Maxwell Flint and The Westwood Case – Chapter 3

Chapter 1 can be found here.
Chapter 2 can be found here.

The moll seated in front of me had an angle. She knew it and I knew it. I didn’t know if she knew that I knew it, but she probably did. She seemed sharp, the sort of sharp that pierces lungs and various other organs.

My name is Maxwell Flint, man of hard letters, and I need my lungs.

“Where were we?” she asked.

“Well, Alice,” I said, owing to the fact that she claimed that “Alice” was her name. “You were about to unfurl upon me your improbable tale.”

She smiled. “My story is indeed improbable. Were it probable, we would not be speaking. Only something as improbable as this would require the aid of someone like you, Maxwell Flint.” She proceeded to spin a web of gossamer bullshit, so cripplingly ludicrous that I could not help but think that it had to be on the level, for no one would dream of daring to attempt pulling off a con this insane.

It is with a head hung low with shame that I report that I cannot, at this juncture, tell you the story that she told me. Certainly, as a hard man of letters, as a man who sweats journalism through his ink-soaked pores, I can smell the irony of keeping silent on the details of the very tale upon which this narrative hangs. All I can do is ask you to trust Maxwell Flint. I am reasonably certain that I know what I am doing.

After she finished selling me on her fish story, we went back to her apartment and had sex. I report this not with any particular pride, for, as I think I implied earlier, when this woman was a small child, God whapped her with the proverbial ugly stick. And it must be said that neither of our carnal performances were anything worth writing operas about. This was, to be frank, ugly rutting between ugly people. I record this moderately shameful encounter only out of dedication to the ideal of thorough accounting of all relevant events, as required by the ethical code of my chosen trade.

Originally published at The Triangle. You can comment here or there.

Maxwell Flint and The Westwood Case – Chapter 3

Chapter 1 can be found here.
Chapter 2 can be found here.

The moll seated in front of me had an angle. She knew it and I knew it. I didn’t know if she knew that I knew it, but she probably did. She seemed sharp, the sort of sharp that pierces lungs and various other organs.

My name is Maxwell Flint, man of hard letters, and I need my lungs.

“Where were we,” she asked.

“Well, Alice,” I said, owing to the fact that she claimed that “Alice” was her name. “You were about to unfurl upon me your improbable tale.”

She smiled. “My story is indeed improbable. Were it probable, we would not be speaking. Only something as improbable as this would require the aid of someone like you, Maxwell Flint.” She proceeded to spin a web of gossamer bullshit, so cripplingly ludicrous that I could not help but think that it had to be on the level, for no one would dream of daring to attempt pulling off a con this insane.

It is with a head hung low with shame that I report that I cannot, at this juncture, tell you the story that she told me. Certainly, as a hard man of letters, as a man who sweats journalism through his ink-soaked pores, I can smell the irony of keeping silent on the details of the very tale upon which this narrative hangs. All I can do is ask you to trust Maxwell Flint. I am reasonably certain that I know what I am doing.

After she finished selling me on her fish story, we went back to her apartment and had sex. I report this not with any particular pride, for, as I think I implied earlier, when this woman was a small child, God whapped her with the proverbial ugly stick. And it must be said that neither of our carnal performances were anything worth writing operas about. This was, frankly, ugly rutting between ugly people. I record this moderately shameful encounter only out of dedication to the ideal of thorough accounting of all relevant events, as required by the ethical code of my chosen trade.

I like music!

It is said that the music one listens to as a teenager is the music one listens to for life. I got into rock music in 1995. I consider that to be wonderful timing. Grunge had happened a few years ago, and in its wake was a confusion about what Alternative music actually was. There was this sense that music could do be anything, and this was right and good. Alternative rock was this big club that everyone was invited to.

My entire musical worldview was based around Cleveland’s one alternative radio station, 107.9 WENZ, better known as “The End.” The End played a good mix of music, and I had no idea what was mainstream and what was not. As far as I knew, Citizen King sold as many albums as The Breeders sold as many as Nine Inch Nails. And it seemed to me that there was no upper limit to the innovation possible for rock.

Pearl Jam. Alanis Morrisette. Rancid. The Beastie Boys. The Barenaked Ladies. The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Moby. Tool. Ben Folds Five. Squirrel Nut Zippers. Rage Against the Machine. Beck. Matchbox 20. All these disparate styles were all considered alternative. It was amazing.

During my high school years 95-98, my mainstream radio landscape melded dozens of different musical traditions. Grunge, industrial, third wave ska, all were equal and part of the same tradition. And it became ingrained deep within me, that music could accomplish anything. Goddamn I love music.

Hopefully this will clear things up

Dear Ohio license plate holder, IM D MAN 2,

I regret to inform you that you ain’t Da Man. I feel embarrassed spelling it out like this, but clearly you are confused on a few points. The office of Da Man, is one that cannot be claimed, only offered. If you feel that you have to tell people that you’re Da Man, then it is evident to all you tell that you are, in fact not Da Man. This is one of the great paradoxes of our era.

For those of us with validation issues, those who need constant affirmation, there always exists the option to petition for the title, by querying, “Who Da Man?” If one is, in fact, Da Man, one’s peers will be honor bound to let them know. However, it is important to note that this is merely a situational title, and it may cease being true at any given time. I suspect that you were honored as Da Man on one occasion, perhaps while playing videogames, and that you erroneously believed that your status as Da Man was permanent. That is an error I can understand.

What I am having trouble understanding is your decision to make a semi-permanent, state-sanctioned proclamation after discovering that at least one other had already made such a similar misguided statement-by-license-plate. Clearly, basic sense tells us that in any given situation there can be, at absolute most, one person who is Da Man. You are not claiming to be “A Man,” after all. You wish us to accept that you are “Da Man.” The word “Da,” a definite article, makes it clear that, were your claim not false to begin with, you would have no peer, that you are a singular Man.

Your license plate, for which the State of Ohio charged you thirty dollars, is wrong in every possible way, and utterly transparent in its inaccuracy. I advise you to replace as soon as you can.

Yours,
Isaac Kelley

I have been a scifi dork since forever

I saw the first two episodes of the new Dr. Who this weekend.

Oh my goodness, I sure did love it! It has adventure and explosions and witty repartee and real emotion and killer mannequins and above all, a sense of wonder. The plots are wild and loony and brilliant and exist mainly to let the characters react to them. The show is gee-whiz and it is surprisingly grim. It is the Anti-Battlestar Galactica. It is fun fun fun.

When I watched these episodes I was hit on all sides with a dozen different emotional responses. I connected with it on a gut level that makes me just want to bubble on about how wonderful it is. Check it out, if you haven’t already.

Maxwell Flint and The Westwood Case – Chapter 2

Chapter 1 can be found here

Professions. Titles. Labels. We all like to project roles upon ourselves. My name is Maxwell Flint, and I like to consider myself to be a hard man of letters, which is a fancy way of saying that I am a journalist.

Any joe off of the street can be a journalist, all you have to do is write down what you observe. If you observe corruption in the highest levels of government or a baby’s life being saved by an uncharacteristically heroic kitten, you will probably find success in your field. I tend to observe tragic bar fights, women who are disturbingly enamored with exotic blades, and tattooed men who are afraid to cry. For me, journalistic success, as traditionally defined, has been elusive.

My point is, even though I am forced to sell bodily fluid so that I may eat, I have never considered myself to be anything other than a success. I was quite happy to be living the life of an ink-stained word jockey, only to have my boat being abruptly rocked by this dame, allegedly named Alice, asking me to sling words on her behalf. If I was going to do this job, I was going to do it on my terms.

“Look, doll, I’m not a PR man. I don’t sugarcoat my stories. If you hire me, you’re hiring a rigid journalistic ethic attached with duct tape to a ruggedly handsome man.”

“Why, Mr. Flint I would expect no less. If I wanted a gush job, I could have picked up any gorilla who could throw together a sentence. No, I need someone with your reputation for unvarnished truth. Someone beyond reproach.”

I thought back across the past week. By my measure, I had been reproached on thirty-four separate occasions. This chick was blowing smoke up my skirt, but I had to admit, I was intrigued. I was willing to play her game.

“Ok. I’ll be your Johnny on the spot. I’ll need my first week’s pay upfront, I’ll need a serviceable laptop computer, and I’ll need a cup of coffee.”

“Done, done, and done. I think we’re going to have a strong working relationship, Mr. Flint. Let’s get you that cup of coffee.”

Originally published at The Triangle. You can comment here or there.

Maxwell Flint and The Westwood Case – Chapter 2

Chapter 1 can be found here

Professions. Titles. Labels. We all like to project roles upon ourselves. My name is Maxwell Flint, and I like to consider myself to be a hard man of letters, which is a fancy way of saying that I am a journalist.

Any joe off of the street can be a journalist, all you have to do is write down what you observe. If you observe corruption in the highest levels of government or a baby’s life being saved by an uncharacteristically heroic kitten, you will probably find success in your field. I tend to observe tragic bar fights, women who are disturbingly enamored with exotic blades, and tattooed men who are afraid to cry. For me, journalistic success, as traditionally defined, has been elusive.

My point is, even though I am forced to sell bodily fluid so that I may eat, I have never considered myself to be anything other than a success. I was quite happy to be living the life of an ink-stained word jockey, when I abruptly find my boat being rocked by this dame, allegedly named Alice, asking me to sling words on her behalf. If I was going to do this job, I was going to do it on my terms.

“Look, doll, I’m not a PR man. I don’t sugarcoat my stories. If you hire me, you’re hiring a rigid journalistic ethic attached with duct tape to a ruggedly handsome man.”

“Why, Mr. Flint I would expect no less. If I wanted a gush job, I could have picked up any gorilla who could throw together a sentence. No, I need someone with your reputation for unvarnished truth. Someone beyond reproach.”

I thought back across the past week. By my measure, I had been reproached on thirty-four separate occasions. This chick was blowing smoke up my skirt, but I had to admit, I was intrigued. I was willing to play her game.

“Ok. I’ll be your Johnny on the spot. I’ll need my first week’s pay upfront, I’ll need a serviceable laptop computer, and I’ll need a cup of coffee.”

“Done, done, and done. I think we’re going to have a strong working relationship, Mr. Flint. Let’s get you that cup of coffee.”

5 Awesome Things About Johnny Mnemonic

1. In the future, Ice-T and Henry Rollins are the leaders of the underground resistance, and the selfless heroes of humanity.

2. When the hackers get their hands on the cure, they don’t post it on the internet. Instead, they broadcast it on television, after telling everbody to set their VCRs.

3. The film ends with the classic struggle between cyborg dolphin and genetically enhanced Jesus.

4. Johnny’s brain holds roughly the same amount of data as my iPod.

5. The director was worried that this would be perceived as an art film.

RECIPROCAL INTERVIEW COPYCAT LEMMING POST

“Ask me a question. I’ll respond here. And in return, I will ask you a question. Expect reciprocity: If you ask me a silly question, expect both a silly answer and a silly question in return; if you put some thought into yours, I’ll put some thought into mine.”

I can’t promise that I’ll get to them all, or that my answers will have any of the insight which a professional writer woulda alternatively brought to the meme, inasmuch as I’m actually a huge retard, but what the hell, let’s give it a shot.”

rollick started it.

Can’t win for losing.

I get the following e-mail in my work inbox: “Who will be the biggest loser in the office?”

Upon reading that subject line, I glance around my cubicle. I look at my Buffy: The Vampire Slayer magnets. I look at my “you keep my heart beating” Iron Man Valentines Day Card. I look at my stuffed muppets. I look at my Sonic Disruptors poster. I look at my Star Wars trading cards. I look at my dressed-like-a-penguin teddy bear. I look at my desk, and I think to myself “this is a contest I can win.”

I then read the e-mail, only to find out that the contest is actually “who will be the biggest loser of weight?” This is not a contest I can win. I feel toyed with. And lame.

Pimping

Hey kids,
If you’re like me, and I know I am, you like great comics for dirt cheap. Well, you’re in luck, the inimitable calamityjon is having a comic book fire sale. Great comic books for, like, a buck a piece.

Especially good:

Hitman – Oh, man, this is a fun comic.
Smax – It is Alan Moore. It is hilarious. It is five bones.
Marvels – A must read for anyone who likes Marvel superheroes.

Sucky

Boy howdy, yesterday sure did suck.

I fell asleep whilst watching Superman around 5:30 last afternoon. My sweetie woke me up at 9:30 to yell at me. (She had grounds to do so.) I watched a little more Superman, and then spent the next three hours unable to fall asleep. Not my best day.

They weren’t even good episodes.

Xtremely disappointing

The Exchange had a copy of DOA: Xtreme Beach Volleyball for five dollars. As I considered it, I found myself surprisingly conflicted.

For the uninitiated, the Dead or Alive (DOA) franchise is a series of fighting game made famous for its, uh, jiggle engine. It jiggled so successfully, that they made a successful spin-off volleyball video game, the game I was considering, showcasing the franchise’s female characters in all manner of bikini clad glory. This game struck such a primal chord amongst the sort of people who play video games that it actually led to the formation of a half-naked volleyball sub-genre of video games. I’m not always proud to be a gamer.

So, the game interested me on several fronts. First of all, it was a sociologically significant game, and I am exactly the kind of dork who will buy a video game based on its sociological significance. Secondly, the reviews described the game as being surprisingly deep and as doing a solid job of creating a non-competitive and fun “day at the beach” atmosphere. Also, the streamlined gameplay (so simple you can play with one hand) made it a good possible candidate for a game to play with my video game resistant sweetie. All around, it seemed like it was worth a five buck investment. The boobs would just be icing on the cake.

And yet…

The game is unabashedly BIKINI TITS 2003. It is semi-porn for horny teenagers. Somehow, I couldn’t bear for the random strangers who work at the Exchange to think I was the sort of guy who got off on computer rendered bosoms. Never mind that , actually, I am exactly the sort of guy who digs computer rendered bosoms. Never mind that my self esteem isn’t contingent on the opinions of random tattooed college students. Never mind that I was there with my actual hottie girlfriend. I just couldn’t do it. Much to my shock, it turns out I had too much pride to buy the game.

I bought Star Trek: Starfleet Academy, instead.

Pants Update

It has been said that a man cannot know what sort of man he is until he has freed himself from the pants that enslaved him. I don’t know if this is true, but I do know that the act of liberating oneself from malfunctioning pants is a welcome reminder of how precious our freedom is.

Yesterday, as I previously reported, I found myself locked inside a pair of pants named Betty. You see, the pin keeping the pants in place was clasped in such a way that I found I could not work the release mechanism. Instead of pushing through one shirt, as designed, the pin was shoved through two thick layers of pant. It seemed likely that I would have no choice but to cut myself free from my own pants.

Once I got home, I was desperate to be free. Demonstrating the sort of feat of strength normally reserved for lifting fallen beams off of children, I ripped the fuckers apart. Then pants tore, the One Year Service pin popped. Neither pants, nor pin survived. Having gained my freedom, I staggered over to the toilet and proceeded to produce one hell of a bowel movement.

Betty has been put to rest. Despite our problems, she served me well, and she deserves her peace.

This is embarrassing

Oh my god. I locked myself into my pants.

It all began a few months ago when the button on this pair of pants, which I shall from this point on refer to as “Betty”, popped off. At this juncture I opted not to sew it back on, for I am nothing if I am not lazy. Betty has a drawstring sewn into the inside of her waist, and so for their post-button phase I merely tied the string, and worried not about fastening, for I make it a point to never tuck in my shirts and so, the lack of button was more or less concealed. This system worked fine up until this morning, in the bathroom at work, when the string tore off.

Hell. This was a bit of a problem, for I wear no belt, and zipping alone would not hold my pants up. In desperation, I fastened together the two ends of Betty with my One Year Service Pin, which I had kept at my desk. The results of this act have been mixed.

Try as I might, I cannot remove this pin. I don’t think it is possible to work the clasp release. I am certain I am going to have no choice but to cut myself out when I get home. And so, Betty shall be laid to rest, having not gone gentle into that night.