Menacing metropolis, righteous rural

            Stranded on the grey concrete island, I did a 360 spin and observed the madness unfolding around me. Checkered flags atop yellow glaciers crept along the blacktop rivers on either side of the island, while people danced and dodged them, crossing from the mainland to my tiny island and back. I tried crossing, but suddenly the glaciers rushed downstream and I stopped suddenly, my foot inches from the black, murky depths. I blink. Suddenly my head was throbbing, blood pulsating in my ears as I observed the scene around me now. The illusion gone, horns blared, lights flashed, cars raced down the street. The occasional screech of wheels could be heard from blocks away. I inhaled sharply; it was too much for me. The other people, strutting on the sidewalks, easily ignored the loud falafel vendors on the corners, whereas I got stuck on the island by the blinking orange hand of fate, let alone evade the beckoning commercialism.

            Blink again. It’s so loud. Not the cars and passersby now, the silence. A soft wind tickles my cheeks and I feel the heat on my neck. Turning, I squint my eyes as Phoebus’s chariot crosses the sky and enters my vision. I wish for a second that I could have taken some sunglasses with me from the shop that moments before had contributed to the ache of my crown. The breeze continues whipping playfully. The silence dies and a soft rustling begins. The tall golden wheat that surrounds me follows the wind as if God is tugging at their invisible marionette strings. A mockingbird leisurely flutters past me, serenading me with a cheerful song as I breathe in the crisp, clean air. My pain alleviated, I can think clearly with a clear mind and focused senses.

            Look down. Foot-shaped depressions in the grass seem to lead nowhere. I can only imagine who the footsteps might belong to, who I may be following, whose shoes I’m filling. This, right here – where I am right now – is where thinking happens. Theories are proven. Laws are made. Ideas are developed. No distractions can demand my attention, the only taxis present here are the Anemoi, giving save passage to a butterfly or a fallen leaf. Never before have I heard that Sir Isaac Newton developed his three laws on the F-train between 71^st Avenue and 36^th Street. Nor has it ever occurred to me that Galileo might have redesigned the telescope on a walk along Sunset Boulevard.

            Looking down the trodden path of footsteps, I notice the trail seems infinite, meandering about left and right, but continuing on nonetheless. The only way to be sure is to stay the course, don’t stray. The melody that the bird sings is tattooed on my eardrums and loops repeatedly inside my brain, to be transcribed only for musicians to play and all to hear. The wheat, though it dances, pauses for a moment that I might blink quickly and save its image in the hard drive of my mind. The chariot in the sky rides off, its horses galloping into the horizon, leaving me blind to the path I follow.

So many uncertainties when walking in the countryside, yet certainty lies in the cityscape. I may not know what comes next in the countryside, but I know for certain the city can’t be as good.

A Dramatically Fictitious Story of Why My Pinkies are Crooked

        Dr. Philip Kowalinski wasn’t feeling so well. His home had been foreclosed, he recently was made aware of his status as a cuckold, and his kids weren’t speaking to him.

Needless to say, he sought the safe, familiar comfort that we all long for in times of emotional distress and turmoil.

Dr. Philip Kowalinski went to a bar.

“Double Johnnie Walker blue, neat. Thanks.”

The bald bartender, initially caught a bit off-guard by the expensive request, replied “Coming right up.” He picked up the $225 bottle of scotch and a small glass.  “1… 2… 3… 4… There ya go, sir,” said Mr. Shiny Forehead, and slid the glass over to Philip.

“Thanks.”  Philip picked up the glass and tossed back its contents in a fluid motion that only years of drinking experience can provide.

Except for periodically ordering another double Johnnie Walker Blue Label, Dr. Philip Kowalinski sat at the bar in silence.

Two hours, a bottle of scotch, and $225 later, Dr. Philip Kowalinski stumbled out of the bar and into a taxi.

        Dr. Philip Kowalinski flinches at the explosions around him. He rubs his eyes and blinks in an attempt to defend his eyes from the needles that attack them.

Sitting up slowly, Philip grabs his aching head and squints at his sunlit front yard. He can see the trail of matted grass where the cab driver had dragged him from the sidewalk to the front door.

BOOM

Looking around frantically to stop the noise, Philip soon realizes the source of the noise is his pager.  Pop goes the weasel? he thinks.  When did I make that the ringtone? Looking down, he sees the word “STORK” flash on his pager.

Dr. Philip Kowalinski’s eyes widen at the sight of it. He quickly scrambles to his feet, brushes himself  off, and pulls out the “cellular phone” that the hospital has given him for precisely these sorts of predicaments.

“Hello? I need a cab at 410 Canal Street, Livingston, New Jersey STAT!”

Ten minutes later, Philip is back in another taxi and on his way to the hospital.

Philip throws a bill with Ulysses S. Grant at the cabbie, tells him to keep the change, and runs into the hospital. He scans his ID badge to clear security and throws on his white coat. Though extremely hung over, he won’t let his job suffer. The Stewarts are a good couple, and Joanne is supposed to be due any day now. He’s been their OB-GYN for 9 months, and he isn’t going to miss the end of it all just because of his depression-driven decisions from the night before.

He quickly, but efficiently, washes his hands and bustled into the delivery room.

“She’s at 10 centimeters, and there are 3 minutes between contractions. She’s ready.” The doctor’s assistant doesn’t give him a chance to apologize for his lateness. When Dr. Philip Kowalinski looks down at something he sees nearly every day, he knows why. This baby was coming. Coming quickly.

Philip Kowalinski has a strong stomach. On top of that he has experience. He received his bachelor’s degree in biology at Johns Hopkins University, and his medical degree at the Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania. He had done his residency at Jefferson University Hospital, and practicing medicine for 25 years.

All this to say that Dr. Philip Kowalinski has a very strong and experienced stomach. However, never in his 30+ years of medical experience has he done his job hung over. What happens next can probably be attributed to this fact combined with the bloody sight he was looking at, but there is truly no way of knowing.

        Number 1323394 enjoyed swimming. Of course, in this world there was no other mode of transporting oneself. So there he was one day just minding his own business, swimming along.

The collision was quick. He hadn’t seen her. In retrospect, he didn’t see how he missed her considering she was about fifty times his size. All he knew next is that he couldn’t leave her. It was almost like they were becoming one. Not in that cheesy, romantic way though. And most certainly not in some deep, spiritual way.  But they were actually becoming one physical being. On top of that, it felt like forever. No. 1323394 must have forgotten to wear a watch that day, because he lost track of time.

All of a sudden, he was blind. No, he wasn’t blind. In fact, the opposite was true. He could see. And he wasn’t aware of her anymore. He didn’t know if she’d left or if she’d disappeared or if he and she had actually become one. What mattered most was that he could see. He could see too much. Shouldn’t have left the Ray-Ban’s at home today, he thought. Not to mention he suddenly became so hungry. Outrageously hungry. Nobody’s ever been so hungry in the history of the world. Wait no, he had to poop. So many needs, and they were all striking at once. Overwhelmed, he just let out a bloodcurdling scream…

        I remember a man. An older man with a beard and goggles. He won’t let go of me. But there is something wrong with him. His hands are so determined to hold on to me, but his green complexion says that he wanted nothing to do with me.

I am covered in blood. I don’t think it is my own, but it is blood nonetheless. The man’s gloves are stained scarlet as he relentlessly tugs. I don’t notice at first, but I guess I am stuck because when I come free I just remember the primal fear.

Falling. I am falling. My life flashes before my eyes. "Free Fallin'" by Tom Petty blasts in my head. How do I know that song? I reach out helplessly to the man whom, just moments ago, I’d been trying to avoid. I can see the panic in his eyes, and he the panic in mine.

I suppose my fate is sealed. Turning to face the depths that I am falling into, I do what comes naturally and stick my hands out to brace myself for whatever lies below.

SNAP SNAP… BOING!

        Very few people know this, but the umbilical cord doubles as a bungee cord for adrenaline junky babies. The umbilical cord saved my life that day, but it was seconds too late to prevent a bit of damage that would become a permanent bodily deformity.

My pinkies are crooked, and it’s all because that damn drunken doctor Philip Kowalinski.

My Letter to Toms Shoes

Dear TOMS:

I would like to do those kids a favour, the ones without shoes. The world is a cruel place, and I am saving the children from the suffering that will continue if you give them shoes. It would be much more to their benefit if they should contract some sort of fatal infection via a cut or scratch in the foot. Only then can a child truly move on to the paradise of the neo-life.

Thank you for helping me save the souls of countless children. However, should you not follow my instructions, I will start my own shoe company called KENS. We will be your rival company, and our policy will be similar to yours, but in an opposite fashion. For every pair of shoes we sell, we will steal a pair from a young child in a third world country, thus saving them. It would be in your best interests to just follow my orders if you're all so "philanthropic".

In all seriousness though, I noticed right on your very own website that your shoes are manufactured in third-world nations already, such as Argentina, China, and Ethiopia. I happen to know that in these nations child labour laws are minimal or absent completely. Therefore, I accuse you, TOMS Shoes, of being hypocrites. Sure, you're providing shoes to children (which most people thing is benevolent), but they don't realize that you're forcing the kids to make the shoes which they just might wear.

Don't get me wrong, I think the concept is neat and your shoes all look really cool. But don't put up a philanthropic front if you're just going to have kids working in factories to make them anyway. Just be a normal shoe company like Nike or Adidas or Phat Farm. Ok, don't be like Phat Farm, nobody wears those anymore.

Having said all this, I plan on purchasing a pair of your shoes in the near future. However, I don't want you, under any circumstances, to give a child a pair of shoes with my order. I will not contribute to your hypocrisy and it ends here. I've already told all my friends about this, and it would be a shame if you lost any more customers because of this.

Hoping you heed my advice,
Kenny (aka Child Saviour)

Ten seconds

Drive ten seconds with your eyes closed

Let the car drift as it will
Don’t peek, don’t touch the wheel


Doesn’t it feel good?

Knowing for these ten seconds
You have no control?


Things will happen as they will,
You’ll probably live
But the chance there lies
Whatever you do,

Don’t open your eyes.

Instantaneous Existence

As any decent science student knows, there is a delay (though negligible) between the neurons firing across the synaptic gap and processing the information of said firing. Now consider the speed of light and the speed of sound. When one combines the miniscule neurological delays with the time it takes for the light rays to travel to the eyes or sound to the ears, the delay is perhaps doubled, though still microscopic.

I have reached a conclusion after toying with the concept of these delays: it is impossible for anyone or any living thing to exist instantly. Regardless of how quick someone's synapses are or how fast the speed of light is, it can never all occur at once. In other words, nobody has ever, is, or will ever live precisely in the moment of an event.

Think about it. When you look at a tree, you're not seeing it as it is now. You're seeing it as it was 0.000000000000000001 seconds ago. Though this is close to the moment you see it, it's not the instant you see it. You are never hearing a song at the part that it is currently at, you are hearing the part it was at 0.0000001 seconds ago.

With this conclusion, I would be willing to agree with Descartes in his assertion of mind-body dualism. When a man (or woman) thinks about what he will do in the next instant, he is taking into account all the aspects of his condition at the time he is experiencing. If he is not perceiving the instant he is actually in, then he cannot trust his senses to prove his existence in a moment. If he cannot trust his senses but he is still a thinking thing, then his mind is independent of his body.

This is not to say that you should not trust your senses from day to day; after all, they are all we have in the physical realm. However, be cautious. Xbox Live isn't the only thing that can lag...