Imported From Bashing Crosses

A Bed of Rags and Tears

The aroma of coffee entices you, filling your heart with the nostalgia built by a life of happy times. Outside, gentle squeak of swings are like a violin calling. You run down the stairs, every step plunging into the welcoming hug of the shag rug. The rays of the sun burst through the windows of the kitchen, warming rectangles on the tile of the floor. Dad is sitting at the table with the newspaper, waving his way from page to page, making the occasional grunt. The tangy smell of frying eggs and toast greets you. It’s Saturday, so no class threatens to touch your happiness. Mom looks over with a smile, sins of yesterday forgotten for the joy of today. Hoping onto the seat, you stare down at breakfast steaming its salutation with waving wisps of steam. You pick up the fork.

Then your eyes snap open, and it’s dark. Your hand plants on the frigid concrete of the alleyway ground, sweat dripping down the digits. It is always icy and dark in your new home. You pull the newspaper sheets way from your body. The cold of the air temporarily banishes the itch that runs along your skin with chronic consistency. You grip the biting brick of the building to pull yourself up. Looking at the exit of the alleyway, the sounds of cars and crowd return. And so does the voices. Judging, hating, frothing, the sound of their condemnation drags your heart down into the tar of the shadows. You remember. Father died a long time ago, smoking claiming another victim. Mother was taken not long after you entered college. At least you got the chance to say goodbye. It was a year after when the voices tore away the sanity of the world. You tried to continue, to make a life built on the American dream. But as reality and fantasy blurred, your scholarship, then your hopes, slipped away. One by one, everything you owned was taken away as debts mounted, till the only place left to sleep was on the street. In the voices of the crowd before you, you hear the mocking murmur. You beg for money and food, among the junkies and downtrodden, looking down so your eyes won’t betray your shame.


I once believed that the American dream could touch everyone. When I looked upon those who begged on the sidewalk, I did so with disdain. Hard work could build a life for anyone, and those who had less simply deserved less. They were lazy, perhaps less intelligent. But it was their fault they did not live like royalty. I looked at the rare examples of those who rose above their simple beginnings as proof.

I would have continued to do so, until I actually started to work for money myself. I have been unusually blessed, and did not have to worry about money at the time. But a lady I worked with did not have such luck. She had three kids, and two jobs. Working in the bakery of a supermarket simply could not supply for those she loved. I found out that every month, they had to worry about whether this month would be one of starvation. In worse case, she had to fear that they might lose the roof over their heads. I knew of no one that worked harder. Watching her, I realized how bigoted I was. Yet still, my belief in the idea of people making their own way held against reality.

It was not until I started volunteering that I realized that people, even those that were poor and destitute, were people as equal as any other. I was watching those who entered the food bank, when I saw a grungy Latino man enter. In knew that his clothes were, most likely, second hand. I felt the twinge of disdain building in my throat. I wondered, with a little shame even then, whether he was illegal. All this happened within the space of less than a second, right before his daughter entered. She was the picture of a cute kid. Even more surprising, she had earrings and her dress looked new. Then I realized what should have been instantly obvious. He had been spending all of his money on her, most likely so she would be spared ridicule at school. That twinge in my throat turned into disgust for myself.

Since then, I have met a number of people who have little money. I have even met a few who were homeless. All were just people. Their lives were less fortunate, but often it had nothing to do with laziness. A simple cruel twist of fate was all that was needed to steal their belongings away. Many homeless have mental problems, which builds a barrier against them entering the work force. People treat them like a disease, much like racists treated non-white people decades before.

The disease, however, is not the poor people. It is in our view of them. The bigoted thoughts I had before are echoed in the comments of the people around me. I wonder when the idea, that people could build empires from dust, turned into disgust for those who couldn’t.

Yes, here is when the fools will start spouting about the American Dream. What the defenders of greed forget, however, is that such a dream is not made alone. It is built by people coming together, pulling up those who fall.

Change starts with the views of the public. So, perhaps it is time to change the discussion. Instead of focusing on what the poor and the destitute are not contributing, let’s focus on changing the equation so that they are given the chance build themselves. Somehow the idea of America became about taking for ourselves. It is time to start finding out how giving gives back, truly turning rags and tears to riches.

The Smile Fatale

Psychic Abilities.

As I ended my last post announcing that I would be elucidating on my experiences with the book club members, I must now keep that sacred promise. I realize many of you may be unsure of how talking to mature women might relate to learning about girls our age. This will clear the smoke from the subject, as I relate some stunning information that I have gathered.

Women are psychic. No, not in the "your mother has eyes in the back of her head" way. I mean: actually having abilities beyond the kenning of men. I have drawn such conclusions from direct observation. And, there can be no better evidence then what we perceive with our own two eyes.

When I first observed the banter of the six women sitting at the table before me, I was struck by their infallible knowledge of each others thoughts. One would speak, and before she could finish, another would continue that thought. This did not cause any friction, because it was obvious that they both knew were the thought was leading, and thus left it unstated. I have never observed this with males. The most perceptive comment I have heard from men is "you look like you need a beer". Thus, some quality must be absent from men, but present in women.

Being a logical person, I eventually rejected the idea of this ability being magic based. While I am not a scientist, I use the scientific method of precluding magic, because otherwise I'd spend my days wondering if my mother knew when I did some... embarrassing things in the privacy of my room. So I came to the most logical assumption.

Females communicate through scent. This is not so radical an idea. Ants communicate via scent, especially when transferring information about the best path to food. Cats and dogs also communicate with scent, sometimes all over a couch.

But such a realization is just supposition without actually testing the theory. So, in the name of science, I gassed. I was absolutely silent. In fact, I was barely able to tell I did so. I definitely could not smell it myself. In spite of this, the lady across from me stopped and stared at me for the briefest of seconds, giving me the proof I needed. The conversation also experienced a momentary hiccup a few seconds latter. I never did smell it, which proves that women have a far better sense of smell then men. And that proves that women have what I have come to term: psychic smell.

Thus, from this realization, I suggest several things. The first is to avoid gassing in the presence of women. While the group I was with was quite tolerant, there is no guarantee of such. Second, try to wear multiple colognes, as this will confuse any woman you meet and allow you an opening to speak. Third, while playing an online role-playing game, try gassing. If the "female" does not react, then the character is most likely not a female at all.

I will have more information in the next installment.

Ichabod Worthington

Success!

I am proud to report some success in my endeavors. While it is not perfect, I have been able to infiltrate a group of females. The affect this success will have on my investigations cannot be measured. The best part is that they chose me, instead of my seeking them out.

Voices murmured in the air. Plates clanked, the smell of burnt grease floated like invisible smoke. The words on the glaring white page in front of me were a blur of grey, indecipherable lines. The restaurant glowed with light, catching people outside and through the glass window with its warmth. Despite all the light, a darkness haunted the area around my mind, a sea of dread suffocating me. They were all staring at me. I could feel their gazes beating down on me, needles of judgment. They were all laughing. They were thinking "Fatso" and "Failure", gaping at me in horror. They were the enemy. Everyone in the restaurant was watching me, even people on the sidewalks peeked at me with sidelong glances. I didn't belong. I didn't want to belong. Suddenly, it came back. I could hear it again. The sound of a belt whispering, and I knew he was coming again. The snap as the belt clapped against itself, I could see him through the white of the page. I shut the book with a thump, and was about to leave when I felt a soft hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, I saw you reading that book. Haven't met many college students who like feminist books. You know, you could join us at our table. I was also sort of wondering, are you ok?"

I held my breath to catch my hyperventalation, then let go with a sigh. I grabbed the chair and turned toward the woman, and instantly though I was looking at my mother. The thought fadded as I realized they looked nothing alike, but the she was in her fifties. Frazzled black-brown hair and a thin nose, she had a gentle smile on her face. Over her should, a group of five women her age and older sat surrounding a round table, waving at me. I immediately recognized the opportunity to improve my research.

As it turned out, they were holding a book club meeting. I never liked books, more prefering the glare of a computer screen, with the internet's flying facts. They seemed nice enough, but that's how everyone seems before you get to know them. Strangely enough, they were accepting, something I never expected from non-Geeks. Perhaps it is an attribute age develops. But in any case, I've run out of room in this update.

So, look for an update next time to find out what I learned.

Ichabod Worthington

The first step is a long one.

I tried to meet with different women. And by that I mean... nothing has happened. And this leads to the first lesson I have learned.

Apparently, introducing yourself by declaring "Hello, I am a Geek, would you like to go out with me?" is ineffective. This may seem odd to many of you, as it has become somewhat of a badge of pride among our people. This feeling of kinship, it seems, does not extend to the rest of the populous. It is therefore necessary, for any Geek meeting an actual woman, to realize that they will not react with friendly emotions to such a declaration.

This discovery has lead to another realization. We have to camouflage ourselves. Letting our inner spirit burst forth in the face of the public is a societal taboo. It is thus necessary to act like the shadows that walk around us.

That's right. They are shadows. They are not like us. They do not have an understanding of the power of the computer spirit. How it draws forth creativity, how it brings an understanding of ourselves on a level that no other medium can meet. People who do not understand are shadows. And, the shadows are against us.

It is therefore necessary when we venture out of our Geek world to understand. Understand that because the world is against us, we must make an effort to protect ourselves. Think of it as your Hazmat suit. I will lay out the rules necessitated by our situation.


1) Do not call yourself a Geek. This would be like smearing yourself with steak juices and jumping into a dog kennel. Plus that's a horrible way of hiding. Think of an American spy running naked through the USSR, screaming "I am an American spy". That would be bad.

2) As a continuation of the above rule, make sure you deny any programming knowledge with extreme care. No one will be impressed by your knowledge of C++. In fact, they will probably think you are referring to your grades in an idiotic manner.

3) Avoid Geek lingo. Saying the word "leet" will immediately make your affiliation known. Then they will eat you.

4) Avoid playing video games with non-Geeks. While this may be an especially hard rule to keep, your unparalleled abilities in the digital world will be your undoing. If forced to play, make sure to lose, no matter how much doing so may irk your soul. Make sure to drool as you play, that way you will blend in with greater ease.

5) Avoid teasing females. While this may be acceptable in the digital world, you are usually dealing with other males anyway. Telling a female "your face looks like an ironing board" will have disastrous results.

6) Act like you are interested in sports. This is especially true of football. Be careful in your zest, however. Learn which team the non-Geeks are cheering for, commonly through observation. Cheer for that team. Cheering for the apposing team could lead to you getting beaten. Which would be unpleasant.

7) Most importantly, never stroke the people around you. Yes, it is amazing how "lifelike" they are. This is because they are actual real. Stroking them to confirm this fact, however, could lead to injury, even death. You just have to trust they are real.


Obviously, the outside world is a dangerous place. I will suffer so you may learn. The first step has been long and painful, so please appreciate this and use my advice.

Ichabod Worthington

A Geek's Lion Cry

All Geeks know the sacraments of our world view. Phenomenon, such WOW, may be used by the public at large, but the "masses" could never understand that such things are a lifestyle, not mere games. The fact that I can skip sleep for an entire week is a testament to the indomitable spirit, a spirit that is housed somewhere between my colon and my heart. Sometimes it rumbles and I have to get up to open the fridge. The fact that the said spirit tumbles over my belt, while physically unflattering, is a point of pride.

Yes, people may mock me because I look like Santa's deficient cousin. But I understand, as I know many of my fellow Geeks do, that my belly represents progress. No longer are we in the dark ages, where we had to use dice and pencils for our Geekery. No longer do we have to run to our friend's basement to play role-playing games on dusty old table tops. No longer do we have to swing fake swords at each other in the park, all the while trying to ignore the guy that came dressed to the game as an elven princess. Now, all we have to do is sit at a computer and press buttons.

I know, there are many other ways in which the Geek life can manifest. We have adherence to good grades and abhorrence of exercise, among others. The belief in the betterment of the fantasy world, however, is something around which any Geek can rally. And, as I have stated before, we now have the world at our fingertips.

Something that has always eluded us, however. It is the beautiful creatures that dance through our dreams: women. While we can have girl characters in our computer games, it simply is not the same. Yes, I have a 2D girl friend too, and I know many of you Geeks out there have favorites that you love. But, I'm sure you feel it too. Something is missing.

So, in the name of Geeks everywhere, I must step up and venture out. I'm going to attempt to learn all I can about the female race. I will go where no Geek has gone, despite the great terror I must face outside this room. Since I'm not a scientist, I'm going to have to use my own special brand of logic to understand what I learn. And then I will pass on this information to you. Through this venture, the mystery that surrounds women will waft away. We will be able to understand everything about them, so we can better discover them online. After this, we will not date other characters online, only to find out our "lesbian" partner was really just another guy. Because that is awkward.

Ichabod Worthington

Spam

Arch of Heroes: Final Draft

“C’mon man, hurry up.”

I stood transfixed by the arch of elephant grass, towering before me. Greek heroes would pass through such arches when adventure beckoned them away to distant shores. Marble would hide the sun until it burst through the hole of the portal, lighting their faces with the cleansing warmth. They trampled rose petals thrown from a thousand lovers. While walking with brutes who would betray them, such heroes knew that just beyond lay truer hearts. The cheering crowd would yell:

“What are you doing? I’ll drag your ass if I have to.”

The tunnel had always been a conduit between the gated community and mine. The tunnel was dark from the roof grass that covered it, at times seeming a sinister pathway. On the other side, however, was a magical world of the rich, on mine was the every American subdivision. The houses were nicer, and the cars were sportier, and all I had to do was walk through the tunnel. To a kid of ten living in a run down rural subdivision, the other side was more then houses. It was a place where adventure breathed in the wind.

I entered the grass tunnel. I left behind the static world of my own subdivision. The tunnel before me merely led to the gated community on the other side, but in my mind it was the difference of two worlds. My world of existed as etched glass, but the world on the other side ran with vibrant colors. The emerald leaves pulled at my skin with itchy hairs. The rustle of the leaves gently tickled my ear, and the air darkened. Into the forest of green we charged, uninhibited by a past, unaware of the future. Blades cut red lines into my legs, yet I could not leave my comrades to fend for themselves in such darkness. A silhouette of a monstrous man appeared before me, and it was clear that this was the guardian of the path, the last obstacle before I could again draw free air. I knew such beasts are meant to be slain, yet I had no weapon to bear against the brute. With a courageous battle cry I lowered my shoulder towards the unaware foe, and charged, my only thoughts of freeing my friends, whom he had imprisoned.

“Ouch! What? Why… I don’t know why we brought you along.”

I had always been the runt of the group, the smallest of the group of miscreants with whom I stuck. Tolerated but not loved, seen but never truly trusted, I had always thought friendship was a mystery for someone else. In this other place, however, perhaps better people existed. I always came with that silent, unknown hope.

He picked me up. He was much older than I was, and bigger. Like a giant, and sometimes, just as mean. Captured by the cruel giant, heaved over his back like a sack of rice, I was destined for a death unfit for my status. Knowing fate would not intervene, I wriggled against the gargantuan human’s hold, but escape was not meant to be. We left the tunnel behind, the brightness of the outside world almost blinding me. Around me I saw glorious structures, perhaps from civilization long lost. The wind soared around me, a strong with the sour scent of vegetation and mud. The area was deserted, yet the giant and his brothers looked around with suspicious intent, perhaps fearing another would steal their precious meal. The giant dropped me to the ground, the ruin they had picked was blocked from the view by other such structures.

“Stay here. If you see anyone, yell. You got that? Okay.”

I could hear the creaking call of the chair swinger. The house across from me didn’t have mold growing from the beige wall shingles. The windows didn’t have dust clouding the panes. The back yard didn’t have weeds, and it was surprisingly well kept. The blades of grass did not vary in their height. It even had a tiny house for some hidden animal. I had never seen the house before. It hurt, however, that a house could be all that mine was not, so I didn’t really think about how my associates were casing the house.

My associates ran around the house. They looked in all the windows as if they suspected someone was home. Then they huddled by the door, one of the barbarians trying to work the knob. I thought it past the capabilities of such brutes, to plumb the depths of such an ancient tomb took ingenuity, but as it turns out, strength is sometimes a substitute. Such treasures do not so easily gift strangers, and they were greeted by a wailing banshee, keening at their insolence. Invisible, it chased them and ignored the lone hero, sitting upon the knoll. Not so, however with Cerberus. It heaved itself upon thick legs, launching its log like body forward with every gallop. Doom approached with speed, staring into my eyes with evil intent.

I felt someone scoop me up and throw me across his shoulder. For a couple of seconds I felt my liver pinch and my throat swell. My comrades were with me all along. My comrades ran back, in the face of danger, to pull their fellow hero out of the fire. Fire represented by the slobbering wolf chasing after us. I could hear its heavy panting, its galloping footsteps as I stared into its face. It looked oddly happy, liquid dripping from the lolling tongue. It chased us back to the tunnel of grass. The dog monster, however, stopped with a yelp as it reached the end of its tether, and watched us with bloodshot, lonely eyes. We returned heroes, backs to the orange glow to the setting sun, victoriously rushing home.


Works Cited

Purdue OWL. "MLA Formatting and Style Guide." The Online Writing Lab at Purdue. 10 May 2008. Purdue University Writing Lab. 12 May 2008 .