Fantastic Metropolis

13.9.05—Karma Police, Arrest That Man

Went to Jen’s party last night, and it just goes to show you that I should really never leave the house. I wore this great little top and sexy Italian tights I picked up this summer, and spent fifteen bucks I don’t have on Chilean table wine (this will be important later). The G train, predictably enough, took an hour to show up, and the platform was hotter’n a crotch. So much for ironing. The train was packed too, and I spent the trip with my nose shoved into some guy’s wonderfully sticky and STANKY armpit. I don’t blame him though, I smelled traces of some cheap-ass deodorant mixed in with the sweat-and-landfill stench pouring off of him so he was probably just stuck on the train for so long that the Degree or whatever finally gave out. It was NO fun though.

Also no fun, Jen’s party. When I got up to her apartment, she rushed up and whispered “Shit, you’re here! Didn’t you see my IM! Like nobody came!” She was right, there were about five people there, with me making six, and Jen and her two asshole roommates, chewing on nachos and bellowing LOUDLY about whatever lame-ass “reality” show they’d best be on. How about “Living Room Losers”? This is why I don’t have a tv! It has turned every possible conversation in the world into dimensionless mush!

I was also the only one who bothered to dress and I paid for that too. I was sweaty and wrinkly and probably had stink lines coming off my forehead from that guy on the train but Jen’s asshole roommate’s asshole boyfriend attached himself to me anyway. The roomie, Lynn, just sat on a beanbag the entire time, her head poking out of a giant rumpled sweatshirt, frowning at me. I’d have extricated myself, but there was literally nobody else to talk to but Jen, who just kept picking up the phone and hanging it up, and checking her email over and over. He kept asking me if I was into comics, or slot-car racing. WTF is slot-car racing!!!! I finally got into the kitchen to get something to drink and couldn’t even find my own wine. The Sweatshirt Monster popped up behind me and told me that Chilean table wine is for cooking, and that I should have brought some pork chops to marinate if I wanted them to keep it. I didn’t even know what to say; what kind of CUNT demands pork chops from people! And it wasn’t just a joke either—this girl has no sense of humor.

I would have left right then, but Jen looked so miserable and she did witness my plight and quickly get me a vodka from the freezer. I was drinking that and pretending to look at the bookshelves (who the hell needs THIRTY BUFFY NOVELS!) and I hear that noise all girls love. You know the one, “Psssst.” Psssst, like a fucking cat. It’s the boyfriend, looking at me from one of the bedrooms, the door just cracked open a bit. He starts waving like a retard at me to come in even though I’m staring daggers at him. I go in anyway because I’m afraid that someone else is going to hear his hissing and what does he have for me! My wine, in two glasses, are waiting on the night table and THEN he reaches down, undoes his belt and pulls hid dick out of his fly, all floppy and gray (EWWW! And he wasn’t even drunk!) I ran back out, spent twenty minutes in the bathroom reading the same fucking issue of Nylon over and over, and then when I heard someone finally else show up to the goddamn party. I got out, said bye to Jen, and took a cab all the way home.

LAST TIME I go to Jen’s house, definitely! I love her, but she needs to start smacking people in that house around.

15.9.05—A Bigger Hammer Is Better Than A Smaller Hammer

Dear Spammers Of America,

Thanks for the multiple offers to increase the size of my penis. I really do appreciate it, as I am well aware of the problems that so many couples face these days. However, I really don’t need another 6 inches, and I certainly don’t need them by tomorrow. I also don’t want to generate 650% more sperm. Because I am a girl. So please stop sending me your ads.

Thank you,

Joanie A.

PS: Same goes for breast enhancement creams, pills, drink mixes, exercise books, Flobee-style vacuum cleaner attachments, or blessed Holy Water.

3.10.05—OH MY GAWD!!!

Really sorry I haven’t updated this in a while, but I have been very busy. It’s been weird, seriously weird. Fires, floods, dogs and cats living together, it’s chaos I tell you (however that goes).

Okay, this is going to sound extremely weird. Just bear with me here though, okay? Especially you, Barry—I’ve heard your rants on religion too many times already.

Last week I was walking to work. It was warm for a change, and sunny, and I also overspent on a bagel and lox and my Metrocard was out of rides so I had to walk, but I didn’t care. There was something in the air—and it wasn’t the urine-y smell. I was walking up 6th Ave and then I saw God filling up the sky. Really! GOD! He was everywhere all at once; beard, muscles, blazing eyes, streams of light coming out from behind his back, arms from horizon to horizon. And He pointed at me and told me He wanted me, Joanie, to raise an army and drive the English out of France! The voice, it was like sitting on a thunderbolt, I felt my whole body, the whole street, shake, but nobody else seemed to notice it, or when I fell to my knees. I’m agnostic!

I couldn’t speak, I could just stare up into the face of God (I can’t remember the details, I keep trying to sketch it out but when I look back at the page all I see is that I’ve drawn that optical illusion of a three-dimensional cube over and over) and listen as He spoke to me. “I am always with you, and I shall not abandon you. Drive the English back across the sea and save France for the Mother Church.”

This sounds ridiculous, I know. It’s like watching an old movie where everyone has a British accent, even if they’re supposed to be in ancient Rome or something. God is just impossible to translate…

The words weren’t like that at all, not like a conversation, just a FLOOD of pure knowing. Leadership, military strategy, French language skills, Scripture, wilderness survival, guerilla warfare, maps to towns and sewer systems all over Europe. At once, like slamming back a shot so quickly you don’t even know it’s gone down til it hits the bottom of your stomach. I want to type everything God said to me in ALL CAPS but I hate when I see that on other blogs.

Anyway, the long story short is that I’m in England now. If you ever go to London, definitely take Virgin Atlantic. It’s only $300, the food is great (for airline food) and they have old school Nintendo games to play. I also caught half of some movie about girls who win some surfer cheerleading squad competition. Lame.

If you want to know more about what is going on, turn on the news tonight. All the channels should be covering it.

7.10.05—All Quiet On The Western Front

The war goes well. The British swine were not expecting a war from within and we are routing them. Upon landing I met with my brothers and sisters in the Lord and we began operations immediately. We’ve centered our attacks in Knightsbridge, an area too populous for the RAF to risk bombing, and the block-by-block fighting are keeping units tied up here.

I killed four men today with my bare hands, God in heaven forgive this sinner.

Tomorrow we push forward and take out the Chunnel.

8.10.05—To The Asshole Who Calls Himself “Run DMV”

Thanks so much for the nasty-ass and poorly spelled email this morning, asshole. Who doesn’t want to wake up to something called “Dear Kuntdrip, fuckyu Frog bitch” (That’s a quote, ladies and gentlemen!). Listen, there is a lot going on in my life right now that I don’t necessarily feel like sharing with every idiot who managed to get a free AOL CD in the mail and figure out his way onto the Internet. If you want to argue continental politics or eschatology with me, I suggest that you waddle down to the local recruiting station and get your worthless ANONYMOUS COWARD hide shipped out here. Your typing fingers versus the avenging sword of Christ, what do you say? NO??? Didn’t THINK SO! Kiss my once and future virgin ass! You cannot hide from the sight of The Lord!

9.10.05—Beautiful

Few things are as beautiful as sunset over a city in flames. Here is a pic, and another one and one with Jacques.

PS: I love European men, especially the ones who bathe as often Americans.

12.10.05—Feets Don’t Fail Me Now!!

I’m updating this on the run…literally! Paul and Andres managed to jury-rig one of those kiosks where you can check your email into working, and I’m sending this out to Alex_The_Seal and asking him to put it up on the blog:

I fear that things have taken a turn for the worse. We’ve yet to meet defeat, but the countryside is difficult to hold. With so much empty space between towns, miles can be gained and lost almost instantly. The PM has also decided that he’s rather reign in hell than serve in heaven, and has begun to firebomb my positions; “Better a Britain without life, than one with Joan!” said The Daily Mirror today. Churchill, he is not, for this time he is the evil, attempting to hold back the tides of righteousness.

Today I woke up and did not feel His presence, though I know He remains with me, as I have always been true to Him. This must be a test. I’m sure it’s a test of my faith and my spirit, but I find myself wondering if God the Father can truly sanction all this death.

14.10.05—I am a poor girl. I do not know how to ride or fight.

An angel of the lord appeared before me this morning and led me away from camp and to an old chapel on the side of a small tor. Where the choir of voices said it would be, in a small cellar room beneath the altar, I found an ancient and blessed bazooka and a number of shells.

With it on my shoulder, I picked my way through the craters and smoking ruins of the countryside, my weary troops inspired and took to their feet. I presented myself to the front, where I told the local colonel in no uncertain terms that he should withdraw his troops, return to London and convince his leaders to surrender. He claimed to know nothing of any campaign against France, and even said that he’d never been to Orleans, except for once on a holiday. A long weekend. The righteous bazooka showed his immediate underlings the error of his ways.

17.10.05—A Quick Survey

I saw this survey on Jen’s blog and just had to be a lemming and pass the meme along. I think it’ll also help all my new readers get grounded.

What’s on your bedside table: A glock, gasmask, some rations and Tedda, my little stuffed doggie. :)

What is the geekiest part of your music collection: That CD with the Gregorian chants.

What do you eat when you raid the fridge late at night: Ha! I wish I had a fridge out here. Back home, yogurt (mostly Dannon Strawberry). Out here, mostly just Life Savers and other sucking candies. So much dust ends up in my mouth.

What is your secret guaranteed weeping movie: The Last Unicorn (it’s lame, I know! Shut up!)

If you could have plastic surgery, what would you have done: Breast reduction.

Do you have a completely irrational fear: Honestly? Sometimes I worry that humanity is so degraded and shamed that we are truly beyond saving.

What is the little physical habit that gives away your insecure moment: AgentSmith75 says that I rub my left temple with the tips of three fingers.

Do you ever have to beg: What do YOU think!

Are you a pyromaniac: heheheh, depends who you ask ;)

Do you have too many love interests: I have only one love.

Do you know anyone famous: You could say that.

Describe your bed: Currently, I sleep on a mat.

Spontaneous or plan: Spontaneous

Who should play you in a movie about your life: Right now I’m thinking anime’!

Okay, this thing is already too long. Good night, dooblebugs!

30.10.05—ugh

I hate myself and want to die.

11.11.05—Make a wish

My cousin Kelly told me that once in what I called the Lime Kool-Aid summer. I spent three weeks out on Long Island with her and my favorite aunt Margaret. They always had a bit more money than my mom and an above ground pool. We had lime Kool-Aid every day and played all sorts of little imagination games in the pool, like Indiana Jones meets Jacques Cousteau and Mermaid and Sailors. That second game was like junior slut training. Then when the mosquitoes started chewing on us, we’d go inside watch some MTV and practice dance moves til dinner. Nighttime was for HBO movies. We sat through all sorts of crap. I even saw D.C. Cab before it was cool and ironic to admit to it.

Anyway, one night we were drinking yet more bug juice (really, I’m amazed that the green ever got off my lips and teeth) and Kelly turned to me and said “It’s 11:11, make a wish!” It was just a weird little thing a pair of kids shaking from sugar and hormones say sometimes, but it stuck with me. Whenever I saw those four 1s glowing red in my clock radio or on one of those outdoor clocks made out of dozens of little lightbulbs, I’d make a wish. Usually for a halfway decent relationship, or some clue as to What I Am Supposed To Do With My Life. I dunno if it ever paid off, but something sure happened to me. The voices tell me that tomorrow men will come for me, and that I will not be getting away this time, but that I shouldn’t be afraid for (the voices never say “because” for some reason) I have done well in the sight of God…

I’m shaking, but it’s not from fear, and I’m crying a bit but it’s not because I’m sad. It’s just…energy, seeping out of every pore, like some weird dynamic kind of exhaustion. They tell me Westminster is finally burning, and I don’t need the voices to tell me that I might be next. It’s fine though, it’s all for the best. I seriously believe that…

The plan is all coming together. I can tell because it is the eleventh of November, 11/11, and I just made another wish…

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“Joanierules.bloggermax.com” was originally published in Rabid Transit #2: A Mischief Of Rats (Velocity Press, 2003).

Nick Mamatas, the author of Northern Gothic and the forthcoming Move Under Ground, writes his own blog at http://www.livejournal.com/~nihilistic_kid/ .