Post by Jack of Blades on Jun 29, 2006 17:47:54 GMT -5
It wasn't schizophrenia. The doctor had told me that. Right after he filled my hands with a plethora of bottles of those little traffic-light potions. Instead, it was an inflection of my character. Sort of like turning all the pent-up frustration and anger up to eleven. And then torching it with a flame-thrower. To quote the Beatles: " I am he as you are he as you are me and we are together."
Jack of Blades was not a 'he', he is me. That may sound complicated but unlike schizophrenia, he wasn't a seperate entity formed out of a chemical imbalance. He was a very 'visceral' (the doctor's words, not mine) response to the harshness of this world deriving from my inability to cope. Although Jack of Blades was a construct of my psyche, it was entirely possible that he will be the ultimate end in this culture of fast-food and cellulars. Sort of like the Pheonix is to the mutants.
And yet, all this psychological detail and character schematics (provided as a parting gift from the WCF) doesn't prove to be much comfort. Here I sit in this dingy squallor of an appartment (cleverly marketed as a paradigm of the Bachellor lifestyle) comparing the nicotine yellow walls to that of Blades' (or should I say my) imported wallpaper. My reversion back to Jack Blaine Nolan came just before the three month trial period which meant that I could renege at any time and leave the employment of the company but in turn had to sign away the housing, the cars, the bonus, the complimentry furnishings. Although, the WCF had offered me an agreement that they would record my first few weeks of normalcy for a mediocre sum (I found my style of deliberation was nowhere near as effective as prior to my lost of the Television Title.)
However, it was my conclusion that this was done as a way to wave away any quarrells that my actions as Jack of Blades had caused from support groups and the same ilk of fundamentalist extremists. But the cameramen have been nice enough. Well after the initial realisation that I wasn't go to through a cigar in their eyes. In fact, I've even built a report with some of them that isn't built on fear. The doctor said I should be proud.
However, the cameras do more than promote the WCF and fill my little red book. My new room mate, Jake Butrello, seems to enjoy the novelty of having a machine pointed at him recording his movements and gestures to celluloid. The only real way to define Jake Butrello is to call him an extension of this motel. Hawaiian shirt wearing, obnoxious, below five foot five, balding, portly, enjoys shorts, stinks of some cologne advertised in a car magazine. And yes, he did make a joke about our names (Jack and Jake) when we first met.
The living was cheap and he only had one rule to live by: "First rule is there is no rules. My casa is your casa. Oh, and label your food will you?" At first, I thought his habit of singing in the shower was for the cameras in an effort to attract Paula Abdul and the man with the trousers from American Idol. But no, he does it when his personal dreams of voyeurism are not happening. Like he's doing it now.
"Sweet home alabama."
Speaking of which, I need to find out the address for the Mayor of Alabama. It wasn't my fault. But I still remember bending over. The people surrounding Torture and Nate at that house show. The fountain really close. I, as Jack of Blades, did not like to substitued as the centre of everyone's attention. So Jack being Jack or me being me, decided to defecate in the fountain. I mean despite the hefty fine that Lerch paid for that incident, it was all in good nature. I mean I thought, at the time, that a pair of smarks would argue over its ownership. But they didn't. After the actual splash all I could remember were the sighs of appalled mothers and the screams of understanding children. Maybe I could do some community work for the children as an apology?
Speaking of which, have I checked those working hours for next week. The joys of working in a call centre, huh? It's pretty good pay for what it is and you can decorate one side of your cubicle. But I still get the occasional response that I sound like that 'dead clown guy from wrestling.' I shake it off saying I don't watch it but I guess they may know from this documentary thing that's going on around me. The cameras don't follow me to work. It's probably best, I may be accused of being a hypocrite. Working with people like Jett who go to pilates and use a moisturising face peel. But I enjoy their company and my views have changed quite a bit. There pleasant and at least their consumerism is constructive. Take Keith for example. A pleasant guy, my senior, but he was nice enough to invite me over to his place to listen to some Huey Lewis and discuss how New Orleans didn't have the foresight to withstand a disaster. Jack of Blades would have made a joke about how this was like something out of American Psycho and how he was the one going to stab his collegues with an axe instead of the host.
But I didn't. Nope I enjoyed the fine cuisine and the faux-fine wine. I had tasted the elite stuff enough as a result of my WCF paychecks but now I was enjoying Jake's supply of Brut de la Merde. Speaking of which, the shower has stopped. And like clockwork, he comes out wearing his towel and providing a view of his natural vest formed from hair and breadcrumbs. Trails of water runs down his pregnant belly catching the remainder of his fake tan. I catch the bottle of fragrant air he throws at me as he explains how we're going out to 'catch some fajitas.' I assume that is a colloquialism for female attention. My assumption is proved right with a comment about how the 'tag team of Jake and Jake were gonna prove winners tonight.'
He knew about my wrestling background but said he didn't watch it. Well, in fairness, he did watch wrestling but only that stuff on
the 'Adult Blue' channel which involved a pitch of mud and two blondes out of high school with aspirations to be actresses. As Jack of Blades, I would have lampooned the premature failings of those girls in their careers. As Jack Blaine Nolan, I spritz myself and prepare for the first evening of the rest of my life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[glow=red,2,300]
"I've been walking through your streets,
Where all your money's earning,
Where all your building's crying,
And clueless neckties revolving fake lawn houses."
[/glow]
Jack of Blades was not a 'he', he is me. That may sound complicated but unlike schizophrenia, he wasn't a seperate entity formed out of a chemical imbalance. He was a very 'visceral' (the doctor's words, not mine) response to the harshness of this world deriving from my inability to cope. Although Jack of Blades was a construct of my psyche, it was entirely possible that he will be the ultimate end in this culture of fast-food and cellulars. Sort of like the Pheonix is to the mutants.
And yet, all this psychological detail and character schematics (provided as a parting gift from the WCF) doesn't prove to be much comfort. Here I sit in this dingy squallor of an appartment (cleverly marketed as a paradigm of the Bachellor lifestyle) comparing the nicotine yellow walls to that of Blades' (or should I say my) imported wallpaper. My reversion back to Jack Blaine Nolan came just before the three month trial period which meant that I could renege at any time and leave the employment of the company but in turn had to sign away the housing, the cars, the bonus, the complimentry furnishings. Although, the WCF had offered me an agreement that they would record my first few weeks of normalcy for a mediocre sum (I found my style of deliberation was nowhere near as effective as prior to my lost of the Television Title.)
However, it was my conclusion that this was done as a way to wave away any quarrells that my actions as Jack of Blades had caused from support groups and the same ilk of fundamentalist extremists. But the cameramen have been nice enough. Well after the initial realisation that I wasn't go to through a cigar in their eyes. In fact, I've even built a report with some of them that isn't built on fear. The doctor said I should be proud.
However, the cameras do more than promote the WCF and fill my little red book. My new room mate, Jake Butrello, seems to enjoy the novelty of having a machine pointed at him recording his movements and gestures to celluloid. The only real way to define Jake Butrello is to call him an extension of this motel. Hawaiian shirt wearing, obnoxious, below five foot five, balding, portly, enjoys shorts, stinks of some cologne advertised in a car magazine. And yes, he did make a joke about our names (Jack and Jake) when we first met.
The living was cheap and he only had one rule to live by: "First rule is there is no rules. My casa is your casa. Oh, and label your food will you?" At first, I thought his habit of singing in the shower was for the cameras in an effort to attract Paula Abdul and the man with the trousers from American Idol. But no, he does it when his personal dreams of voyeurism are not happening. Like he's doing it now.
"Sweet home alabama."
Speaking of which, I need to find out the address for the Mayor of Alabama. It wasn't my fault. But I still remember bending over. The people surrounding Torture and Nate at that house show. The fountain really close. I, as Jack of Blades, did not like to substitued as the centre of everyone's attention. So Jack being Jack or me being me, decided to defecate in the fountain. I mean despite the hefty fine that Lerch paid for that incident, it was all in good nature. I mean I thought, at the time, that a pair of smarks would argue over its ownership. But they didn't. After the actual splash all I could remember were the sighs of appalled mothers and the screams of understanding children. Maybe I could do some community work for the children as an apology?
Speaking of which, have I checked those working hours for next week. The joys of working in a call centre, huh? It's pretty good pay for what it is and you can decorate one side of your cubicle. But I still get the occasional response that I sound like that 'dead clown guy from wrestling.' I shake it off saying I don't watch it but I guess they may know from this documentary thing that's going on around me. The cameras don't follow me to work. It's probably best, I may be accused of being a hypocrite. Working with people like Jett who go to pilates and use a moisturising face peel. But I enjoy their company and my views have changed quite a bit. There pleasant and at least their consumerism is constructive. Take Keith for example. A pleasant guy, my senior, but he was nice enough to invite me over to his place to listen to some Huey Lewis and discuss how New Orleans didn't have the foresight to withstand a disaster. Jack of Blades would have made a joke about how this was like something out of American Psycho and how he was the one going to stab his collegues with an axe instead of the host.
But I didn't. Nope I enjoyed the fine cuisine and the faux-fine wine. I had tasted the elite stuff enough as a result of my WCF paychecks but now I was enjoying Jake's supply of Brut de la Merde. Speaking of which, the shower has stopped. And like clockwork, he comes out wearing his towel and providing a view of his natural vest formed from hair and breadcrumbs. Trails of water runs down his pregnant belly catching the remainder of his fake tan. I catch the bottle of fragrant air he throws at me as he explains how we're going out to 'catch some fajitas.' I assume that is a colloquialism for female attention. My assumption is proved right with a comment about how the 'tag team of Jake and Jake were gonna prove winners tonight.'
He knew about my wrestling background but said he didn't watch it. Well, in fairness, he did watch wrestling but only that stuff on
the 'Adult Blue' channel which involved a pitch of mud and two blondes out of high school with aspirations to be actresses. As Jack of Blades, I would have lampooned the premature failings of those girls in their careers. As Jack Blaine Nolan, I spritz myself and prepare for the first evening of the rest of my life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[glow=red,2,300]
"I've been walking through your streets,
Where all your money's earning,
Where all your building's crying,
And clueless neckties revolving fake lawn houses."
[/glow]
