They say the holidays are all about family and
friends, generosity and selfless giving. Reminding
us that this time of year, we should
think of others—not ourselves—coming
together to celebrate the ties of community
and biological connection. To this, I say, "Fuck
that nonsense." Treat yourself this Christmas
and get everyone else a $5 7-11 gift card—
you’ve spent enough of your life looking out
for them. Embrace selfishness and let your
nephew’s expectation for a new video game
be someone else’s problem...
It’s that time of year again. We’re about
halfway through the longest three
months of the year: Christmas. It’s probably
about time to think about shopping.
Most adults don’t require gifts and fully
understand if you get them nothing—
realizing that you, too, are an adult with
adult responsibilities, so there is no expectation
of a gift. That said, there is a subset
of awful adults, who still expect that you
will provide a gift for their equally awful
children. "Oh, well, it’s no big deal," you
say, because apparently, you are unable
to stand up for yourself when Brenda says
"what" and not "if," when asking about
you bringing a present for little Madison.
In this case, just say "it’s a secret" and then
get them something from this list...
It was Nick Bostrom, from Sweden, who really exploded the idea that we're all living in a computer simulation. The idea—that the space we live in isn't what we think it is—might be older than writing. We may be a dream, swirling in the mouth of god. We may be characters in a storybook. We may be residing in The Matrix alongside Keanu...
Anyway, I've solved the whole thing. I know where we are. I know what we are. I know precisely what's going on. I'm standing on the shoulders of everyone who came before—the Bostroms, the Musks, the Vonneguts, the Wachowskis, et al.—and, I better win a Nobel Prize for all this grand excellence...
Leather jams my zipper. Water fills the
trunk, as I sink deeper and deeper. At least
the screams ceased. No more slaps, either.
I prefer the bass thumps of the club. This
foreign place reeks of decay—cadavers and
rust. I already miss the invisible plumes of
vanilla body spray that’ll presumably never
waft my way again, the cackling cadence
of women connecting and the clicking of
heels on concrete...
They say a bartender acts as a therapist. So,
I decided to make it official. My only credentials
are listening to hundreds upon hundreds
of people’s problems, over more years
than I can admit. Let me wipe the bar down
for you, put down a fresh coaster, then pour
you a drink. Pull up your stool and tell me all
about it. Remember, I’ve heard it all. If you
have a question, please email DiscountTherapist@
Yahoo.com. You will remain anonymous.
Also, you get what you pay for...
While taking a country drive to clear my
head last weekend, I passed by an Oregon
State Prison building that overlooks a valley—
within eye shot of the prison, acres of
hemp can be seen growing in the open (funnily
enough, locals have been stealing the
hemp, thinking it’s weed...enjoy the headache,
boys). A city bus passed me, with an
advertisement for Organic Herbal Compassionate
Remedy Resources (or whatever the
hell it’s called), reminding potential clients
that Wednesdays and Fridays mean 20% off
ounces of top-shelf strains. I was able to see
the prisoners walking the yard of the prison,
which means they were also able to see the
same hemp fields in the distance and the advertisement
for discounted weed on public
transportation that I saw. Imagine for a second,
how many of these prisoners are behind
a fence, lined up like cattle and sleeping
among rapists and murderers, because they
sold some dirt weed to the wrong undercover
cop a couple of decades ago. The question
remains: why?...
For more-than-obvious purposes, I
have kept this story under wraps for
over a decade. Of course, it deals with
someone who is—well...was, but we
will get to that—able to sue my ass for
more than I’ve ever been worth. Further,
the club in which this saga occurred is
closed down now and the building is
clearly not going to be re-opened as a
club. So, let us return to The Bada Bing*
for a holiday story that will go down as
either the most depressing tale of the
season or the best karmic justice ever
served—depending on your take.
To provide some background, Bada
Bing was a small cub, with one stage
and a handful of regulars that kept
the place open. Located between a
working-class area and a more upscale
part of town, the club was in no way
"upscale" on its own, but it also wasn’t
a slum—think the bar from Cheers with
strippers. Most of the dancers had more
to offer in the way of personality and
charm than they did pole skill or "wow"
factor. Again, none of the girls were untalented
or ugly, but they worked more
as pretend girlfriends, than they did
showgirls. This club was basically one
step above a dive bar, but it was home
for a lot of folks...
Autumn came quickly to Portland this
year—seemingly overnight, the city
was beholden by fiery hues of red and
orange. The treetops now gave the appearance
of being warmly ablaze, a
welcome heat to counter the chill that
now nipped at her petite ears and bare
fingertips...
I know you don’t really exist, but if you did,
shame on you. Naughty girls and boys deserve
toys on Christmas, too. Also, why do
the rich kids get more presents than poor
kids? And, what’s your deal with the Jews?
Anyhow, desperate times call for desperate
measures. While I’m positive the letters I
sent to you as a child ended up in my Dad’s
office shredder (and not some courtroom in
a black-and-white movie), I am at a loss and
think it is time to reach out again. Perhaps,
writing letters to you is not just a modern rehash
of a jumble of European folk traditions.
Instead, it is a more symbolic ceremony of
learning to not ask for material goods, but
more lofty requests, like pieces of men and
good will hunting on earth or something.
Just kidding—it’s a way for the rich kids to
ask their parents to buy them more toys. But,
let’s pretend it’s the latter...
I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure what I expected
from the Strip Club Haunted House,
having not attended any of its four prior
years, but it was definitely a fun experience.
As a lover of Halloween and
former paid haunter at many haunted
houses over the years, I am always up
for a new haunting experience. And,
who doesn’t love a little nudity added
to their scares? For the inside take on
the club component, I invited a longtime
Portland dancer friend, who had
also never gotten the chance to visit
the attraction. We went the Monday
before Halloween, to dodge the
crowds...
