Category Archives: true stories from nyc

Cornelius Fakers, or "Protect Ya Neck On Ye Olde Interweb"

So – upon reflection, and after reading through that last Ramble I posted, I’ve come to a very crystal clear conclusion about myself:

I sure as shit hate me some motherfucking Cornelius Fakers.

Allow me to break down the etymology/Seanism for you – a Cornelius Faker is someone who is not who they present themselves to be. Taken from Fight Club, when Ed Norton’s character in the movie scribbles “Cornelius” on his name-tag at the Men Together Support Group meeting, and Meatloaf’s character – Bob – says to him upon looking down at his name-tag – “It’s okay, Cornelius – you can cry.” We all know what a Faker is – so, me being me, I slammed those two words together and came up with Cornelius Faker, which can be used to describe someone who is basically masquerading as something they are not.

There are plenty Cornelius Fakers running around out there in the world, free as a bird, not being held accountable for their fakery and their petty deceptions. I mean – let’s get on Front Street here – I was a Cornelius Faker for years. Full of so much shit that I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as my fakery, the stink of my lies oozing out of me like the sweat of ten thousand Phish fans at a festival in the middle of the desert in July. I lived that life for quite some time, actually – running game on people, making up who I was with each new smiling face I encountered. I think it was mostly out of insecurity, with a smidge of boredom thrown in for good stoner logic measure. Seriously – what was more fun when stoned out of your mind than creating a new persona to wow yourself with?

I had no shame. Truly.

I used to fake people out with all sorts of ridiculous shit. I remember once being at a house party, and telling someone that I had just met that I was writing a book from the point of view of a midget porn star. I explained, in very stoned but glorious detail, how I had come to the realization that these little studs were the norm in skin flicks from the mid-to-late 70s. Every fuck film from that era always had some weird scene where there was a little dude getting blown in the background by some blonde starlet – I used Behind The Green Door as an example of what I was riffing on, although the couple I was talking to had never seen the movie – which was perfect for my ruse.

I saw that couple at another party a few weeks later, and they actually went out and got a copy of the film and saw what I was talking about.

See? Mission Accomplished! I was able to get attention through my Cornelius Fakery.

And that’s really what this type of humanimal is all about – attention. They are usually pretty bright people to begin with, but they lack the social skills and the ability to articulate their lot in life without the crutch of being full of shit. I don’t want to go whole hog and say that all Cornelius Fakers are sociopaths, but that wouldn’t be too far off. Most of them live in this really dark and focused tunnel, where all they see is their con or game playing out – they miss all the nuances and details of the things happening around them. Daily life shit, like what their friends actually think of them. Hell – two of my closest friends when I was in my mid twenties tried to talk to me about this shit one night, and it took years for it to register – I was that deep in it.

But – the lights did come on in my head. Around the time I hit thirty or so, I started to live on Front Street. I stopped bullshitting people. I stopped creating elaborate tales to try and make myself seem like a much more interesting person. I was already interesting. I was already “cool.” I didn’t need to come up with all that fake shit to be Sean – the real shit that I had gone through was totally and ultimately way more entertaining than any ruse or tale I could conjure up. I could hold up my end of a conversation without commandeering it with some fake-ass shit to make motherfuckers pay attention to me.

I learned to breathe and listen.

In this super-infused-with-every-miniscule-detail-that-ever-happened Interweb Generation we currently live in, it is very easy for a Cornelius Faker to sneak up on unsuspecting people and steal their attention. I know – it has happened to me, more than once.

I got conned pretty fucking hardcore back in 2005. And, unlike other motherfuckers – I ain’t too proud to lie – it was a woman who burned my ass. Well, I am pretty sure it was. I met her in an online community of sorts, where everyone has profiles, like MySpace or Facebook – but this one was geared toward people of a different lifestyle. I had been on the site for a few years, and had amassed a decent number of friends/people that I knew – some of them even in Real Life. I had just found myself on the ass-end of a shitacular relationship that had ended in a really terrible and torturous manner. I was fragile. I was lonely. I was easy pickings.

It started off pretty innocently – messaging back and forth. You know – regular random shit that people do when they are trying to connect with another person. Likes, dislikes, all that junk. We’ve all been there, right? She touched on all of the emotional pressure points that I needed to have touched at that time – telling me she liked my writing, that I was “hot,” that she agreed with the way I saw the world. It was like virtually meeting someone who got “it.” That’s what so many of us use The Interweb for – to make some kind of connection with people that lets us know we’re not alone, that tells us we’re not so freakish and scary – hence, all those sites for Furries and all of those sites for Neo-Cons.


After a while, it became pretty apparent that this woman and I needed to meet. She supposedly lived here in NYC, and the cell number she gave me was for this area. We talked on the phone a few times late at night – her tiny little voice so cute and weird at the same time. She was supposedly a photographer, and taught classes at Parsons Design School – and even had a gig for me as an assistant, since I was having a hard time finding work at this point.

When I went to Parsons one afternoon to surprise her – they had no idea who the fuck I was talking about.

Riding the train back to Bensonhurst, I came to the realization that I had probably just been burned. This person never had any intentions of meeting up with me – all of the shit she said was probably bogus. I asked a friend of mine if he had ever talked to her, and he was hysterical – she had been sort of playing the both of us. We decided that night to fuck with her head a little bit, to get a little bit of Brooklyn Justice going for us.

Tragically, he was killed in a terrible bicycle accident less than two weeks later.

With all of the hurricane of the death swirling around me – I kind of ignored her calls/texts/messages. I wasn’t in any kind of space to listen to anyone at that point. I was in the midst of one of my biggest and most disturbing freak-outs of all time. I was still reeling from the death of my grandmother, the death of my failed relationship, and then the death of my friend – and I came to the brilliant decision to move my ass down to Fayetteville, Arkansas – to get away and collect my head, my soul. Plenty of my friends were aghast at my decision, but they were all smart enough to know I was freaking out, and needed the space to freak out.

So I moved.

It wasn’t necessarily the smartest thing I have ever done – but it served it’s purpose. I was able to get my head together. So much so, that when she made another attempt at conning me – I was ready this time.

You see, she created another bogus profile. And she came after me again. I even started to fall for it, until I started noticing subtle nuances in her messages – nuances that led me to believe it was her all over again. This time, she was pretending to be a girl who had brain cancer – she even went so far as to steal some girl’s brain scans that had been posted on the internet somewhere, and tried to pass them off as hers. Me, being the late-night paranoid motherfucker I am, well – I was able to blow those fuckers up and pull the right name off of them. I contacted the girl the scans belonged to. I told her what was up, and she e-mailed me back, saying that this person had been stealing all of her information over the last few weeks, trying to take her entire identity.

I decided to go along with the plan that my late friend and I had agreed upon – pretending like everything was all hunky-dory, and that she had conned me. So she would get lazy. I sent her my number late one night, and she called. Sure enough, on the other end of the phone was the same tiny and odd little voice. She confessed to creating that fake profile to talk to me. She confessed to stealing some poor girl’s identity. She confessed to only wanting to know why I had stopped talking to her in the first place. I played it all off like it was no big deal at all – letting her get good and comfortable with all of it. I told her that my father was sick, and that I was coming back up to NYC for a few days before heading to Santa Fe to take care of him, and that we should get lunch so we could talk about all of this in person. She agreed.

OF COURSE, the plans she and I tried to make when I was in NYC fell through on her end – she had something that always seemed to come up. I told her not to worry, that we would work it all out when I got back up after taking care of him. I went to Santa Fe, dealt with the hardest shit I have ever dealt with in my entire life, and then scooted back up to The City.

We would talk a lot. She would text me at all hours of the day or night. She was constantly e-mailing me pictures of her in NYC, trying to quell the questions I had in me about her real whereabouts – since I had become quite crafty, and was tracking her IP Address, which resolved to just outside of Madison, Wisconsin. I asked her what she was doing in Wisconsin one night on the phone, and the connection suddenly went dead. I tried calling her back, but she let it go straight to voicemail. This pattern continued for a few days, until I had the miraculous epiphany of all epiphanies.

Most people, and I’m sorry to say this, are not very smart when it comes to passwords and things of that nature. A mobile carrier will always set a phone’s password to *1234 for every phone – it’s just how they do it. And a lot of people never think to change it. They figure nobody can get into that shit, right?


The next time I called her and it went to her voicemail, I punched the numbers in and waited. The automated voice told me she had 13 unheard messages. 13? This was excellent news. I sat there on my bed, smoking and chuckling as I heard dude after dude asking her where she was – each one of them using a different name for her. Her voicemail was set up in a way that it read the number the message came from before hearing the actual message. I started writing the numbers down, corresponding them with the names these poor bastards were using for her. I did this for a few days, compiling a list that would eventually have seven dudes on it – five from NYC, one from Florida, and one from over in Scotland.

I knew I was about to flip the script on her. I was just waiting for the right time, the perfect moment when an opponent leaves themselves too open, where one magical and well-placed blow will end the whole dance. I had all the cards now. I could, at any moment, do the simplest thing like placing a call to one of the dudes, and blowing her entire little game up. But I was being patient. I was waiting for her to really slip up.

I know it sounds like I was obsessed and maybe even a little mentally unstable – which is probably true. My father had just died, and here I was, drowning my sorrows in whiskey, Xanax, reefer, and a wild goose chase with a Cornelius Faker of a girl who really didn’t deserve a nanosecond of my time. Hell – I was even taking calls from her while loaded at the bar, and begging her to come and meet me, knowing all the while that she would never do such a thing – she was not real.

Every now and then on the phone with her, I would let a name slide on out of my mouth – one of the names of the other dudes she was running her game on – like, “Yeah, my boy XXXXX down in Florida was telling me about some chick named XXXXX that he’s been talking to. She sounds like a real piece of work. I hope he doesn’t get burned again – he can’t take much more of that kind of shit,” and then she would react all freaked-out and hang up, only to call back ten or fifteen minutes later saying she had “lost her signal” or some other shit. It was seriously the best cat and mouse game I had ever been involved in, yet I knew all along I had won.

I finally blew her up one night when I was really good and hammered, laying into her about the ways in which people like her hurt people, about how she abused and destroyed someone’s trust. I told her that I had contacted the girl that she had stolen the brain scans from, and about how my late friend and I knew what she was doing months and months earlier, and about how I was just carrying out the string of what he and I had discussed that night. I told her that I had the names and numbers of the other dudes she was playing, and read them off to her one by one, listening to the sound of her whimpering and crying on the other end of the phone.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me? Please don’t call them! Please!!!”

Those were the last words I ever heard her say. I hung up the phone in between her sobs and gasps, feeling like I had done what I had set out to do. There was no need for me to call any of those dudes – they needed to figure the shit out on their own. Not my problem. I was able to free myself of this Cornelius Faker, this terribly wired emotional terrorist – freeing myself also from the feelings I had somehow developed for someone so twisted and full of lies. Yes – I had feelings for her. Those types of people always prey on our feelings. Sad, but a terrible truth.

After all of that – I am always a little leery of anyone who enters into my little world. Can you blame me? This world is overflowing with Cornelius Fakers, people trying to suck the energy and goodness right out of you through your little flat-screen monitors. Yes, I know that we’re all Nigerian Millionaires in waiting – we just need to send that initial wire transfer over there to unlock all that loot we’ve been promised. But at least in those cases – we know what we’re dealing with. Right? A Cornelius Faker is a little harder to spot at first – but I know how. I really do. If you ever find yourself wondering if someone you’re dealing with is one – shoot me an e-mail. I’ll gladly help you suss it out.

Cornelius Fakers. Sociopaths. See?

Be careful out there.


Filed under dumbassery, i used to be stupid, nuggets of infinite wisdom, tomfoolery, true stories from nyc, who is sean?

"My Arts Is Crafty Darts"

I know I’ve been neglectful, you lovely motherfuckers. I’m not gonna front – I’ve been deep in the recesses of my mind, working on new and twisted magic. It’s not you, it’s me.


Things ’round here have been more than interesting. We pulled up stakes and moved out of Childrensburg, 11211, and into the lovely greenery and Nazi Runes of Little Warsaw, 11222. We’ve been over here since mid-July, and other than one really bizarre and terrible incident – it has been quite nice.

Part of my neglect of this here site, is due to my sudden(and quite alarming) ability to write Real Shit lately. Not that The Rambles aren’t an important part of maintaining my psyche – they totally are. But I’m talking about writing of a Higher Caliber. Like, the type of writing that you feel so empty and spent from coughing it up, that you have to go outside for a long and contemplative walk with just you and your damn self. The kind of shit that flies off the fingers as weight and pain leaves the body. Synergistic and fluid. Magical Work, if you’ll indulge me.

This new and Magical Work was inspired, to a degree, by me finally getting off my ass and taking a little writing course taught by Stephen Elliott a few weeks ago. Now – the class was great on many fronts. On one front, it was good to be in a room with a bunch of other “writers.” I’m not saying anything with a negative connotation when I say this, but I did not feel out of water like I thought I would. If anything, I felt a little bit empowered, listening to the queries and thoughts being brought to the table by my peers in the room, finding myself nodding my head in concert with the wisdom Stephen was kicking out to everyone. I’d say a good 89% of what he was talking about was already in my wheelhouse, and that the majority of what was being shared was confirmation for me that I am “doing it right,” as Ty would say.

It was a good thing for me to do, and I plan on taking some more courses and going to some workshops here in the fall. No sense in messing with momentum, you know?


Last Friday night was a rough one around here.

I had run to the bodega on Manhattan Avenue to go and get us some smokes and some beverages. It was roughly 10:30 or so, and as I was walking back into our building, there was a gang of young and ridiculous-looking kids in their early twenties in the lobby. Most of them actually looked like they could possibly be even younger, maybe even High School age.

I did my polite thing, and excused myself as I dug my keys out to open the door to get into the building. A lot of the kids were holding half-racks of beer, and I could very clearly smell that magically pungent scent of fresh marijuana coming off of one of the kids – he probably had an ounce or so on him, from what my sniffer was telling me.

A party.

Not only a party, but the kids throwing this shindig live right underneath us.

Good times.

You see, part of why we moved over here, and into this specific building, was to get away from this type of dickery. Motherfucking kids these days have this false sense of entitlement, and think they can just do whatever the fuck they want with no regard to anyone within their surrounding vicinity. I’m sure a lot of you are thinking – “What the fuck, Sean? You used to party like a lunatic when you were younger, you hypocritical bastard!” – and you’re not wrong about the partying part. What you’re wrong about is lumping me in with these little nogoodniks. I was always respectful. We always let our neighbors know if we were going to have a few people over. And usually, they were much more apt to not get bugged out by some loud music and pot smoke if we let them know beforehand.

It’s just the right thing to do. Period.

But that’s just not how these New Jack Fuckstains roll at all. They tune out the rest of the world much in the same manner they tune out everything else when they’re high in their room, dicking around on a fucking gaming system until daybreak. As the artist formerly known as Blognigger so verily pointed out this week(and I gotta be honest and say that I fucking HATE linking to SBTVC and all the mouthbreathing “I’M SO MUCH COOLER THAN YOU!” bullshit that goes on over there, but BN is my friend, and I liked this post a lot, so fuck it) – kids are just fucking terrible nowadays.


Fast forward about an hour and a half. I’m sitting right here at this very desk, trying to get some Magical Work done. All of a sudden I hear a bunch of shit from up on the roof. Little bastards were up there, getting their drink on.

Goddamn it, I was pissed the fuck off.

See, the OTHER reason we liked this place so much, was because nobody was going to be living above us. We’re on the top floor, and for good reason. At our last place, there were these fucking junkie slobs who lived over us.

Now – when I say junkie slobs, please erase the picture of gutter punks or Robert Downey Jr in Less Than Zero out of your pretty little mind. The kind of junkie slob I am referring to here is a breed of junkie that would fascinate Larry Fucking Clark. I’m talking about the kind of junkie that will be outside in subzero temperatures at 2:17AM, trying to put on new brake pads on a car that has no business whatsoever being on the road to begin with. I’m talking about the kind of junkie who goes out and buys a used portable clothes washing machine, because they’re too fucking lazy to go do laundry like a respectable Brooklynite, and said washer floods their apartment. On Christmas Eve. And then causes the people below them to have their ceiling collapse and rain down upon them in bed. That’s the kind of junkie slob I’m riffing on here.

Oh, hello – why yes, it DID rain on my head on Christmas Eve!

So – that’s a big part of why we loved this new spot so much. A quieter hood for sure, but also a lack of disrespectful assholes surrounding us. This building is full of families and older Polish people. Hell, when we first moved in, everyone was eyeballing us, hoping we weren’t crazed Party People.

I decided to go out into the hallway, and let these kids know they just shouldn’t be up on the roof. It was bad enough that they were running around the halls, slamming doors and being loud as fuck. I wasn’t going to sit in here and listen to them stomping around over my head all night. I pay far too much rent for that shit.

As I walked out into the hall, a group of them were heading up the stairs to the roof. This is the exchange that followed, pretty much verbatim:

Me: “Hey. Hey! Y’all should not be up on that roof.”
Some random fuck of a kid: “Is there going to be a problem?”
Me: Cold stare.
Kid: “Are you serious? We shouldn’t be on the roof?”
Me: “Five stories is a long drop, ain’t it? There are families that live under the roof. Kids. Little ones. Please be respectful, or I won’t be.”
Some random drunk girl: “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE. WE CAN DO WHAT WE WANT!”
Kid: “Look – we don’t want any trouble. We’ll get off the roof. Sorry.”
Me: A grin and a wink.

After that, I heard them all scurrying back down to the third floor, where the party was. I could hear them yelling in the apartment about “some asshole covered in tattoos made us get off the roof,” and I felt somewhat better about myself in that moment. They continued to be loud and ridiculous, and I continued to sit here, trying to get some Magical Work done.

I could hear them up on the roof again, maybe around 1:30AM. I figured I’d already said what I needed to, and kind of hoped that one of the older residents in the building would call the police soon, to break up the stupidity.

Around 1:45 or so I heard what sounded like the loudest slam of a door since my terrible teen years.

Less than ten minutes later, I could hear the police, admonishing kids left and right. I even pulled a total Old Man Move, and looked out the peephole in our front door, and could see cops walking kids down the stairs from the roof.

I felt pretty vindicated and went to sleep.

The next afternoon, after we had brunch with a friend, we came walking back over to the building and noticed a lot of our neighbors standing out front in a group, talking. As we walked up to them, we were informed that a 22 year old kid had fallen off the roof to his death.

At 1:45AM.

What I thought was a door slamming, was this poor fucking kid.

He basically fell six stories. From the roof, which would be the fifth floor, all the way down into the courtyard, which is recessed from the street level. He was dead on impact – a beer can was found less than two feet from his body. The superintendent of our building was in the courtyard, trying to wash away all of the blood from the scene. It was terrible. There was still brain matter on the ground and some of it was spattered on the outer wall of the building. I asked him for some bleach, and I helped him wash away the stains.

I have never before in my life felt more terrible about an “I told you so,” as this one.

This building has been as quiet as tomb ever since.


Not necessarily stoned, but beautiful.”


Filed under childrensburg 11211, drugs are bad, jealous insecurities, little warsaw 11222, true stories from nyc

Enter: The Curmudgeon.

As leathered and as wizened as I try to liken myself to be, I am still a wide-eyed, filled-to-the-brim with hope kind of kid inside. Lately, I feel that wide-eyed kid getting smothered with a pillow by the angry old man inside.

Sure, just like everyone else on this planet, I have my likes and my dislikes. There are things inherent in human nature that make me want to start punching people in the throat without any warning. Things that people do that make me want to light them on fire in front of their fucking families.

Add living in a Megalopolis like The City to that equation, and the math becomes quite clear –

As much as I hate to admit it – I hate pretty much everyone.

Now, this isn’t hate on a racism-based scale. Nor is it hate on a socio-economic scale, either. This is pure, unadulterated disdain for people’s inability to think outside of the three foot radius that encompasses their pithy innermost being. This is scathing and boiling. This is acid reflux.


You don’t drink, so you volunteer to be the Designated Driver for a few of your “friends,” so they can go out on the town and get blasted beyond recognition. Before they start downing drinks like jackals on a carcass, they all make mention to you multiple times how much they appreciate you, and the fact that you will be looking out for their well-being during the evening’s tomfoolery. You, being a sucker, feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside, because you have allowed yourself to feel as though they truly appreciate you. You get this immediately grandiose idea in your puny human brain that the night will be all full of smiles and good times – even for you.

Oh, but you’re so, so wrong.

The first half an hour or so, you’re just enjoying everyone’s company – them with their cocktails and libations, you sipping on your ginger ale. Jokes. Laughter. Back-slapping. It really does start off like an atypical beer commercial. Even the chicks across the room are eyeballing the lot of you, staking out which one of you they’re going to sink their claws into.

Life seems momentarily good.

Entering into hour two, your game plan has switched the fuck on up. At this point, you’re trying to corral your buddy who has decided to repeatedly walk over to the group of off-duty cops and start running his mouth at them. And at the same time, you’ve got another buddy who keeps on running off to the bathroom with some skeevy fuck to do shit-tons of blow with. Your other pal? Oh, he’s over in that corner booth, fucked up beyond anyone’s threshold, making out with some seventeen year old piece of fine-fine jailbait that worked her way into the bar with her cocksucking skills and her older sister’s ID.

Fast forward another hour, and you’re actually contemplating leaving these fuckstains you call “friends” at the bar and to their own devices. You don’t need this kind of stress and static. You’ve been punched in the face already by the coked up one for suggesting he chill out. The slobbering drunk cop-hater has already been tossed from the bar, and you threw money at the cabbie, begging him to take him home and not wherever he suggests to go. The burgeoning pedophile is now in an alley behind the bar, balls deep in some girl who will end up telling her mother she got that herpes at summer camp. You’re spent. You throw your hands in the air and decide to cut your losses, gather up the troops, and try to head back to Real Life.

Not so easy, is it?

Even with the best of intentions, motherfuckers will bend you over and give you the old in-out, nice and dry. Your “friends,” when they eventually sober up, won’t even think twice about what happened, nor will they even be remorseful for putting you in such a terrible situation. They’ll all laugh and laugh, giving you the business for being so stodgy and “tight.” They won’t even remember what happened for what it really was – motherfuckers taking advantage of you.

Yeah, I know this sounds all bitter and shit. And coming from a cat who no longer imbibes, it probably sounds a schtikel righteous. But it ain’t. It’s analogous in leaning.

This kind of behavior runs rampant through all of us. Shit, even me. I loathe my own hypocrisy. I’m not gonna lie, either – I get all kinds of boiling on the inside when I have to deal with people out there in The City. This motherfucker is overflowing with scurrilous little shits that will snake your last piece of kindness like old Henry Bibby sneaking through the back door. Think I’m kidding? Watch the next time some fuckstains are walking across an intersection. They will slow their roll to a fucking crawl as soon as the light changes or they even sense you’re in a semi-hurry to get anywhere. Watch how the shitbirds will push an old lady out of the way to get onto an already over-crowded F Train at Herald Square. Look around you and see all the fucking scumbags eyeballing young girls like they’re pieces of meat they can go home and fuck.

Table for Mr. Bitterness? Table for one!

I always have a hard time trusting anyone. That being said, I’m also the kind of cat who will smile at a stranger on the street – genuinely. I was raised to be good to people on a basic level. My Parental Units weren’t uncouth assholes who left me locked in a cage and didn’t teach me any pertinent social skills. I can be gregarious and outgoing when necessary. I just, over time and through the repetitive beating The City gives me, have realized that it’s a mostly pointless exercise. Especially here in The City – motherfuckers just do not care. And that’s fine. That’s just The Way It Is sometimes. Life is the teacher, we’re the apt pupils. I’m learning.

Of course, there are truly amazing people here, just like Smalltown World. And the people I have in my own little world are dope, on every level. People I would jump in front of a speeding cab for. But the rest of The Great Unwashed?

Hell no, son. Hell to the no.


Filed under i'm still an angry motherfucker, tomfoolery, true stories from nyc

Reason #7,194 I Love Living In The City.

I’m pretty sure I must have been lucky enough to get picked up by the cab driver they actually based Mel “I love The Jews!” Gibson’s character on in Conspiracy Theory tonight, after a fourteen hour day at work.

This motherfucker was sitting there, listening to recordings of some woman who was reciting the atrocities suffered at the hands of the US by captured Afghani & Iraqi soldiers; eyes set to rolling in his head whenever we were stopped at a red light.

Limbs pulled taut by unseen hands, my head was forced underwater. Water burning into my lungs, I was now drowning, unable to break free.

I just sat there, staring out the widow as we eased our way down 7th Avenue through Chelsea – trying not to listen. That’s when he decided to speak to me…

Cabbie: “You see up ahead – they got the blue memorial lights up in the sky?”

Me: “Yeah, it’s Thursday. They do this every year.”

Cabbie: “This country is fucked up, you know. Did you catch any of the RNC? Did you watch it?”

Me: “Yes, I watched it. It looked like a Corpse Convention – every person I saw had this awful green Zombie-like pallor to them.”

Cabbie: “Ha! Zombies! McCain looks like he’s dead. He’s not what he used to be. This country is fucked, I’m telling you. And Obama? He thinks he can change it. Good luck, buddy – they’re gonna kill you.”

At this point, I kind of clammed-up and went back to looking out the window for anything that would distract me from having a political discussion with a typically nutty NYC cab driver. My eyes kept on drifting toward those two blue lights; those eerie monoliths. I was starting to stir a little, I suppose – and the cabbie quite possibly picked up on it.

Cabbie: “How can you fix this? You can’t fix something this broken – it’s useless. Insane. Nothing good can come from this.”

Me: “You know your mythology, brother?

Cabbie: “A little, yeah?”

Me: “Alright then – The Phoenix. That is the only fucking way. You have to burn the shit down to rebuild it again. Just torch our entire system and turn it to ash, so it can be recreated, and hope to whatever deity you bow your kooky head to that motherfuckers have learned themselves something and do it the right way the next time.”

Cabbie: “You’re crazy. I bet you buy into all those Peak Oil lies, too – dontchya? There’s fucking oil everywhere, man – under the sea, in parts of the world where people don’t live, oil in every nook and cranny of this planet. And we need to get it all. If we don’t have it, we’ll be fucked. Goddamn internet makes everyone a fucking scientist.”

Me: “I never said anything about Peak Oil, brother. But now that you’ve mentioned it – I’ve read a lot about it on the internet. When did YOU graduate from MIT, Mr. NYC Cabbie?”

Cabbie: “Oh, you fucking wiseass! This is what’s wrong with this fucking country – everyone is a fucking wiseass! You’re probably right about destroying it to fix it, I’ll give you that.”

Me: “And you know what else would help? If fucking kids had to do at least two years of some kind of mandatory Civil/Military/Community Service. Get those goddamn ungrateful little consumers doing something in their communities, as opposed to dicking around playing video games and pretending to give a shit about college. Make them do something meaningful, for fuck’s sake.”

Cabbie: “You know, this empire needs to fall. This Administration has ruined this country, and nobody in the whole fucking world likes or trusts this country anymore. It’s worse than Rome.”

Me: “I’ll bounce out right there, on that corner.”

I handed him a twenty, and told him to keep the change. Fucking guy sat there staring at me for a good long minute, and then he asked me:

Cabbie:“What do you do for a living? What field are you in?”

I smirked at him.

Me: “I work for God, Sir. I work for God.”

I looked toward The City, and I could still see those twin blue lights…



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