The Truth About Monticello Avenue: It’s Where Main Street Dies

Posted on January 30, 2011 by Hal

Monticello Avenue is the main road through Potomac Village, Virginia. Actually, Route 1 is the main road, because it’s straight and has about six lanes and gets you from Washington, DC to Fairfax county quickly. Monticello Ave has just two lanes and is lined with shops.

Route 1 is lined with strip malls and massive stores, like Circuit City, Linens and Things, and Pets.com. So most people shop there, ‘cause they have parking and the stuff people want, for really cheap. I guess. I don’t understand all the demographics. But it’s been fierce competition for Monticello Ave for years. And mostly, Monticello Ave has been losing. I mean, they don’t have much parking and you have to pay for it and the stores are all small.

Back in the 90s they had a big ad campaign to get people to shop here. They made all these posters that read, “Monticello Avenue, Where Main Street Thrives.” Only it didn’t work and people continued to shop on Route 1 and the stores continued to close on Monticello Ave. So people started to say, “Where Main Street Dies.”

My grandfather’s building used to be like a convenience store. Actually, it was my great-grandparents that ran it. It’s bigger than most of the others shops on the street, so maybe that’s why it lasted longer. But when I was around 10 they went out of business.

Monticello Avenue, or The Mont, is only a few blocks from my house, so I walked over to meet my grandfather. He’s meeting with a real estate agent to talk about selling the place and I said I’d join him, to help him out and offer my business advice. Unfortunately, I don’t really know anything about business. Or real estate. I guess it’s more moral support.

I don’t know what The Mont was like back in the 50s or whenever it was an actual Main Street, but now it’s pretty seedy, as the old folks say. There’s a pharmacy and dry cleaners, some fast food places, and a generic convenience store. It’s got to be a bad sign when your neighborhood can’t support a chain convenience store. This one’s called Seven Comes Eleven and has two dice on its sign. I don’t know why they don’t get sued.

There’s also a Mexican restaurant, several laundromats, a pupusaria, a pawn shop, some pizza delivery places, a second-hand shop, and a restaurant called Breakfast Breakfast. But it serves lunch too. Also a Western Union and some other places where you can wire money, and a couple payday loan places. And everywhere there are unemployed people and folks standing around looking for a job, watching the cars drive by, waiting for a truck to pull up and offer them work.

I guess I have a lot in common with these guys. They’re out of work and so am I. But somehow I don’t feel all that connected to them. In fact, I felt a bit nervous standing in front of my grandfather’s building. I stepped into the doorway and pulled out my cell phone. I don’t actually have cell service (no money), but I didn’t want to look weird just standing here.

“You must be Hal.” I turned and saw this guy in a suit staring at me with his hand out. I put my phone away. His hand was still out there, waiting. So I shook it. “Great to meet you. I’m Reginald Wiggelah.”

This dude just told me his name is Reggie Wiggly. Totally out of the blue. This is a strange street. Just to be on the safe side I gave him my best blank stare.

“I’m your father’s real estate agent,” he said.

“Grandfather’s,” I said.

“Right,” he said, “you do seem a bit young to be his son.”

“Yup,” I said. I never know what to say in these situations. You know, meeting people and stuff. Luckily, Reggie is the kind of guy who can handle both sides of a conversation.

“You must be excited for your grandfather,” he said. “Getting ready to sell a building that’s practically an institution on The Mont. I remember coming here as a kid to buy candy. I’m sure you have many fond memories of the place too.”

See what I mean? I didn’t need to say a word. But I took him for just another poseur, trying to butter me up like a butterball.

“I’m sure you’re wondering about my marketing plan for your grandfather’s building,” he said, like I actually knew what that meant. Reggie’s plans were actually the last thing on my mind. OK, I take that back, it wasn’t even on my mind, in any ordered or unordered list.

“Does it need to be marketed?” I asked. “Don’t you just stick a For Sale sign in the window?”

Reggie laughed for some reason but before he could bore me with an answer my grandfather arrived. Reggie introduced himself and then led us to the opposite side of the street. Apparently we had to, “see the big picture,” to fully understand his, “customized marketing plan.” Whatever, it was weird to stare at the building and see how it kind of stands out next to all the others.

“That’s it,” said my grandfather, “my albatross.”

Most of the buildings on The Mont are just one or two stories tall. My Gramps’ has five. So it sort of looms over the rest of the street. It’s brick with two large glass windows on either side of the front door. On the right hand side is another door that takes you up to the second floor. There used to be offices up there I guess. You can still see the names of the businesses on the windows. There was a bail bondsman and a lawyer and something that just has the letters L, F, and T; the rest have peeled off.

The first floor still has a huge sign over it, “The Green Grocer.” All of the windows were really dirty, but none were smashed.

When Reggie felt we’d, “gotten the big picture,” we headed back across the street to look inside. My Gramps pulled out a key chain filled with keys and started trying them. About the fifth he got the door to open and we went in.

It was dark and musty. Gramps stumbled around looking for a light switch. There was nothing by the front door. We probably should have gone in the back. The front windows were covered in dust and grime, but still let in a lot of light. The old refrigerator cases still lined the walls, and shelves divided the room into aisles.

Gramps headed to the office in the back and a minute later the lights came on. Most of the shelves were empty, but here and there was a box of mac and cheese or a can of ravioli.

Gramps returned. “My father bought this place, gosh, I don’t even remember how long ago. He sold produce here. He was the green grocer. I worked here as a kid, but after I graduated college I got a 9 to 5 job. This place, he’d be up at the crack of dawn every day to drive into the District to get the freshest produce. But I went to college. I had no interest in working those kind of hours.”

Reggie was walking around the place, looking at the ceiling, stomping on the floor. My grandfather continued. “Your mom worked here when she was a girl. You never did, though.”

“No,” I said.

“It used to be the best produce in all of northern Virginia. Then the supermarkets came in and no one cared about green grocers. He kept the name, but it became just a regular grocery store. It was never as successful, competing with all the convenience stores.”

“How long has it been shut up?” Reggie asked.

“Gosh, I don’t know,” said my Gramps. “Hal, you remember it being open?”

“Yeah, when I was little,” I said.

“Maybe 10, 15 years?” said Gramps.

“It’s in really good shape considering,” said Reggie.

“The upstairs had offices and above that there were apartments. We rented them out after the store closed. I think the last business moved out about five or six years ago.”

“And it’s been empty since then?” asked Reggie.

“Yup,” said Gramps. “No one has been in this building in at least five years.”

That’s when we heard a giant thump in the back. I about jumped out of my skin.

“Rats,” said my grandfather.

“I think not,” said Reggie.

We heard something crash and then some banging. I started shaking but Reggie and my Gramps were cool. Then we heard a booming voice yell, “Get out!”

Before I could turn and run, my grandfather yelled back, “You get out!” and started walking back toward the noises.

“I’m calling the police,” shouted Reggie, though he made no move for his phone.

Before my grandfather could get to the door to the back office someone came running out and swung at him with an aluminum baseball bat.

Without thinking I ran behind a row of shelves and ducked down to hide. Then I poked my head out to see if my grandfather was OK. The person hadn’t hit him, but my grandfather had recoiled.

It was a boy with stringy hair and dirty clothes. He was pointing the bat at my grandfather.

“Grampa, get out of there!” I yelled. The boy hissed at us.

Reggie remained cool, like this was all part of his marketing plan. Slowly, he walked up to my grandfather and pulled out his cell phone. “We own this building,” he said. “Who are you?”

The boy pointed the bat at Reggie. He was shaking. I wondered who was more scared.

“I’m Zoe.”

“Well Zoe,” said Reggie, “You are trespassing. I am calling the police. I suggest you leave.”

Zoe pointed the bat at Reggie, then at my Grandfather, and then he turned and ran out the back. Maybe Reggie wasn’t a poseur after all. Though I still had my doubts.

“Hobos,” said my grandfather. “Wasn’t rats, was the damn hobos.”

“We’ll need to change the locks,” said Reggie. He put away his cell phone.

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The Truth About Congress: They Don’t Legislate Based on Opinion Polls

Posted on January 23, 2011 by Hal

Right now, the Grand Old Party of the Republic is trying to rollback the health care reform Congress passed last fall. Last week the House voted to repeal the entire law.

The Senate is refusing to take up the measure, so that will go nowhere. But they have vowed to fight it in other ways.

One of the Grand Old Party of the Republic’s criticisms is that the Democrats “rammed” all this legislation down the country’s throats. They even described it as tyranny, quoting polls that showed a majority of Americans are against it.

Well you know what? Congress doesn’t legislate based on opinion polls. That’s not how it works.

Maybe all of you were asleep in social studies class, but the truth is, we have a representative democracy. Which means that we elect people and they enact legislation.

Congress isn’t American Idol. We don’t get to vote on new bills by calling in. That’s just stupid. Nothing would ever get done. Not that much gets done now.

But if you elect people and they go and enact legislation, that is democracy, not tyranny. I mean, you can object to it. Lord knows I hated plenty of legislation that the Old Party of the Republic passed when they were in charge. But I didn’t think it was illegal. Stupid, sure, misguided, yeah, bound to doom our country, yup. And it did. But I knew it was happening because the Old Party of the Republic was in charge. That’s how it works.

OK, California is different. Sounds like everything out there is a ballot measure. Want to fix potholes? Better have a ballot initiative. But really, I don’t think that’s an effective form of government. Didn’t the Greeks try that? I think once you are bigger than a city-state direct democracy gets unwieldy.

Sure they still have that in New Hampshire. Town meeting they call it. Everyone of voting age meets and they vote on stuff. But I don’t think it works much beyond a town that’s major issues are repairing the covered bridge or how much to tax maple syrup production.

And I don’t think the Internets would help. You can vote on stuff in Xbox Live. Neil was online last night and we were laughing about using Xbox Live to run the country. Could you imagine? We’d have legalized pot and free pizza delivery. And that’s about all Xbox players would agree on. I can tell you that right now.

Neil might be coming over tonight. That’d be cool. We play Xbox online, but it’s still good to see him in person.

He’s actually a good looking dude. I mean, the way one dude can appreciate how another dude looks. He’s got sandy blond hair, and always a bit of razor stubble. I mean, on me razor stubble looks awful and probably scares little kids. But on him, it just makes him more manly. Kind of rugged, like in those truck commercials. Makes him look like he can take care of himself. All because of his razor stubble. Ha, sometimes I’m stupid.

And he always smells good. OK, I’m not being weird. I can’t stand the way most people smell. Especially girls. Girls always smell this weird, acidic, I don’t know what. They try and hide it with perfume and stuff. I guess that’s why they all wear so much of it. And a lot of guys have b.o., But Neil smells good. Clean and, I don’t know, like a guy should I guess.

Anyway, it’d be good to see him tonight.

Today I’m back at my grandfather’s retirement community.

“You’re back,” my grandfather said when he opened the door.

“It’s good to see you too,” I said.

“Well, I guess you should come in,” he said. My family is very close; we just don’t show it. Or act like it.

“Thanks,” I said, as I walked in.

He has a small apartment. It’s got a bedroom and a kitchen and a living room/dining room area. And a bathroom of course. It’s nice, clean, whatever, it’s all he needs.

“Your mother tell you to get out again?” he asked.

I sat down at the kitchen table and he got me a glass of orange juice even though I didn’t ask for one. “I just figured it’d be best if I wasn’t around when she was home,” I said.

“Well you’re just in time for my afternoon pills,” he said. He pushed aside a pile of mail to make room on the table. On the top was an official looking letter from city hall.

“You in trouble with the law or something,” I joked.

“Oh, it’s that building of your great grandfathers. It’s nothing but trouble. Takes all my money in taxes and now the police are telling me there are hobos living in there.”
I picked up the letter. “I don’t think they call them hobos anymore Grampa.”

“And this place isn’t getting any cheaper,” he said, gesturing at the kitchen walls. “I’d sell that building if I could, but nothing’s moving in this economy.”

He opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a pill box. It was pink and had AFTERNOON printed in huge letters on the side. He opened the box and dumped the contents into a saucer. He took the pills out one at a time, swallowing each with a lot of water.

He held out an orange one. “This one costs fifty dollars,” he said, a bit too loud because of his hearing loss. “Fifty dollars for one pill. I had to pay for that too, because I’m in the donut hole.”

I drank the orange juice. He swallowed the pill.

“That’s what they call it, when you run out of your insurance for your pills. Donut hole. Doesn’t even make sense. And they say seniors are senile. We’d never call running out of something a donut hole.” He swallowed another pill. This one was beige. “I love donuts.”

“Me too,” I said.

“They don’t let me eat them,” he said. “Because of my high cholesterol. I take a pill for that too. But it’s still high. You know why?”

“Why?” I asked.

He swallowed another pill. “Too many donuts,” he answered, and then laughed. A lot.

“Can we go down to the computer lab again?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “It’s not like I have any plans. I was going to watch that show where the judge tells the stupid people who’s right and who’s wrong.”

“You like that show?” I asked. I try to avoid daytime TV.

“Sure. People love that show. Everyone wants someone to tell us who’s right and who’s wrong. They never agree; but they always want to hear it.” He swallowed another pill. “It’s because people are stupid.”

“Very uplifting Grampa,” I said.

“I like to think you come here for my wisdom. Since I’m so old.”

“Everyone is cynical now,” I said, “not just old people.”

After he finished taking his pills we made our way down to the computer lab, but the attendant stopped us at the door. “Computers aren’t working today,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “They aren’t working.”

“Typical of this place,” my grandfather said. “They charge you an arm and a leg but nothing works.”

“Grandpa, can’t you fix them?”

“When I worked on computers they were as big as this building. Vacuum tubes,” he said. “No vacuum tubes, I can’t help you.”

“Hopefully we can get someone in here to fix them soon,” she said. She walked off down the hall.

My grandfather started walking down the hall in the opposite direction. I asked him where he was going and he told me he had to check the mail.

Alone now, I tried the door to the computer lab. It was unlocked so I went in.

I can’t afford to replace my laptop so I’ve gotten pretty good at fixing it. And I couldn’t resist showing up that woman since she’d yelled at me last time. So I turned on one of the computers.

As it was booting up I could tell tell it wasn’t connected to the Internet. I don’t know how I knew, I just did. I get that way sometimes. And sure enough, I was unable to get online. I tried another computer and it wouldn’t connect to the Internet either. After a couple minutes of searching, I found the modem and router in a cabinet next to the fireplace. It had lots of flashing red lights on it, which didn’t seem right. So I unplugged it, waited a minute, and plugged it back in. All the lights turned green so I checked the two computers and sure enough, they were connected to the Internet.

My grandfather came in as I was logging into my blog. “Got it to work, did you?” he asked.

“The modem needed to be rebooted,” I told him.

He sat down next to me and went through his mail. He divided them into piles and then took one of the piles and tossed it in the trash can. I glanced over and saw another official looking letter. He hadn’t pushed it all the way back in, so I read it over.

“Grampa, this says you owe thousands of dollars in taxes!” I said.

“It’s just real estate taxes,” he said. “Not like the IRS. They carry guns.”

“Gramps, you still have to pay it,” I said, pulling the letter out. “They can sue you or send you to jail.”

“They wouldn’t send an old man to jail,” he said.

“No Gramps, it says right here they might,” I said.

He shrugged and picked up a magazine, but I was worried. The letter said the city was considering taking him to court. I finished up my blog post, but I was thinking about how to help him.

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The Truth About Video Games: They Don’t Teach Violence

Posted on January 17, 2011 by Hal

The debate rages; do video games teach kids to be violent? Conservatives, who are supposed to oppose federal regulations, continue to fight to make it illegal to buy violent video games. Which is typical because conservatives are hypocrites and poseurs.

They claim the first amendment doesn’t apply to violent images. That’s mighty convenient for those strict constitutional constructionists. They want no limits on the second amendment, but plenty on all the others. So yes, they are OK with everyone owning guns, but get upset about using fake guns. Total hypocrites.

Their argument is that video games teach kids to solve their problems through violence. I play a lot of video games and you know what I’ve learned? If you pick attack someone with a gun, you will be killed. A lot.

Based on my experience, if I was in an actual war, I’d die as soon as the bullets start flying. At the invasion of Normandy I’d never make it off the boat. During Black Hawk Down I’d never have found that helicopter; I’d be dead on the road into Mogadishu. If I’d been a spy during the Cold War we’d all be voting for the next head of the Soviet Union (except they still wouldn’t allow elections).

Because video games are fake. When you die in a game you can just do a reset and try again. And, in fact, that’s how video games are designed. You have to die to learn how to win.

In a game you’re presented with a challenge, the level or mission or whatever, and you try to beat it or win something. And you do it by trial and error. And believe me, you’ll make a lot of errors. Eventually, from trying different tactics, you figure out how to succeed. But you learn that from dying. Over and over and over.

As we all know, in the real world, you only die once. This seems obvious enough, but apparently the video game haters don’t know it. Because if video games have taught me anything it’s this: If I want to live, I should never go into a war zone.

Obviously there is a huge difference between me, in my mom’s basement, shooting at members of The Covenant and the members of our armed forces fighting wars for us. They know what they are doing. In fact, they train for hours and hours and hours. They learn from years and years of experience the best way to subdue the enemy. So when they eventually encounter the enemy, it’s all rote. They follow their orders and perform in the way they were trained.

I don’t have that kind of patience. When I play a video game I just jump in and try any old, crazy thing. I’ve been known to spend all night trying to beat the same level. Sometimes all week if it’s a really hard game. And sometimes I never figure it out and just laugh at myself as I get blown up.

But it’s only funny because it’s fake. You’d have to be an idiot to play a video game and think it means you’re qualified to fight a war.

So take that, conservative establishment! Now the truth is out there and like life on planet Pandora, you can’t put that back in your box and smoke it!

I thought about this all weekend, while playing video games. I spend most weekends gaming. Usually I play online with Neil, but he wasn’t on. I don’t know what he was doing, probably out in the real world or something, or hung over.

I was going to spend most of today in the basement, gaming, but my mom told me she wants me to get out of the house. I sort of hate leaving the house. It’s not really my thing, the real world. So many weird things happen out there. But she wanted me out, so I took the bus to visit my grandfather. I’ve been there before. He lives in a nursing home, or retirement community, or continuing care retirement community, or whatever they are calling it these days.

“It’s an old folks home,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s what they call it Gramps,” I said.

“Well that’s what I call it.”

He’s old, obviously, and yells a lot. It’s ‘cause he’s hard of hearing and can’t always hear himself. He has hearing aids but they never work as well as late night commercials lead you to believe. Imagine that, television ads lying to you.

We were hanging out together in the computer lab at his retirement community.

“How long are you going to be in here?” he yelled.

“We’re here for you,” I said, looking over at the attendant.

“Me? I don’t use these fool machines,” he said. “You said you wanted to get on the line so we came down here. It’s pudding time.”

The attendant looked over at me. “No Gramps, remember you asked how to use Facebook?”

“Facebook, Facebook, Facebook. I’m sick and tired of hearing about this Facebook. That’s all they talk about in the lounge.”

“It is?” I asked.

“All I hear is, ‘Did I show you the pictures of my grandchildren on the Facebook?’ and ‘Oh, my son is so important, he has his own Facebook now. I’ll Facebook you about it later.’ Seems like it’s just another way for people to feel important about themselves.”

“I can set you up with an account,” I said.

“Are you going to give me some grandchildren?”

“What?” I said, “no, I’m not even . . . what?”

“Then no, I don’t want a Facebook,” he said. “Are you done yet?”

The attendant came over to me. “These computers are really for the use of the residents,” she said.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I was just,” I mumbled.

We got up and walked back to the lobby. My grandfather used to be really tall, but he’s kind of shrunk over the years and now he sort of hunches over and shuffles as he walks. But he’s really active. He also wears a lot of sweaters. He calls them cardigans. He also wears corduroy pants. It’s nice to know someone still wears corduroy.

I headed over to the elevator and hit the Up button. “Where are you going?” he yelled. “Come on.” He was walking toward the front lounge. I ran to catch up with him.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I told you,” he said, “it’s pudding time!”

And so it was. The front lounge had a long table set up with all kinds of pudding. “This is what you get for not dying,” he said. “Pudding. And it’s all free.”

“Did you get some pudding?” asked an old lady passed on the way into the lounge.

“No yet,” said my grandfather.

An old man walked by saying, “Did you see all that pudding?”

“We are headed there now,” my grandfather said.

The next ten people we saw all asked about the pudding, even though we were now standing in front of the pudding table.

“Look at it,” my grandfather said, “tapioca, vanilla, chocolate, banana, even some kind of Indian rice pudding. I don’t like Indian food.”

“Looks good,” I said, trying to be upbeat for him. “What a great idea.”

“It’s cause we all have bad teeth,” he said. “You don’t chew pudding.”

I just nodded.

“You’ll learn,” he said, “if you live long enough.”

We both got a bowl and some pudding and sat at our own table; my grandfather had vanilla, I had cinnamon swirl. I’d never seen so many old people eating pudding at the same time. It kind of creeped me out.

But it was nice spending time with my grandfather. “Why’d you come over?” he asked. A couple people near us looked up ‘cause he sort of yelled it.

“Just to see you,” I said, trying not to draw attention to myself.

“You never visit,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and after a moment added, “mom wanted me to get out of the house.” He just nodded. “I think she gets lonely on the weekends or something. And then tells me to do things.”

“Like leave the house,” said my grandfather.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, I’m sure it’s still hard on her,” he said. “Even after all these years.”

“I think her grief gets to her on the weekends, or she gets lonely, or something.”

“Losing a husband, that’s not easy to get over,” he said. “Or losing a father.”

I didn’t know what to say so I just ate my pudding.

My grandfather ate his pudding.

Everyone in the lounge was eating pudding.

Sometimes it was nice that my grandfather didn’t talk a lot.

“You like it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “it’s free.”

“Oh, I forgot something,” I said, “I’ll be right back.” I ran out of the front lounge, across the lobby, and back into the computer lab. My blog post was still up on the screen. I grabbed the mouse and clicked the button labeled Post. Then I ran back to my grandfather and all that pudding.

Posted in Hal, Hal's dad, Hal's grandfather, Hal's Grandfather's Retirment Community, Hal's mom | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Truth About Poseurs: They’re All Fakes

Posted on January 11, 2011 by Hal

Wikipedia needs 2,500 words to define poseurs, which is 2,499 more than I need. Poseurs are fakes. Pure and simple. There is nothing more to say about it.

Poseurs pretend to be something they are not. Or they say things they don’t mean. Which some call hypocrites but I call liars. They say they don’t want big government but then scream when the fire department takes too long to respond. They say they don’t want government regulations but then whine when their kids get hurt from unsafe toys. They say they care about you and then ignore you. They say they’ll never leave you and then they walk out the door.

And the other truth about poseurs is this: Everyone is a poseur. Which is why I don’t have any friends.

I was talking about this with my best friend the other day. Oh, I guess he needs a fake name too. I’ll call him Neil. Neil Moriarty. That has a nice, Sherlock Holmes feel to it. The adventures of Hal and Neil.

Anyway, Neil totally agrees with me, which is why we are such good friends. We’ve been friends since junior high when we sat next to each other in English class. We both wrote for the school newspaper, “The Jeff Davis Dispatch.” We saw first hand how fake everyone is from covering things like the Great Cafeteria Pizza Cover-up, when the lunch ladies refused to come clean about the ingredients in those cardboard rectangles they called food.

Now Neil works over at MegaTech as a cog in the wheel of capitalism. He says everyone he works with is a poseur, pretending to care about the products they make, pretending to care about the customers they assist. Pretending to care about each other.

It makes me glad I don’t work. I mean, I want to work. I want to get a job, but the Grand Old Party of the Republic destroyed the economy so here I sit, in my mom’s basement, blogging away.

How pathetic is that? I’m 25 and I have no job and literally live in my mom’s basement. It’s like they say, some things are cliches because they are true. But they are also cliches.

Maybe this blogging thing will lead to something. Maybe I’ll get a job at a newspapers, except newspapers are dead. Giant dinosaurs walking the earth, not knowing the meteor has already hit. Although I think the dinosaurs died off because of slow climate change over a couple million years.

So who knows what will become of me. But at least I don’t have any friends trying to stab me in the back.

Though it is kind of lonely when there is no one you can trust.

It can also make me hungry, so I went upstairs to forage in the kitchen. My mom was there, getting some ice from the fridge. She was dressed for work in her business suit, her brief case on the counter.

“Hey mom, getting ready for work?” I asked.

“Getting ready? Hal, it’s six o’clock in the evening,” she said.

“Yeah?” I said, opening the freezer.

“I’m just getting home,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, “do we have any frozen waffles?”

“Waffles? Hal, are you just getting up?”

“Um. I think I ate something a while ago.”

“It’s not healthy to sit down in that basement all day,” she said. “Why don’t you should get together with Sharon?”

“Not interested,” I said. “I’m OK down there. Lots of animals live in caves.”

“I haven’t seen her in a while; how is she doing?”

“Sharon? I guess she’s OK,” I said.

“Did you two break up?”

“She was holding me back,” I said. I still couldn’t find the waffles. How can we have so much frozen food and no waffles? I should blog about that issue.

“Holding you back?” she said. “Hal, you spend all your time in the basement. What, exactly, is she holding you back from?”

“Stuff,” I said. “She was a poseur.”

“What do you mean a poseur?”

“I couldn’t trust her. She was never honest with me.”

“Did she lie to you about something?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just, she said she loved me. And now she doesn’t.”

“Well she seemed to visit you a lot down in the basement. Maybe she wanted to so something besides watch you play video games.”

“See, that’s another thing. She said she liked watching me play video games. Then she said it was boring. Poseur!”

“Hal, no girl wants to sit watching her boyfriend play games by himself. It’s boring,” she said.

“No, that’s not accurate,” I said. “I was playing with people online.”

“You were playing with other people and ignoring her?” she asked.

“She said she liked it. That was a fun Friday night for us.”

“That was a fun Friday night for you,” my mom said.

“You don’t get it, mom,” I said.

“Well, I’m sorry you two broke up,” she said. “I hope you’re doing OK.”

“Whatever,” I said, pulling out some Hot Pockets. “I don’t need people.”

“Whatever,” she said. “I don’t want you spending all your time in the basement.”

“I’m upstairs right now,” I said, gesturing with the Hot Pockets.

“That’s not what I mean. I want you to leave the house tomorrow. Go somewhere. Do something,” she said.

I put the Hot Pockets in the microwave. “Fine,” I said.

“Good,” she said. She walked out of the kitchen and headed down the hall.

“What are you um, doing tonight?” I asked.

“I’m beat,” she said. “I’m going up to my room for a bath, then I’ll probably watch TV or something.” And she walked up the stairs.

“Oh,” I said to the empty room. “OK.”

Like I said, it can get kind of lonely. But at least we have each other.

I took my Hot Pockets and headed back down to the basement.

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The Truth About this Blog: It’s All a Fiction

Posted on January 1, 2011 by Hal

Everything you are going to read is a fiction. That’s the first thing you have to know if you are going to believe anything I have to say. None of this is real. Even I am a fiction. Maybe you are too.

Is someone making me say this? Maybe. Let’s just say that my blog has been kicked off every major hosting site. Apparently, speaking the truth is a TOS violation. (Also, long lists of swear words are apparently not allowed.)

I’ve been blogging for years, but most of it is gone now. Erased. Deleted. Don’t bother looking; you won’t find any of it. When someone wants your thoughts removed, they are gone. “First do no harm,” is a joke. They don’t believe in their own slogan, I can tell you that much.

Also, I might have sworn a bit too much. Here’s one of my old posts, with the language cleaned up a bit.

“You Effing Mother-Effers.

“I can’t effing believe you’d effing do that. Who the eff do you think you are, you a-hats. It’s like you don’t care if you eff an a or a an eff. I’ve seen some effed up ess in my times, but you effing, essing, a-ing, p-ing, mother-que-ing pop-tarts really take the cake. You make me want to regurgitate my last three meals.”

That was my review of the iPhone.

So fine, no more swearing. I get it. We aren’t free to speak freely. Well, if the world isn’t ready for the truth then I’ll give them lies. This is all fiction.

I guess I’ll need a fake name too. You can call me Joe. Joe Smith. Ha, try and find me now. You can no longer live off the grid, so I’ll be everywhere. The ubiquitous Joe Smith.

OK, maybe that’s too anonymous. In this day and age you have to be careful about how anonymous you are. (I mean, people need to be able to friend me on Facebook.) So my fake name will be Hal. Which is short for Haldren.

My parents named me Haldren after that giant particle accelerator in Switzerland. I know what you’re thinking, it’s actually called the Large Hadron Collider, not Haldren. You can Large Hadron Collider. Apparently my parents couldn’t. I don’t know if I’m lucky or not. Both names stink.

So I go by Hal. Like that giant computer in the Terminator movies that control everything. That’s an idea, me as a giant, all powerful computer. Maybe that’s what I am. This could be the first blog written entirely by a computer.

It’s not the thousand monkeys typing forever we have to worry about anymore; it’s the thousand computers spewing out random data. Maybe this is the result. A completely random string of letters that our desire for order wants to see as something more than just gibberish.
Well, it’s not. It’s all gibberish.

I guess I’ll need a last name too. Haldren Smith sounds stupid. How about Haldren Truth?

Ouch, unless I’m going to be some crazy superhero, I don’t think that will work. Here we go, versius. It’s Latin for truth and the root of both verity and versus, which shows the combative nature of speaking the truth.

Haldren Versius it is. I am. So look out world. Because there is truth in the world and the people need to hear it. And I’m going to find it.

And then blog about it.

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New Year, New Search

Posted on January 1, 2011 by Hal

announcement

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