I can smell fear, and it smells like Drakkar Noir

Once upon a time, I knew some rich people. Not 1% rich, but 5% maybe 10% rich. Trophy wife and private school rich. Yacht and second house bigger than most people’s first house rich. So rich, but not mega rich. Rich enough that they’ve become terrified about their relative postions.

I was 15/16 and a friend of a friend introduced me to a friend and I was informally adopted for a couple of weeks during a couple of summers when someone was home from school. The details are unimportant and hazy, and I’m not interested in talking about that right now anyway.

The story I want to tell is when I was chosen as an escort to some… thing or other. Someone was getting an award and there was going to be a dinner afterward and I wasn’t told I would be in a room full of suits until we were on our way or I might have not worn purple sweatpants. However, I did, and I’m not ashamed of that fact because I’m not ashamed of much at all.

Shame doesn’t get you very far in life kids.

So I’m sat at a table, while the girl who in retrospect had a crush on me the size of Mt. Rushmore and was aching for me to make a move, went off with her mother to talk about something. I’m not entirely sure what they were talking about, but she wasn’t getting in trouble for bringing me because I think her mother was hoping to pick up a bit on the side when she was done with me. Also, she would have mentioned if her mother had been annoyed because she was reveling in annoying her mother that year. I do believe, I was part of that, but that’s not important right now.

As a result of her being called off, I was sat at a table with seven other guys. Five of them were employed by the company that was giving someone an award, one was their boss and the last one was a college kid who was interning with the company, but because of college he didn’t have the full suit but only a shirt and tie. The boss was one of those silvering haired jackasses that likes to be an executive, and likes to tell people he’s an executive and has been an executive so long he has truly forgotten people like me exist.

So we’re sitting there, and it’s a no-booze do because of all the college kids and people like me. So the executive orders a Slice with “lots of ice” requesting the waitress to “fill the glass” and I can see a couple of the guys sort of squirm. They hate Slice, but they’re going to drink it because Bossman drinks it. I’m not joking, as she goes around the table it’s “Slice, lots of ice.” “Slice, lots of ice.” “Same for me.” and my heart is filled with contempt for these people. I can tell damn well that one wants a Pepsi, that one wants some root beer and that one wants a needle filled with heroin and a line of cocaine to chase it with.

It’s about this time that I start to notice that unlike most places I’ve been, the colognes of the men aren’t mingling into a strange mixed scent. It’s only Drakkar Noir at table five, no other scents prevail, perhaps mine. But my scent was a faint hint of shampoo and not much else because I hadn’t even shaved. It’s about this time that I realize the thing that separates me from everyone else.

I’m the only person at this table who isn’t terrified.

Everyone else, even the bossman, is afraid. They’re afraid of not being on the right track. Sure, they all drive Fords, but are they driving the right Ford? Does a winner drive an Explorer? Surely, only a looser drives and Escort. What about a Mustang, or a Thunderbird? Can a winner really be seen driving those? Remember this is the early 90s, when neither car had any balls to speak of. Is this the right shirt? Should I have an oxford collar? What if only a loose uses a Windsor knot? High School is merciful, compared to the management track. There is as much information to understand as there is in the geekworld, it’s just the rules aren’t written down and you have to be smart in a different way. More about that in my next post.

And then there was me…

I don’t care how these people view me, I don’t care if they like me or not, I’m not thinking about anything they can do to me or for me. They can’t do anything to or for me. Even if they could, I don’t much care. I’m not worried about it, I know what I need and I know what they need and I get things done. I am, in a few words, the man without fear. I have never been concerned with the stupid little things that need to be done, should be done, ought to be done. I have no respect for social levels, or how much someone makes, or if I’ve impressed so and so. Ask Syd how easy that makes me to live with sometime. Weddings are a chore because “fuck wearing a tie, I don’t give a shit about those people” and so on. The thing is, the lack of fear mixed with the not giving a good god damn, makes other people want to sit next to me.

A lack of fear might be a sign of psychosis, but it is also perceived as a sign of being big dog on top.

When the waitress came to me, I decided to buck trends and stick to my guns and stay the course and not actually think about it and just order like I always do. “Coke no ice.” Oh how easily the words tumbled from my lips. Nothing major, not for me, but conversation at the table stopped. Someone put on a record, just so they could do that sound of yanking the needle and making a record scratch sound.

“Really?” one of the scared dogs men at the table asked. I looked at him for about two seconds longer than I needed to before smiling and saying “Yeah, I don’t like my pop watered down.” He looked at me, and I looked at him and he broke eye contact first and nodded, which caused the Bossman to laugh. He actually threw his head back and laughed. One single solid “HA!” and that was it. Now, I’m not sure my dears, my darlings, what I said that was so funny. All I can figure is that I’d stared down a guy who had perceived himself as a sergeant at arms and given him an answer that couldn’t be balked in a polite setting. I’d worked out a way around him and no one could do anything about it. His only real reaction was one of fear and bluster, and I have no fear to react with so he broke first.

As a result of this, the bossman started talking to me. Instead of talking about my plans, what school I was going to, where I would work, and what road I would eventually take to get from here to there, I spoke about what interested me. I told him about a documentary I’d recently seen about the evolution of mankind and how we pertained to apes. By refusing to talk about what he wanted to know about, and only talking about what I wanted to talk about, I managed two things. One, avoiding boredom. Two, and this would have been important if I’d had any use for it, which I didn’t, I established for the table which of us was the bigger dog. I was on top of the conversation, I was leading the bossman around the room with my fresh knowledge about human behavior being like that of chimps, and I was holding the table.

You could see it in their eyes, I was clearly a bigger, more important dog than their boss. Their boss was the biggest, most important dog they knew, and I was dominating him. I could see a couple of guys, particularly the one who wanted a root beer, thinking that maybe turning their loyalties toward the kid in the flannel shirt was the way to go. So much so that when the waitress came back to freshen drinks, the root beer kid did the bravest thing he’d ever done in his life. He ordered another Slice, but this time without ice! I wanted to berate him, I wanted to bang the table and demand he order the root beer he wanted, but I couldn’t. That would have been pack behavior, that would have been showing concern for another member of the group, and I don’t have pack behavior. I’m not a group member, not of any group, but I am pretty and fuzzy and will let the right people pet me while biting everyone else.

I’m not a dog, I’m a cat.

That’s what they didn’t understand, that’s what almost no one ever understands. I’m not looking to be the top dog in the hierarchy, I’m looking to be the most honest cat who just doesn’t give a shit and will tree a bear if provoked. My wants and needs are so far different from everyone else’s that while they might try and act like they get what I’m saying when I say this, their actions prove that they haven’t the first notion what I mean.

I can’t honestly suggest this to you as a career path, because it doesn’t work for al people. You have to be smart enough, strong enough, interesting enough, and pretty enough all at once to pull it all off together. Also, you have to understand the difference between tough and mean, between clever and cruel, and most of all between honesty and douche baggery. Hang on a second, that needs to be a bigger point, it’s far more important.

You have to understand the difference between tough and mean, between clever and cruel, and most of all between honesty and douche baggery.

Also, don’t use Drakkar Noir, because it smells like fear.

Etiquette: Roaring Rampage of Revenge

When one is intent on murdering those who wronged one, one must keep several things in mind. For starters, if one is not an unstoppable badass, training must begin in the deadly arts. Until one is an undeniable ass kicker, one cannot begin a quest of vengeance. Go to China, Japan, or if on a budget, the Bronx. Find a little old man, who is a master of a deadly art and get him to teach you.

Once training in the deadly arts is completed (research shows this normally takes between three weeks and two months) one must then obtain weapons. The proper weapon is one that would prove impractical under any other circumstances. A sword, an axe, machete, or a carefully planned out multi-million dollar scheme of pretending to be an important dignitary in order to lure your unsuspecting wrong doers into your clutches so you can pick them off one by one.

When going on a rampage of revenge, always make sure only to kill those who actually wronged you and any minions attempting to defend them. Never injury a family member, child, or innocent employee so long as they stay out of your way. In many cases, the people you’re getting revenge on have other people who are mad at them as well. Remember, the people closest to them might be the ones most apt to sell them out.




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New Cocktails: Purple Thing (A drink for nice people)

I can’t say this cocktail was invented in any one place. It evolved over years, adding and subtracting elements. There was a time when the drink took four hours to prepare, and then you needed to find a naked 19 year old French virgin to serve it. Eventually though, as the supply of virgins began to run out, I subtracted ingredients until I got the drink down to these four. This drink should be served cold, keep your gin and rum in the freezer.

2 measures Gin
2 measures White rum
Top up Black Currant juice
4 Blackberries


Smash blackberries in a highball glass with a muddler. Pour gin and rum into the glass. Fill glass with ice. Slowly fill with black currant juice. If you like, you can still have a naked 19 year old serve the drink, but I’ve learned that virtue has no bearing on the taste. The server should present the drink on their knees, holding a silver tray in both hands. If you are so inclined, a collar may be worn, but not everyone does their drinking ‘in the community’ as it were. Since the drink was finally perfected in France, I still think a French nude is the best for this sort of thing, and a blond if you can find one at short notice.

Etiquette Regarding the Removal of a Co-Worker

No matter what you’re working conditions, at some point it will become necessary to remove a co-worker from the coffee pool and most likely deposit them in a bog of some variety. Method of elimination greatly depends on your individual work environment, but needless to say an actual knife in the back is no longer permissible. Knives tend to cause a lot of blood, which only causes the poor, underpaid cleaning staff to have to work harder. One must remember that the polite individual considers those with a lower social standing as well as those of equal or greater standing. While it may be true that no man is a hero to his valet, one might be a hero to the cleaning woman and her services can become invaluable when disposal of a body is needed.

In most office situations, a bludgeon is inadvisable as one needs room to swing, many hits may be needed, and heads do split open and cause the goo inside to splatter if one gets carried away. The grunts and repeated thunks of the object hitting the skull will also disturb your fellow workers. If one is considering removing a co-worker, that person has probably caused enough grief for the rest of the office and at least their departed should be quiet.

In these quiet situations, a length of phone wire with ballpoint pens at each end for leverage makes a serviceable device to garrote your troublesome desk pilot. Simply throw the wire over the head, wrap it around once and squeeze until life is extinguished. The eyes will bulge, the tongue will protrude from the mouth and swell, but life may remain. Dedication is needed for such a job as this and one must keep continual pressure even after the victim has passed out. Once struggling has ceased, tying a knot into the wire to keep it tight around the throat is often advisable to make certain that all life is squeezed out. If one needs to ensure that no struggling will take place what-so-ever, a single blow delivered to the back of the head with something like a paper weight will often render the donut thief unconscious long enough to wrap the wire around their neck and tie it tight.

When the troublesome ex-employee is dealt with, one may need to remove the body quickly. This is where disturbing your co-workers is acceptable, as you will need their help to remove the former seat warmer. It is considered bad form to abuse the corpse unduly, but leaving it in the dumpster is acceptable as practicality must sometimes rule the day.



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Lovely Things I Own – The Japanese Prints

While I own many ugly, but interesting, objects I also own several objects that are just beautiful to look at. While I've been compiling lists, I've discovered something interesting. Most the really ugly things, I bought myself or my father got for me. Almost all the truly beautiful things, other people gave to me. Or gave to Syd and I, whatever.

Today we'll look at a nice plair of Japanese Woodblock Prints.

Ugly Things I Own – The Hands

Those of you, who have been to my home, will remember that I have excellent tastes. I am a particularly good decorator, even if I tend to think minimalism is something that happens to other people. I have many lovely and interesting things scattered about my home, because I have a spectacular sense of design, color and arrangement. Everyone compliments Syd on the way she’s decorated the house, and then get sort of sheepish when she tells them that most the selection and placement was done by me.

NOW!

Here’s the thing. I don’t just have lovely things. I have a spectacular sense of style, it’s true, but I also have a perverse need to offend that style on occasion.

I also have some wonderfully hideous things. Things that no woman I’ve ever been with has been able to say that she really approves of. We’re going to investigate some of those items, beginning with these fucking things…

These are the hands.

Interesting Facts: Honey Bees

In 1922, Scientists at Cornell University conclusively proved that Honey Bees can’t fly without a Class C Pilot’s license.

Later that same year, at the New Brunswick College for advanced Research it was discovered that honey bees don’t actually make honey but gather it through daring nighttime raids of the nests of the Canadian Honey Wasp who manufacture it from the pollen they steal from Chinese Limpet Ants.



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