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Flapjack Fracking

Maple syrup (organic), a mountain of pancakes and the dingy bathroom in the basement. Water leaks down here, in a basement in grey, foggy Jersey, but I'm feeling tops. I've got a couple thousand kilograms of perfectly combined flour, eggs and milk. This great stack of flapjacks makes me grin wide and evil, and I damn near take out three of them at once. I fold, then stuff the saturated, dripping disks of heaven into my mouth, without shame sitting atop a toilet seat.

I didn't always resort to eating pancakes in a dungeon like setting. But when my girlfriend moved in, things changed. The obvious benefits of living with her (of which I am so gracious) are outweighed tenfold by her restriction of my pancake intake.

"You're addicted," she cried. "Your killing yourself. Can't you see it? Your going to get fired at this rate. Then we will never be able to move out of this dump."
(I like this dump.)

"Your being dramatic," I said. "I'm fine."

"Oh really? Look at yourself," she said, before holding a mirror in front of me. (Don't ask where she got a large mirror from.)

I looked at my reflection in horror. She went out to dinner with coworkers, and I told her I had something to work on. I actually had just laid in bed with my pancakes. I could barely lift my arms from my body, due to excess syrup residue. Pancake mix was stacked around the room like cocaine, and I had rolled a three stack together, creating a pancake monstrosity. I stopped chewing the fat, pancake creation and lamented, "I need help."

Though she held me close, hid all the necessary ingredients and helped me get clean, it didn't take long for me to find myself locked away, in a bathroom basement eating life's sweetest nectar.

"Honey?" my girlfriend's voice called.

Oh shit. Her footsteps neared, coming closer and closer. I tried to finish them all, before. she....

"Oh my god," she gasped.

"What?"

"Open your mouth," she demanded.

"No," I shot back, in a muffled tone.

"I can smell it. I can smell it. You're not even using the toilet."

I hung my head in shame. But this time she had a more drastic plan.

"It's called shock addiction treatment. They will show you pictures of the thing you are addicted to--" she looked at the "doctor".

"Pancakes, flapjacks, silver dollars, hubcaps, platters, charlie browns..."the doctor rang out.

"Right," my girlfriend said. "When it's finished, you won't want them anymore."

"Your brain will associate those Saturday morning delights with the pain of the shock. You ready?"

Of course he wasn't really asking me. I was already strapped up to the machine. Leads covered my body from my temples down to my ankles.

"Okay," I sighed.

"Love you baby," my girlfriend said. "And with this part of your life over and done with you can start working more hours and we can finally get our dream house."

"Dream house..." I said as a pipping hot, steaming pile of pancakes appeared on the screen.
One moment, I saw myself dining on the morsels, the next I was sent into an uncontrollable spasm.

"C'mon... what kind of sick, twisted quasi-scientific..."

More pancakes showed, this time chocolate chip. And again, electricity surged through my body.

"Baby," I plead. "I'll quit. Just end this madness."

"The doctor said you would say that."
Again and again, the treatment continued.

A couple weeks later, I was clean and clocking extra hours at work. I hadn't so much as thought about a pancake. To celebrate my sobriety, I met my girlfriend for lunch at a Brazilian restaurant in Hoboken. After parking the car, she looked over to me and said, "I'm so proud of you."
As we made our way to the restaurant door, a mad, zany, sleep deprived kid came running up to us yelling something unintelligible.

"What are you saying kid?" I shook him.

I'm interning for the radio station. It's just upstairs, and we are having a contest. My contestant just called out sick. Please help me out. The winner gets thirty-thousand dollars."

I perked up. My wife pushed me. So, we followed the kid up the stairs excitedly.

"Alright," he said. There is only one round. Let's hurry."

"What is the contest?" my girlfriend asked.

Her question was answered. On top of the table, inside the station's studio sat three plates of pancakes and two contestants already seated.

"Oh man," my girlfriend yelled. "We have this in the bag." She kissed me, told me to kick ass and stayed outside, while I was seated before a plate, pancakes, syrup, a knife and fork.

"Alright, we have our third contestant for WXRY's monthly flapjack fracking contest. On your marks.Get set. Go!"
I shoved my fork in, going with my old fold and stuff technique, but the moment it touched my mouth pain shot through me, and I shook in my chair almost falling to the floor.

"Hey, what's this guys problem? Eat the cakes," the radio host yelled.

I tried again, but the same outcome befell me. And the thirty-thousand dollars went to contestant number two. My girlfriend started to say something, but I put my hand up and said, "Let's just go home." Nothing more to say.
Goodnight.

Is Santa Gay?

Christmas wrapping paper, bubble gum stuck to a shoe and two trophies staring back at me, drunken. One of the trophies was from football. On top, a running back doing a stiff arm. The other, a man bowing: from acting. During summer camp, I took the stage as the scrooge in the Christmas Carol.
I can do grumpy.

When I was younger-- four or five-- I tried to steal actual Christmas as the Grinch did. I took all the gifts up to my room and put them in a plastic bag. My grandmother found me out, and I was forced to return them. What kind of kid wants to be the Grinch? Me. And I was a great Scrooge.

Any way, it's June. Hot (fucking hot) yet I promised my six-year-old nephew a Christmas present; I'm trying to wrap it, but I keep getting sidetracked by the trophies on a shelf in front of me. Perhaps I should pick the gum off of my shoe. Or maybe I should just wrap this silly game with all his favorite TV cartoon characters in it, running around shooting at aliens.

Why am I wrapping up a Christmas gift in June? Well, I saw him earlier this week, and he gave those big, chinchilla eyes.

"Alright, alright. Of course I will."

And here I am, staring down at infinite Santas with their hats covering one eye and the other eye is winking. Is Santa gay? Why is he winking at me like that? I did have a couple cups of wine; I should probably stop.

I folded back one edge of the paper, then another--tape--the top edge, then bottom edge--tape--el fin.

He will definitely like this present. I'm such a good uncle. For a broke twenty-two-year-old uncle, I'm damn near Jesus.

All said and done, I put a sticker on the present and wrote his name in my best cursive. The penmanship wasn't perfect; I've done better. I moved on to writing my name next to the "From:". I wrote my name clearly and legibly. I was proud of the whole bit, but that damn cursive I wrote looked like damn chicken scratch. Reluctantly, I tried to make a T more legible by curving the bottom of the line. It began to look more like a J. I licked my finger and and tried to rub the curve off the T. The ink smugged everywhere. GOD WHY?

I scribbled out the whole name, tried to rewrite it, scribbled that out, then ripped all those Santa's faces up. After tearing the wrapping paper off, I took the game out of the box, put it in my PS4 and played it. Whatever. Better luck next time... I'll probably just send him one of those trophies with a quote about narcissism taped to it. He'll get it one day....But tonight I'll fall asleep, hoisting Finn up in the air as Jimmy Neutron, to give him a better shot at an alien who is trying to eat Clarence.
Goodnight.

Why Is Haiti Poor?

Why Is Haiti Poor?

Self-evident ideas are without a doubt the most dangerous of them all.These ideas can be right without reason and accepted without question. Call it dogma, ideology, love-of, moral -- everyone has those things that are beyond reproach and are more or less common knowledge. Why are these ideas so dangerous, and what can we do to counteract such powerful forces? Well, maybe nothing; but maybe with a strong dose of thought, patience and a little help from a friend we can all cognate clearer.

Let's begin: Think of Haiti. What thoughts blossom when you consider the Caribbean island? There was an earthquake, an inescapable poverty (78% below the poverty line), deplorable housing, healthcare and education. This is a harsh reality that is no secret, but now I ask, why?

Do world powers like America share any fault?  Of course not we give tons of aid. Just bad luck? Probably not.

You might know that Haiti's founders were the first of any slaves to revolt and win. But what is lesser known is what happen after they freed themselves from the grips of Napoleon. And here I insert an excerpt from David Graeber's international bestseller, Debt.

...debt is not just victor's justice; it can also be a way of punishing winners who weren't supposed to win. The most spectacular example of this is the history of the Republic of Haiti--the first poor country to be placed in permanent debt peonage. Haiti was a nation founded by former plantation slaves who had the temerity not only to rise up in rebellion, amidst grand declarations of universal rights and freedoms, but to defeat Napoleon's armies sent to return them to bondage. France immediately insisted that the new republic owed it 150 million francs in damages for the expropriated plantations, as well as the expenses of outfitting the failed military expeditions, and all other nations, including the Unites States, agreed to impose an embargo on the country until it was paid. The sum was intentionally impossible (equivalent to 18 billion dollars), and the resulting embargo ensured that the name "Haiti" has been synonymous for debt, poverty, and human misery since.

If you where are already aware of the storied past than good for you. But, I share this 1) for the content itself and 2) for the self-evidence Graeber points out. 

A debt must be paid.

An interesting notion to think about. As for poverty, Haiti and common knowledge -- does this whittle at the foundations of any ideas you had? Should all debts really be paid?

Comment your thoughts.

Graeber, David. Debt. Melville House Publishing. London Oct. 2014.
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