"Tell me a joke."
"Two men walk into a bar.
"The first man orders a scotch and soda.
"The second man remembers something he'd forgotten, and it doubles him over with pain.
"He falls to the floor shaking.  And then through the floor and into the Earth.
"He looks back up at the first man, but he doesn't call out to him.
"They're not that close."
        --The Aristocrats.

3.
Over breakfast, at the kitchen table, having finished a bowl of cerial he's reading the newspaper, and she's sipping coffee and reading a book.
        They just recently got the newspaper.  They finally decided to get information from somehwree other than the Internet and sattelite feeds.  It's hardly been worth the expense.  The same information watered down and filtered through a bizzare middle-of-the-road liberal viewpoint that doens't go far enough Left to be intresting, while laugably trying to appeal to the concervative Right because they're the ones who provide most of the money needed to fill adspace.
        The world is warming up.  This is either bad or good.
        George Bush is doing something in the Middle East again.
        Somebody famous died who was so old the world already thought he'd died years ago.
        Car accidents, pedophiles, terrorists.  Gas is going up in price for no real reason.
        Oh well.  At least there's the comics.
        "ha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting-- I mean anyt ancates-- and everything thrything th," he says without looking up from his newspaper.
        "opera opera tha ha ha o a chair,"  she says, also not looking up.  "don't ju't just me."
        They both laugh.

4.
At the bookstore, Heather talking to Jerzy.  For some reason he's brought the manuscript of  *Two million seven hundred sixty four thousand nine hundred twelve instances of the word "Fuck"* to the store again, and he's showing it to Heather (again) who-- having discussed the novel long and hard with Jerzy many times before, and who has even seen it before, in fact a half dozen times before-- is in no way shocked or impressed by the fact that it remains comprised of precisely two million seven hundred sixty four thousand nine hundred twelve instances of the word "Fuck."  In fact, the  two million seven hundred sixty four thousand nine hundred twelve instances of the word "Fuck" are still the exact same  two million seven hundred sixty four thousand nine hundred twelve instances of the word "Fuck" she has seen six times before.  Jerzy isn't even printing out other hardcopies of his manuscript and the pages are getting tattered and stained, and increasingly beginning to look like the work of a bona-fide madman, not just some artsy weirdo with a post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-postmodern agenda.
        "Ha And by texts I don't just mean writing--" he says.  "I anythhat mean that a huan aHAthinmg that being makes from an era to a chamuniir comcates some-- an.d so is thing tus aop."
        Heather shakes her head.  "nd ofki by txexts tet. nd I don't just mthingeaAn wriniHcag mean comerythimu-- I nicates anything that ha," smiling slightly, "comahahahahahahahaunicmunicates anything, her vaguy itel."
        "ommunicates-- and evng anything, however ha ha ha v."
        "is thus t."
        "Icoha hammAnby ted xts I."
        Heather looks at Jerzy.  He seems to be sweating, nervous, desperate in a way she'd never really seen before
        Jerzy looks at Heather.  She has this expression on her face that he can't read.
        "Hon't just meowevan wri everhing that a huHting-- I m an communtes e," he says.
        Or, wait, maybe she has seen this look, this desperation, nervous flushing in his cheeks-- all those signals.  She has seen them before.  She's just never really thought about them before.
        "anitything," he says.  "Aman being however."
        "vaguely it commhaaguely ites-- and text."  Or him like that, before.  Even though it had always been out in the open, he'd been open, always, laying it out on his sleeve.  "uytnicates-- and makes ha."
        "from an."

5.
Bob-- standing on a stool and repositioning boxes of cat litter for no real good reason, other than it looks like he's busy, gives the customers a sense of security, letting them know that there are people in this store who seem to know what and where all the products are, their uses and missuses, letting them believe that the people are still the ones in control-- discussing politics with another equally useless, but somehow neccessary, stockboy.
        "opera tha ha ha o a chunicaair," Bob says.
        "comanything communicates something--" says the stockboy.
        "and so is thus," from Bob, only to be countered with:
        "to a chair commtes setho..ming--."
        Bob:  "and so is thus a ki.  f text.  And by s--"
        Stockboy:  "I don't just ha ha mean writing--"
        Bob:  "I mean to a chair communiing HA."
        Stockboy: "Aeverything that a human bein that a hun be that a huat human bemama athn be.
        It's heating up now, the stockboy's waving his arms, pointing at the walls.
        "ha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting-- I mea.n anyt anha -- and so ihinghinhing. twriting-- I mean anyt anha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting-- I mean anyt anha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting-- I mean anyt anha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting--
        "I mean anyt anha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting-- I mean anyt anha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting-- I mean anyt anha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting-- I mean anyt an-- and so ihing..inhing twriting-- I mean anyt anihinghinhing twriting-- I
        "mean anyt anhahamunicates-- and evha -- and so ihinghinhing twr.iting-- I mean anyt aha -- and so ihinghinhing twriting-- I mean," the stockboy says.
        And, scowling Bob having no part of the stockboy's pointless and outdated rhetoric:
        "AHHHthat communicates anything, however vaguely it communicates-- and everything that a human being, however vaguely it hahamuxtnic..ates-- and gmakes from an opera that makes from an oper.a to a chair communicates ha -- and so ithus a kind of te.  cates somethingHAa -- and so is thus haa kind of text.  h "
 
 6.
"HAgthat and thincom icates anyg, howemunver ha ha ha vuely it coha hammAnd by texts I an writing-- I mean anything that ha co.mmunicates anything, however vaguely it communicates-- and everyt,hing that a human being makes from an opera toa st mean writing-- I mean icates anything, however vaguely it communicates-- and everything that a human being makes from a-- n hahamuanytommuniing HA that co-- nnicates-- everything tely it communiha ha ha ha h cat.es-- and everything that a ha ha ha makes from an opera to a chair thing that comm  icateshing that comm  icateso a chair communicates yth,ing,however vaguely it cg twritinghat a human being makes from an opera to a chair comhing that comm  icatesmunica-- tes something-- and so is thus a kind of text, text.  And by texts I don't just ha ha mean writing-- I me an ,.anything that com,, anything, however vagu -- I mean anyt anything, however vaguely it ha -- and so ha ha -- and so ihi.   nghinhing twriting-- I mean anyt an anyt annerything that a human being makes from an opera to a mhing that comm  icates,ates sometchair cohing-- and so ,is thus a kind of text.  f text,.  And by texts I don't just ha ha mean writing-- I mean anything t.hat communicates anything, however vaguely it communiha ha ha ha h cates-- and everything that a ha ha ha makes from an opera to a chair c twriting-- I mean anyt anything, however vaguely it hanicates-- an makes from an opera to a cha.ir comhing that comm  icatesmunicates something-- and so is thus a. kind of text.  .f text.  And by n't just h.a ha mean writing-- I mean .ything that communicates anything, howehamuver vaguely .it communiha ha ha ha h cates--. and everything that a ha ha ha makes from an opera to a chair cs thus a kind of text.  cates .omethi.ngHAa -- and so is thus haa kind of text.  hy texts I doates anythin that a human being human being human being. human being human be,ing," Jerzy says.

7.
Bob looks at the stockboy.  " ihnghinhing twriting- anyt an anyt annerything that a human being makes from an opera to a mhing that comm  icatesates sometchair cohing-- and so is thus a kind of text.  f text.  And by texts I don't just ha ha mean writing-- I eeean anything that communicates anything, however vaguely it communiha ha ha ha h cates-- and everything that a ha ha hea mathing that cocates anything, however vaguely it communiha ha ha ha h cates-- and everything that a hea ha ha maa makes from an oeera to a chair c twriting-- I meean anyt anything, however vaguely it hanicates-- an makes from anpera to a chair e something-- and so is thus a kind of  f text.  And by tes I dkes fremean opera to a chair c twriting-- I mean anyt anything, however eanicates-- an makes from anha h cates-- aand so " Bob says.  "mmunimmunimmunimmunimmunei"

8.
Heather looks at Jerzy and feels something inside her chest and throat that's neither anger nor sadness, just a strange kind of confusion, and a creeping, desperate urge to flee combined with a desire to burst into tears and scream.  "--makes from an opera to a chair communicates ha -- and so is thus a kind of text.  cates somethingHAa," she says.  And with that, turns away and walks into the stockroom.

9.
And the stockboy looks at Bob like Bob's an incect, a worm, a piece of shit-encristed gum fastened to the bottom of the stockboy's shoe:
        Quoth the stockboy:
        "exts I do exts I do exts I doxts I do-- choi f ing."

10.
In the stockroom, alone, unopened surrounded by crates of books, books on shelves, shelves of till supplies, plastic bags, rulers, tape, hardward and sundries, Heather, trembling and trapped, and with that feeling buollding in the back of her throat like a scream frozen into a vomitous lump, cheeks burning and flushed, trying not, (for some strange reason) to cry (even though there's really no reason to cry-- feel upset and worried and maybe even a little creeped out-- but not cry), knows that she's locked in the moment, in the centre of the disconnect, a symptom of the centry and the society in which she lives, surrounded by countless other symptoms-- not people-- but symptoms-- fucking symptoms of something she cannot name, opens her mouth and, lips trembling, tears welling, arms heavy and legs rubbery, head spinning, barely whispering, alone, here, in the stockroom surrounded by books and the smell of dusty paper, alone now, lips parted, voice quavering, softly now, trying to make sense if sense can be made, alone, here, barely audible, speaks:
        "eks fro, es fro, twww w ant  y.  Hethng."

11.
And now Bob's off for the day and walking around the city, thinking and looking at people, wondering when the 21st Centrury will actually kick in and then seeing kids with Blueberries and Josh Howard t-shirts and iPods and driving stubby little 2-person hybrid cars; and stopping at a 7-11 and reading magazine articles about global warming and the possibilty of running out of fossal fuel in the next 10 years and primative time machines and quantum computers and superflus; and seeing a special on a bunch of tvs at a mall about plastic computers being developed at MIT that run on crank-batteries, that will cost $100 each, and that will be given out to 3rd World countries in order to get them on the Inetrent cheaply, hopefully promoting connectivity and shaking the world off its primative money-based captalism into a new information-capital scenenario; and sitting in iBeanbag chairs and drinking new energy drinks that advertise greater and greater levels of stimulation but discontinue drinking immediately if you develop a skin rash or blindness; and contemplating stealing a new fangled laptop or maybe one of thos enew Macs that runs Windows and OS and Linux but how would you be able to grab it and knock out the clerk before all the cameras and alarms brought the cops with their newly-designed, extralite bulletproof nanotech suprefibre clothing, wearable computer hookups, stunguns, and classified antiterrorist weaponry down on your ass?  And smaller and smaller robots.  And smart dust technology.  And that omnipresent feeling now of being watched no matter how lab abiding you are.  And finally realizing that the Century is kicking in, albeit-- for those caught in the midst of the flux-- in very slow motion.
        And in the mall, on a television set behind glass, a newscaster reporting on the the war in Iraq, the price of oil and gas, the latest school shooting, the latest outbreak of plague:
        " hing that .couu..m.u.tes.ayaat.h..ing, whe-.- ever vaguely hi hauei ha ha h ctii s a ates-- and everything that a ha ha ha mak. . es from an o , ,pera to a chair c tw,,,,,,,,,riting-- I mean anyt anything, how  ,-  ever vagueddddly it hdandidcadtes-- dan ma . .dkd.,.,es from an sooooooopera to a chaffifrf cofmhfing t,.,., .,.,.,.,  . ,hat  comm  icatesmunicates something-- and so is thus a kind of hega.  f texdt. d.. dAndd by n't just h--a ha mean writing-- I -."

12.
And the rest of her day is spent silently doing menial, pointless, repetitious tasks for the promise of a small amount of money that is meant, not to validate her actions, but simply as a pathetic, hollow motivation for her to begrudgingly slouch on towards quitting time, then tomorrow and a half dozen more tomorrows and finally payday which even though a slap in the face still makes so much seem a little more worthwhile.

13.
And part of him is thrilled by all these new advancements in dosposable technology and postpostmodern fetish goods, but another part feels jealous of all the kids and their techie toys, thinks they're all spoiled and shallow and wasting their lives with their bradn new cars and gear, gizmos and flash and zing like he'd never dreamed would have existed this soon in his life-- out there for all to see but perpetually out of reach to him.  Not financially out of reach, mind you.  Out of reach simply because he's too old now.  That stuff's not his culture, and when the fuck did that happen?  And so he feels like the tired old GenX punk that he always was.  Only this time the tired isn't schtick, isn't an act, isn't a Kurt Cobain grunge pose.  It's the actual realiziation that somehow, while he was navelgazing and feeling sorry for himself the world did indeed pass him by.  And now there's no going back.  If he were to indulge himself in Blueberries and iBeanbags he'd just seem like some middle aged fool trying to regain a youth that was never his to begin with.  So what to do?  Wallow in the sadness of now?  Act like some "grownup" that he isn't?  Or embrace a false youth?  There are no options left that don't make him look ans seem like an embarrassment.  Stalemate.  Aporia.
        A girl talking to a friend on her cell phone.  Heated, passionate, full of meaning:
        ",ic .. thing, h vaowing, hevees anythoweverguely r vagniha ha ha huely it commua h cates-- ahinnd everytnd everytg t mathing th hat a ha ha hea niha ha ha ha h ca, tes-- and e.  Hveryth a hea ha ha ma ing that a ma oeera to a chakes from anir c tan anyt anywg-- I meeritinthing, h it hanicates-- a anperthing-- and a to a chair e someso.  A A A  A. fa to a ch by tes I dkes air, s from ting-- Iica me ean tes-- a,yt anyver athing, howe."

14.
Customer (old lady with a hat, smells like urine masked by cheap perfume):
        "b,eing makakakakakes frakomihus an writing-,,-- I me tes-- an-- d yyythinHHg tHat a AumaHn beiHAHng akes fmore an ..p  era to hair hair haair A comu nH-- Acates brI Alo ne ne ne ne  ha-- and. Io a kInd of tIxt.  atatataAAattes something HAs hAs-- AAAAAAAAAAA  nd so is thuse next.  hHow an ing make in from ing an in oH sound sound sound sound-- I mean aAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA kkkkkiii III ttt xt yy. "

15.

        And Paris Hilton's new song trickling faintly out of the open bay of a purse store.
        And a little boy with a fauxhawk screaming because his mom won't buy him a PSP so he can play Loco Roco at recess.
        And a frightened old man trying not to be intimidated by the tatooed girl selling them mexifries at the Taco Time kisok
        And all the emo teens dressed up all My Chemical Romance with black and red like they want to be Goths but that takes too much energy and commitment, and besides you have to be able to read books to be a Goth.
        And every tenth girl dressed like Betty Suarez.
        And Bob, listening to the "guely it hhtes" and "ing ma ha" of the self-mesmerized throngs and store PA voices, shields his eyes against the glare of the mall's neon, pressing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, feeling the sick soul-burn ache of selfawareness creeping into the back of his mind, wishes for something he can't puit into words, something that probably never even existed, but the presence of which he misses anyway.

16.
Customer (young boy looking for the latest Harry Potter book):
        "HaaaaaaAnd man-- tha ha ha o a chair-- it comean writing-- I mean anything that it comean writing.  A HA A.  c, , ho itg wever ha ha ha vaguef text.  Anhhnnanannnanahahamoe''mu'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''n."

17.
But he still feels young, still feels like he's 18, like he's not thirty-what?  What is it?  Thirty-Something?  He can't remember his exact age all of a sudden.  But he knows he's passed the 30-mark, and that he'd passed it quite a while ago.  And that time keeps on dragging him into the future, away from the meaningless significance of yoytrh and into some sort of indetreminate, time-lapsed wash of non event and dullness wheer every week is exaclkt like the last and days flicker by like handfulls of minutes and last week seems like it was only yesterday and yesterday is so close it doesn't even register in his mind as passed time.
        Sheilding his eyes from the sun, looking up at what the blue sky he can see between ageing buildings.
        And an old man sitting on the sidewalk outside, hand out, asking him for spare change:
        "Hit wvr oeoeoeo vglll'y ti ti ti covaccitate. Hit wvr oeoeoeo vglll'y ti ti ta vattitta't's. Hit wvr oeoeoeo vglll'y ti tvvatt oeooo hoo AH AH AttitAct,e."
 

18.
Customer (slacker, raver type, glazed eyes, smells like pot, buying a small stack of Kerouac and Bukowski):
        "akes from an op   iii u n im iccattettet hus ususu us su us us usus a kind of kII ty.  dnA yb c Aat tex' ts I don' jus mean wfuritck ing-- I ma th an a ,,,,,  thi'ng that cocococococoocococococococo.,--
        "vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv."
        And Heather, feeling herself weaken.

19.
And the migraine on him now in full force, his optic nerves raped by milliions of invisible chewing mice, and the smell of the city, of gas fumes from cars, the perfume reek of old women and the piss stench of the homeless, roasted coffee beans, his own sweat, autmun leaves all conspiring to drive him to bash his face into the bricks of a nearby bank.  But he resists the urge knowing that the pain of slefmutilation might bring relief, but at what cost?  And the sound of human voices like needles being shoved deep into his brain
        "opera to a chaera tir coera tmmuera tnicates somra tiethera ting-- anra tid so is thra ts a kind of text.  nd."
        "nd, ra maityxxn beixnHg--"
        "nwnwnwnwnw iityuiaiahyu , , , hhhhh--j HA, -- , IIIII I  comm coom yluuia gu gu-- A."
        "so so so . don''''''ttt ch A  t h   a   aA oh j hahha Ilyy itti, . bu e'very xxxxt."
        "chhtthhhtatttateattxxytoh-- II mtty oaoaoaoao ght vvx "
        And, "I huhab ahabbaman g sekmamm ass franb, yxts I, I , iu I ai .   cct coha mah mah hhallunicates-- and gg lo weve-- rying ryin, ry-- in. --.--  at a atta h.,.icat,m--es ythinguss ssospsesras stshsas hsas shsas od dad dcdhsaisrd scdo sm m d udn disc a s dd te, sss d iis iis ddin," Bob thinks as he walks along, grinding teeth and wishing he had a gun or a two-by-four or any other loud, dramatic, offensive weapon.  "And by texts I don't just ha ha mean writing,  guh. And by tex And by texts I don't just ha ha mean writi,'ng ts I don' And by texts I don't just ha ha mean writing t just h'a ha' me'''an wr And by texts I don't juxxxxxxxxx mean writing iting-- gux."
        Holding himslef back from vomiting on the hood of a parked car.  Holding himself back, but only barely.

20.
Night now, both home from the day's ordeal--
        Bob, eyes closed, on the couch, head tilted back--
        Heather, scanning the pages ofa  book, sitting beside Bob, the tv on in the background for neutral noise--
        "I don't just ha ha ha ha ha h mean cates," Heather says.
        Bob, his nerual network fogged by painkillers, thinks for a moment.
        "tIhat cicates anommunytommommununhing, howehamuver vaomely imunguely iely it commely iuniha," he says.  "ely i."
        Neutral noise on the tv-- Heather looking at her book-- Bob, eyes closed--
        "Iccitty , an manAAAA catgf vssnu wrrl d   dds tr, o--y--" without looking away from the page--
        Exhausted Bob, eyes closed-- tv neutral noise-- Heather and the book--
        Book-- tv-- eyes closed-- Bob--
        Heather-- Heather--
        "ely i," he says, feeling a lump in his throat that he hospes is just a muscle cramp being causaed by the oncoming welling-up of emotion, and not the symptoms of some sorty of age-based cancer.  And he wonders what Heather thinks about all this.  If she even thinks about all this, if she even cares.  And even if she does think about these things, and even if she does care, then so what?  What can she do but lie to him and tell him that everything will be alright.
        "ely i," he says.  "ely ,,,,,,,,,, i."
 

Next:  I just wanted to give you guys fire is all, so why's this big goddam bird eating my fucking liver?....