I’ve meditated over it. I don’t think it is physically, or spiritually possible for me to properly raise a child. I wouldn’t do a good job. I’d give the kid problems. Nutritional problems, for one. How am I supposed to feed it? I’ve never had any kind of steady income. And that’s only the beginning. Look at me. Do I look like a role model? I like to eat a lot, get drunk and have sex, and as often as possible. Where does a kid fit into that?”

I was getting really angry. “Why are you asking me? I’ve never even touched a baby.” I thought about punching him. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, Mo. I’m just here to tell you that, right now, you’re fucking up.”

He frowned. “Is it a bad thing to not want a baby?”

I shrugged. Honestly, what did he think I knew about any of these things? “If you really feel the way you say you feel, then you have to tell Jano.”

He looked up, startled. He had taken my statement to mean that she was there, with us. I laughed. Seeing him jump like that made me feel a little bit better. My laughing made him feel a little bit better, too. He recovered his wits, and grinned. “What’re you going to do if I don’t come back with you?” He asked wryly.

He wanted me to play the Sheriff, I guess. I laughed. He didn’t understand me. “I’m not here to tell you what to do. If you don’t go with me, then I imagine that you’ll get to see how far Jano is willing to chase you.” I smiled at him, not feeling unsympathetic. “And you’ll find out how far you’re willing to run away.”

We sat there, quiet. I started to feel the effect of the drive. My shoulders ached and my legs too. My mouth was dry, and it tasted stale.

“Remember that time at the river,” he said after what felt like a long time. “Everyone had such a fun time. Everyone went skinny dipping, even Paula.” He closed his eyes and was quiet for a minute. “She had those long legs. And that incredible ass. Remember? What were we doing up there? A music festival, or something? There were all those fucking hippies around, giving away shitty weed. Everyone had such a great time. What happened to those people we used to hang around with? Do you remember...” He trailed off, and then he sighed. “Lord, I loved fucking Paula,” he said.

We let that linger a little, and then I shrugged. I did remember that weekend, and I remembered Paula. I remembered a lot of other things that I didn’t have any use for anymore. I still do. I’d just as soon toss all those memories away. Not Moab though. He kept on looking backwards. “Maybe there’s other good things,” I said. “Even better things, maybe, that haven’t happened yet.”

And then I got up, to get the coals lit.

The Fling

When she came out to see my band at the Mermaid, that was when I got interested in her. We had met a while back, and I must have misheard her name then, because I called her "Sarah." If she had noticed, she never said anything, and eventually I figured out her real name and stopped. That night at the Mermaid, she stood near the wall in the back holding her beer close to her face and looking around the room, looking at the people. She stood apart from the group. After we finished playing, I went over and asked her if she liked the set. She said she had.

As we talked she kept making faces. I thought she probably wasn't comfortable. Her long hair was pulled into a bun, and I liked that. Not styled at all, just pulled back so to be out of her face. She had some clothes on that were kind of nicer, like she had "dressed up" a little bit to go out. She never wore anything but jeans, in all the time I knew her. Her face was light olive colored, with a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were small and dark. I felt a little nervous talking, like it was an interview. Maybe she felt the same way, judging by those faces she was making. We went through all the basic stuff, telling each other about where we lived and what we did. She worked nights at a bakery. She made bread. I liked that, and I imagined for a minute that I might smell just baked bread on her. When she told me where she lived, I recognized the neighborhood as being one of those artist districts. I guess that's why I thought of her as being an artist.

She wasn't, though. I asked her out for drinks, and we met one night after I got off work. I was over at Trader Joe's then, working as a cashier. There was a good little bar near there that I liked to go. When we met, she had on torn-up jeans and a white tank top with the faintest pit stains. I thought that was funny. She ordered a soda.

"You can get booze here, too," I said.

She laughed and said she had to be at the bakery in a half-hour. She blushed. "Maybe I should have warned you," she said. I shrugged and smiled. The bartender put down the whiskey I had ordered, right at that moment. "I should have realized, when you said that you worked nights," I said, feeling bad. She shrugged and we looked at each other. After a minute she laughed a little and said, "You wanna see the bakery?"

When we were at the bar she had had her hair wrapped loosely and left hanging down, reaching almost to the small of her back. Now she covered it with a velvet scarf and wrapped it up so that she looked to me like some socialist worker. She showed me the ovens, big, well-worn metal chambers with thick, browned ceramic walls. They were like furnaces, immediately we both started to sweat. She showed me how she prepared the dough, kneading it on the wooden counter. The thick muscles of her arms bulged, and her face became knit with concentration. She pulled a baking pan from the sink and dropped the dough into it. Now her skin shone with sweat. Her tank top clung to her. I watched her slide the pan inside the oven, and I trembled. I wanted her at that moment. She told me she had the night off on Friday, and I told her about a band I was going to see that night.

She shrugged and agreed to go. That night I couldn't sleep. I wanted to think about her, but I couldn't think about her enough. I wanted to delve inside of her, I knew I wanted to have sex with her. But I wanted to peel her apart and find a way inside of her... inside of her body and her clothes. I wished I could have stayed there all night, watching her work.

She didn't want to see the band, come Friday. "I had such a long week. I just want to relax with a glass of wine." I hesitated. The guys in this band were big supporters of my band. They were also a bigger name band than us. It was important. I tried to explain this to her, and she just gazed at me. Then I stopped and laughed. "You know what? It's not that important."

We went to her place. She had a room in an old house, just a small space . She had too much stuff. Someday she would get her own house, she said, and she knew exactly how she wanted to decorate it. She bought things with that in mind. She had several pieces of furniture, which she had stashed in the garage of the house, and she had place-mats and table cloths. "I know it's stupid." I shrugged. I was thinking about the show I was missing, and maybe I was distant. "You are pretty serious about that band, huh?" She asked. We sat, stiffly like people making decisions sit, on the edge of her bed. There was nowhere else to sit in the room. I talked about the band for a while, and she listened politely. I told her about talking to people from a record label.

I told her about our plans to tour again once the summer started. She asked me if I could get time off work, and I shrugged. I told her I didn't care about the job. "A lay off means six months of unemployment checks," I told her with a grin. She smiled and shrugged. Maybe she didn't think too much of that. We finished one glass of wine, and she seemed unsure whether or not we should have another. "Maybe you want to get over to that show?" She asked. I was surprised. Was she kicking me out? I shrugged. "It's nice to sit here with you," I told her, "I don't know what you were planning for tonight." She shrugged and laughed. She poured us each another glass of wine. Soon we were relaxing.

Her head propped on her hand, her legs pulled up on the bed, she was smiling. I was sitting with my back against the wall, my legs out in front of me. We were talking about school. She was thinking about going back, but didn't really know what for. Every year she felt less and less interested. She didn't know what she wanted to do. I hadn't finished school. I dropped out to go on tour across the US and all of Canada, with a band that wasn't together anymore and that had an album I was somewhat embarrassed about. It was music that I had outgrown, or at least wanted to. She asked me if I would always work in grocery stores, and we both laughed as if she had told a joke. I could tell it was an earnest question, though, and it irritated me.

We had sex. After a certain amount of time spent lying together on the bed, drinking wine, it was obvious we both wanted to. The wine made it hazy and confusing. It didn't really work out well. I fumbled with her jeans too long, and started losing my erection. I was nervous. I wanted it to be good. She couldn't find her condoms, and told me just to pull out. But then I got caught up worrying about pulling out in time and couldn't get into it. When she came she had a far off look in her eyes like she wasn't really there with me. But I slept like a rock in her bed.

Now I wasn't sure about her. I went through the movements of work dazedly. I wanted to like her. At my lunch break I noticed that I didn't have my wallet. When I picked up my cell phone to call her, I noticed the text: She had found it and wanted to know if she should bring it by. Which store did I work at?

I called her, but she said she had sent the text message hours ago. She was busy getting ready for work. Would I be able to come by the bakery to pick it up?

It was awkward for me to walk into the bakery, and I thought then that it wouldn't happen between us. But she was tranquil and pleasant. She tore off a piece of bread, one that she had just pulled from the oven, and she fed it to me. She worked on some more dough. She told me she wanted to hear my old band's album. I was flattered, and I knew she liked me. That changed things, maybe.

As she worked the dough, the way her body moved was getting me agitated. It was like the beginning of a fever. I was moving closer before I realized I wanted to. I touched her arm. She was surprised, and then she kissed me quickly and laughed. But I wanted more than that. I pushed her lightly against the counter and then she knew. She got up on the counter and it started to get warmer, the heat between our bodies quickly getting tropical. She only pushed me back once, and then only so that she could get her jeans off.

That night I went home and lay in bed. Instead of falling asleep, I hovered at the very edge. I saw myself getting up mornings in Tara's bed. But it was our bed. And I saw myself going to work, but not at Trader Joe's. I would have a better job. We could get a house, probably. If I had more income. She would decorate it with all of the furniture and table cloths and things she had. We'd get a dog. We'd have people over for dinner and we'd go out to the movies. I knew that I wasn't going to call her again. I wasn't going to take her out again. I put it all behind me. I wasn't interested in her anymore, at all. I would be polite when I saw her next, and I'd feel a little bit affectionate when I thought about her. But there wouldn't be anything more than that. It was just a fling.

LISTEN TO "PHILIP VERSUS THE DEMON HUMANOID REPTILES!"

READ AND PRODUCED BY KURTIS MOYER

ART BY BRENDAN NAKAHARA

MUSIC BY MARK E. DEUTSCH

pt. 1


pt. 2




We’d talk about the kind of apartment that we wanted, as we spent weekend after weekend going to open houses and meeting inevitably crummy and sleazy landlords, and we came to several conclusions. On my end, the apartment needed to have absolutely no gaping holes in the floor or walls. I wanted the place to have at least one window, or, at the very, very least, a reliable ventilation system. I refused to live in a slum neighborhood run by crack, crank or junk bond dealers, due to safety concerns. I resolutely preferred to live in a slum neighborhood run by those much classier and much more polite cocaine sellers. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I stubbornly required that, without exception, our apartment have running water.

Shnarka, on the other hand, was looking for something that had at least five rooms, preferably a penthouse, with at least 3000 square feet of balcony, where she could set up her art studio and paint her watercolors of carnivorous vaginas. She also required, without exception, a reliable security system, and 30 years worth of test results about the safety of the ground water. She wanted bay windows, and a view of something cool. Adhering to her requirements, we were usually looking at apartments that we would only be able to afford if I got fifteen or sixteen promotions, or if landlords started accepting watercolor paintings of carnivorous vaginas as rent payment.

She considered herself an expert negotiator, and told me she loved to haggle prices. Despite her bravado, I was a little bit bewildered by her method. She’d gush over all the amenities of a place almost manically. Then, before the prospective landlord even named his or her price, Shnarka would exclaim loudly that she’d willingly pay a price that was thirty to forty times what we could afford per month. And remember, these places were already well beyond anything near our price range. The landlord would, in the case of all the apartments we had taken a look at, readily agree to her offer and fumble to get a ten-year lease contract ready. If one judges a negotiator’s skill on his or her ability to close the deal quickly, rather than negotiate an arrangement that could be considered “good,” “reasonable” or “financially solvent,” then Shnarka was, in fact, uncannily skilled negotiationly. As things stood, I was usually forced to fight our way out of Shnarka’s deals, occasionally in the most punchy-kicky definition of the word “fight.”

That was the case one day after a particularly uncomfortable meeting with a landlord, with whom Shnarka had negotiated a monthly rent of five solid gold nuggets. We took a walk around Lake Merritt after making our escape, and discussed the situation.

“Sorry, Phil,” Shnarka said, resting her head on my nose. “I guess I’m not that good at negotiating. Honestly, I really feel sorry for those landlords. They’re so miserable and grubby! It makes me feel good to see their pinched, ugly little faces light up with happiness.”

“It’s okay,” I told her, affectionately giving her a noggie. “You just have to remember that landlords aren’t humans. They’re part of a shape-changing race of demon reptile humanoids from outer space. Just like our world leaders, banking executives, anyone left-handed and most white people.”

She was silent as she considered this, and then sighed. “I’m glad you took my advice to become more informed about world news. But maybe AM radio isn’t necessarily the place to get your information.”

We were staying on a couch owned by Shnarka’s aunt, who lived in the suburbs north of Berkeley. She was nice woman, a gentle soul, who welcomed us with open arms into her quiet life of growing and selling psychedelic mushrooms. The whole house was one enormous illegal drug felony, filled in all dark corners with trays and boxes of mulch where the mushrooms grew. Despite the illegalness, it was a nice place to be. Shnarka’s aunt gave interpretive dance lessons in the backyard three days a week, and Wednesday nights her anti-war group, Hang Gliding For Peace, would meet to plan events. If there was a major downside to living with her, aside from having to canoodle with Shnarka on the couch with the maximum quietosity, it was all the weirdo people who’d come over to buy magic mushrooms. One of Shnarka’s aunt’s biggest clients was a local hippie cult. You could always recognize those guys because, in accordance with the precepts of the cult, they had to wear neon green dashikis and turtlenecks. Of course, they didn’t stand out at all in Berkeley, but in the suburbs they might as well have been demon reptile humanoids who forgot to shapeshift. When confronting non-believers, they only communicated in Braille.

But, generally, me and Shnarka were comfortable enough with her aunt. So we had the luxury of being able to shop around for the best possible apartment. But I guess sometimes it helps to be desperate and willing to settle for whatever comes along, because for all our shopping, we certainly weren’t finding anything suitable. I began to remember, as we passed on one apartment after another, that almost all of the big decisions I had ever made had always been in emergencies: frantic, spur of the moment and initially temporary. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that those were the only kind of decisions that anyone in the world made about anything. The only exception to that rule that I could think of was in the case the demon reptile humanoids, who had been very methodical and deliberate in planning out their world domination. I certainly didn’t want to be a demon reptile humanoid. And then I started to wonder, as me and Shnarka kept searching for the apartment, what assurance did I have that I was not, in fact, one of the demon reptile humanoids? I certainly seemed to be behaving in a methodical, deliberate way, looking around for the best apartment rather than taking the first one that came along. In addition, I had been doing relatively well at work, where I was still a Customer Service Representative for fuckingonstilts.com, and I had actually managed to get promoted. While still safely below the poverty line, I wondered if I wasn’t starting to display demon reptile humanoid traits. I had recently, for example, opened a savings account. What was happening to me? What if I was a sleeper agent for the demon reptile humanoids, so deeply embedded among the humans that my demon reptile humanoid overlords had implanted false human memories in my mind? Was Shnarka one of us, too? What was the demon reptile humanoid sleeper agent health care plan like? Was I accumulating vacation time?

Then one weekend, when we happened to be puttering around Oakland on Shnarka’s motorscooter, looking for a good place for Shnarka to do some watercolors of carnivorous vagina, we found our apartment. It was in a nice, quiet little lane, the kind of pleasant location that exuded that air of “je ne sais pas” and “well above our price range.” Shnarka pointed out an apartment building along this stretch that had an “OPEN HOUSE TODAY” sign out on display, and I groaned. “Why ruin this lovely day? We can maybe afford that place if it’s a cardboard box in the backyard. This is just going to be another humiliating encounter with a sleazy jerk landlord.” “Why do you say that? You should be more optimistic.” “I am optimistic. I don’t think, for example, that the landlord is going to punch me in the gut for daring to step on his property. I just think he’s going to laugh at me.” Shnarka rolled her eyes and pulled over. “If you’re scared, you can wait here,” she told me. However, she didn’t actually mean it and dragged me off the bike. The apartment building was as nice on the inside as it was on the outside.

In fact, it was almost everything that Shnarka wanted, though there were only 2500 square feet of balcony. The landlord was a pleasant little monster-troll who grinned beseechingly at us, as he ground his teeth and grunted.

“Now this place is open immediately,” he wheezed congenially. I nodded, a smile stuck on my face. Shnarka opened her mouth to, I can only assume, offer the landlord a wealth of pretend money. But the landlord continued talking, ignoring her, and stated a move-in price that was not only reasonable, but ludicrously so. Both Shnarka and I stopped dumb, and, before Shnarka could say anything at all, I started to violently shake the man’s hand. “Yes!” I hollered. “I agree!” I grasped his shoulder, tears in my eyes. “I love you. I treasure you, you beautiful man.” I frantically wrote him the check to cover the ridiculously low move in cost. Shnarka was put off by my exuberance, and started to say something like, “Why is-” “Why are you so nice and cool?” I shouted over her, giving her the cease-and-desist hand signal and nearly karate chopping her in the face. The landlord chuckled as he showed me where to sign on the lease. “All elves are nice and cool,” he explained, “it’s in our nature.” “This is so easy,” I gushed after signing, and I started to walk around the living room. “I almost can’t dare to believe that-” I was cut off as I tripped over a break in the floor, and fell flat on my nose. “That’s what I was trying to ask about,” Shnarka said, taking advantage of my momentary non-talking-ness. “Why is there a huge crack in the middle of the house?” Frowning, I looked around. As she had said, there was a substantial crack, part of which I had just interacted with personally, that not only went across all of the floor, but traveled up the walls in both directions. “Well, as is explained in the lease,” the landlord explained, pointing to the paper I had just signed. “this apartment sits on an enormous faultline and is subject to some shifting. Specifically, about an inch-worth of shifting ever year. Why else would I charge slum rate for this place?” He chuckled as he gently dropped the keys on my back. “See you in a month!” It’s been a few months since then, and we’re settling in nicely. Of course, I occasionally have slight nervous breakdowns when crossing over the Crack, and whenever I leave the apartment without dying in a major earthquake, I consider it a personal triumph. But, living so precariously helps to allay certain anxieties. A demon reptile humanoid would never, ever have moved into a death trap apartment like I did. And, honestly, that makes me feel pretty confident that I am, with almost 60% certainty, a human.

HONORABLE MENTION: CALI VINTAGE

I need to be upfront about something from the start of this blog: I'm dating the Cali Vintage babe. But her blog is rad so I gotta give it some honorable mention.

I feel like fashion is at the maligned end of the artistic spectrum. People don't think of it as art. They think of it as capitalism, as consumerism. I don't agree. Maybe it's my Marxist-Critical Theory college education talking, but I'm fascinated with what people wear, what people want to wear and what the society tells them to wear. Fashion trends are powerful indicators about the societal psyche (notice the return of shoulder pads, in these uncertain times?), and the people whose art is to predict and respond to those trends are some of the most important artists around.

Here's what's up. Cali Vintage is rad because she turns second-hand dresses into lovely vintage gems. That means she's a green business and that she's making the world a little bit more pretty. She does her bizniz over the e-bay as a small business, so that means she's a part of the local economy. And she's real pretty and writes cool stuff about fashion trends.

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