you won't like it!

earlier this summer, i was mowing the lawn when i came across a secret and mysteriously-wrapped heavy duty garbage bag hanging from a tree. normally, this would not cause me a second glance; after all, the tenants of the former-motel/current-apartment building located near the back of our lot (by the woods), are a unique and interesting breed--a diverse group of apartment-dwelling country folks.

however, this discovery was different--the garbage bag hanging from the tree had a note attached to it that was encased in a (presumably waterproof?) plastic presentation-type sheath. and the bold block red letters glared menacingly at me as i slowed down my mower to read them. they said:

LEAVE THIS ALONE!!
YOU WON'T LIKE IT!
PRIVATE PROPERTY!

immediately, and with the wicked and undaunted determination of a child sneaking into their parent's closet the week before christmas to take inventory of the loot, i was utterly and completely consumed with curiosity.

the bold red words swirled around in my head as i continued to cut the grass. most puzzling--i thought--was the brash, speculative, and hasty assumption that i wouldn't like whatever is in that bag. how do they know whether i'd like it or not? it seems like something capable of being liked, i assume--otherwise, why would someone go to such trouble keeping other people away from it?

as the situation played on and on and on in my mind, i decided that i couldn't trust my splintered memory enough to remember the exact wording and structure; this could cast a shadow of doubt on my story later when i tell everyone i know about it and expect them to join me on a late night covert mission to private property and back.

i turned my mower around, pulled out my 3 mega-pixel camera/phone apparatus, and snapped a picture of that son-a-bitch. also, on second inspection of the bag, i noticed that the contents had corners or some sort of defined shape (boxes?)--it wasn't just a big bag of blood or anything.


now that i had the exact syntax, i could further analyze the intention. perhaps, i could determine the contents of the bag by a thorough scientific analysis of all known factors, ala inspector jaques clouseau ("It won't be easy, that is why I have always failed where others have succeeded").

It goes without stating that garbage bags aren't normally hung from trees. Rarer still, are those with notes attached. And probably rarest of the rare, notes containing more exclamation points then a 'cathy' comic strip and cryptically-organized like some sort of linguistic equation:

PRIVATE PROPERTY! = (LEAVE THIS ALONE!! * YOU WON'T LIKE IT!)

i understand 'PRIVATE PROPERTY!'. it means don't touch my shit, asshole. 'LEAVE THIS ALONE!!' speaks for itself and is another way to say private property. however the wild card, 'YOU WON'T LIKE IT!', suggests one of two things:

1. the person that hung that bag feels cast out or detached from society, such that they feel anything they like/use/own is insignificant and useless to others
2. the person that hung that bag is into some really sick shit

either way, i think it's a statement best left off this particular sign. i take offense to it and the way it beckons me to disprove it. i lose interest in 'PRIVATE PROPERTY!', joyfully-mock 'LEAVE THIS ALONE!!', but 'YOU WON'T LIKE IT!' is a direct attack at my ability to like or dislike something. all-in-all, it's not a good phrase to use to disuade someone because it introduces opinions/emotions instead of focusing on commands/instructions. plus, it's a tiny bit combative.

nonetheless, i did have some fun attempting to predict what the bag hanger might have thought that i (or a five year old) wouldn't like enough that we stayed far far away from that scary/sick/gross/horrible hefty bag. i, with help from my creative team, brainstormed on all possible contents. let it be stated that i will not commit to either liking or not-liking these things..

• Deer parts from deer killin
• Mouse traps with dead mice still in them
• Pictures of my neighbors (and me) taken through various windows at night
• Dead pets/animals/wives in boxes
• Clown costumes
• Bee/Wasp/Hornet houses
• Books about Metallica
• Letters from disgruntled ex-girlfriends/wives/family
• Flea, ant, and tick farm
• Used bloody broken condoms
• John Schneider's boots
  
• NHL Hockey trading cards (with stick of hard gum)
• Emerson, Lake, and Palmer 8-Track collection
  
• VHS movies with names like "Golden Shower Girls" or "On Olden Blonde"
• Boxes of poo
  

completely surprising to me, i have not opened the bag. it's been two months and about 10 mowed lawns since i found that plastic treasure and i haven't peeked once. truthfully, i can't imagine anything within that sack that would provide as much entertainment, discussion, or creative speculation than the note securely fastened (in moist-proof sheath) to it's exterior.

when someone great is gone

my aunt gail has been through everything.. her mother (my grandma) barely survived her birth. she was overly-large, disgruntled, and highly dystempered when entering the world in 1934. the first of three girls, she was delivered with hell's fury on her chin, a veritable rabble-rouser from the start, and to the finish.

i saw her the other day, with tubes shoved despondantly up her nose and her wits fading like the crimson lace of sunset vanishing over the horizon. it pained me in those last hours to even meet her clarvoyant gaze, let alone bask in it's forever place in my understanding of yesterday's rebellion and heart-felt paradigm.

and in her last gasps, i felt her fullest fight: a fight against all that stands in the way of true and flightless conviction, a stance of noble distinction. she stood true to her decisions, and faith in these things were what gave her purpose, in a world that grew weary around her.

and now that it's all gone, to what do i owe her rememberance's observance? a cup full of ashes? a vision of her glances? a time too enchanted to tell her of her strength? for none of these things can add up to the sum of her influence--the wars of confluence, a beast of the nonchalence, a representation of everything buoyant and well-suffered--a woman not a mother. a keeper of soul's essence, and observance too.

(h)arms race

preparing for the upcoming american revolution can be tricky. it's difficult to know what sort of items i'll need to outlast the initial surge. hidden knives in areas around my property/house/person seems tactfully-resourceful; kevlar is mandatory to help keep me from springing a leak; canned foods will provide adequate sustenance and energy when stores are no longer welcome environments; and whiskey will be crucial to keep the fear away. however, nowhere is it written exactly how much bottled water i should attempt to stock. when the unemployed and fear-fueled pillagers storm vengefully across the countryside, effectively choking any last embers of business, industry, and the american dream--it will be nice to have a little fresh water.

intensifying the situation is the fact that mass hysteria could erupt at any time, which makes me feel a frustrating sense of urgency to procure all necessary items and work on plans immediately. will i be home when the uprising begins? if so, how long will we hold our ground before choosing to flee? where will we meet if we are separated? should we buy two rifles in case we have to go separate ways to escape? how long does bacon last outside of a refrigerator?

i heard an interesting theory on public radio the other day. a group of psychologists surmised (and successfully convinced themselves by performing a series of experiments) that when human beings feel as though they have no control over a particular situation--that all their assumptions and knowledge about the world around them unravel suddenly--they begin seeing and hearing things that are unexplainable--i.e. people that are not there, voices and noises that don't exist, gremlins in their backyard eating mint chocolate chip ice cream out of the pope's skull, etc.. essentially, the basis of their fundamental knowledge about everything crumbles and their brains frantically over-compensate in a pseudo-preternatural way. the scientists suggest that the brain learns by building knowledge cumulatively, "stacking" known/understood perceptions on top of each other. we learn and interpret our world by relating new experiences/observations to this stack of known items, comparing and contrasting them, and then adding them to the top of the pile. if a traumatic situation occurs or a sudden devastating disruption/debunking/elimination of the low levels of this stack happen, it sends a shock throughout the brain causing erratic and hallucinatory confusion, hysteria, shock, and fear. think of playing jenga with a very inebriated keith moon, janis joplin, and a blind parapalegic with a small mouth.

since the 50's there have been people that have voluntarily (and involuntarily) fried their conceptions of reality beyond repair, consequently leaving them unable to trust their perceptions and saddled with conflicting conceptions of their reality. combining these distorted thoughts with live ammunition and molotov cocktails is like arming zombies. it's conceivable that not everyone will lose their grip at the same time, or to the same degree--if they lose it at all. i'm sure in come cases, people will join these zombies as a hasty and despicable attempt at survival--feeling justified by the immense chaos of the situation, not to mention compensating for poor planning and preparation on their part prior to the ordeal.

so what if my mind's foundation begins to crumble and i convulsively deteriorate into a well-armed paranoid, randomly looting and devolving into an animalistic state of survival? impossible, i say, as the aluminum foil hat i've made (and constantly wear) will surely sheild my cranium from any ill effects, keeping my synapses safe and my mind calm with genuine clarity as sleeveless militants methodically grill their pets over tiki torch flame in their back yards.

so .45 or 9-mm?