The 666 Layers of the Abyss

The 3 R’s. Then there’s just plain ol’ the R, a.k.a., Rakim, of Eric B. & Rakim. Peace to the Nation of Islam, the racist goombahs. & we out.. out... out… out… (Oops! Sorry, I meant “the prejudiced goombahs.” ‘Cause as Spike Lee once explained, African Americans can’t be racist—only prejudiced. It’s real important to get yer terminology good.)

Then there are the 5 W’s—the questions every reporter must ask: Who? What? When? Where? And how? Doggie style? Missionary position? Standing up? Sideways? Upside down like a coupla randy bats? Inside out? Kitty corner from the bank? And how many inches ram into that steamin’ hot aperture o’ looove. (As the late, great Barry White might dub it.) 4”? Was this guy, uh, a bit handicapped? 6” you say? So he was just an average Joe? [Or so I’m told. I don’t check out other guys’ dicks. Ever. Even when I get curious at the public urinal, and that is just curiosity. Perfectly normal. It’s not even a little bit homoerotic and…

What’s that you say? How big is my dick? Well, that’s awfully personal, don’t you think? Not to mention blunt? Besides, what does the size of my dick have to do with my impression of an average sized dick? Oh… right… what other standard of comparison would I have, seeing as I’ve categorically refused to look at other guys’ dicks? OK, my dick’s pretty freakin’ big. And I’m not bragging. Still, I can’t say how big, (without breaking into a vaudeville routine anyway, and nobody wants that,) because I’ve never measured it, (cf. Eddie Murphy’s scholarly observations in this area,) and I wouldn’t want to mislead you.

Rest assured though, it’s a large one. I know for a fact, because every girlfriend I ever had told me so when I asked her. (And yeah, sometimes they disavowed this later, but that was always during a breakup, when we’re all at our most disingenuously hurtful.) You just have to know how ask the right way to get an honest & satisfying answer. And that’s where those reporterly skills I spoke of earlier come in handy, kid.]

Except, wait! There were more than 5 questions there! (Before I began my insightful parenthetical musing, I mean.) And at least one of them didn’t start with a W! So you can’t really call ‘em the 5 W’s, now, can you? (Though one might also point out that one of the 3 R’s does start with a W, not an R, and you still call them the 3R’s.) Shit, you’d think a reporter would have a better understanding of simple matters like the alphabet, wouldn’t you? There are just no standards for anything anymore.

And now that I’m thoroughly depressed by the lack of professionalism in contemporary journalism and its larger cultural implications, I will turn to a visionary experience I had whilst I was on my way to a stakeout last night. (Another divorce case. Man, I tellya, if I don’t get some good honorable work soon, I may drink myself to death…)



I was walking past the corridor of singles bars that lines Division Street just west of State, & the crowds were out in full force. It was a warm, windy night, and both younger and older women bore lots of flesh. All of the bar goers traveled in groups or pairs. For the most part, the couples were visibly conjoined. The groups were so loud and self-absorbed that it would’ve taken something along the lines of a tactical nuclear strike to get their attention. Laughing and yelling theatrically, (or so it seemed,) as the doormen pitched free beers with each shot to the attractive ones, they came close to trampling me many times. It was like I was invisible, or at the very least, a non-threatening apparition, which didn’t really bother me.

So I watched them unselfconsciously. And while I couldn’t know what they were experiencing, it all seemed so externalized, even dramatized. (By really bad actors, but that’s what alcohol & lust’ll do to you.)

Then, at the corner of Division and Dearborn, I saw a middle-aged couple—the only African Americans in sight. They were dancing and laughing, and they made me smile, because they really seemed to be having fun, though it might’ve been at the expense of the crowds around them and the somewhat sad scene it created.

It was all about desire—mostly, it seemed the desire to be wanted by someone else—to be noticed. All of them seemed to pose and perform. I passed slabs of pale, creased flesh that turned out to be faces—lonely and bored, watching every passerby through the open windows of the bars with a kind of desperation. Can this person change my life, remove me from the dull hell it’s become? Can this one?

In particular, I’ve carried the image of these 2 middle aged white men—clutching their mugs and staring—with me ever since—like a vision of the damned, as cornball as that sounds.

Not that it was all not-so-quiet desperation. There was that dancing couple, and there were many groups of young people out laughing, drinking, and yes, probably lookin’ for love in too many faces. Not all of it felt wrong or sad or empty to me. It just felt like more life. Unremarkable, but it’s all there is. It had this elaborate raucousness, (izat a word?) sure, but it only seemed negative, really, when I saw those faces that suggested that their owners were looking for something significant in all of it. They were really just spending an evening out—not searching for god or the perfect lover or to be the star of their own movies. The people who were hoping for these things were just foolish and sad.

Like me. I could understand these faces, because I’d experienced the same feelings—the stunted desire, the terminal discontent with my life and my relationships and myself. And like most of them, I expect, I’d found nothing, except maybe some perspective. (Here’s hoping they were finding it as well.) Because, as I moved past some guy trying to sell me pot, and on into darker & quieter areas, I began to feel some kind of equanimity, if not exactly an abiding peace. Not enough to keep me out my flask during my stakeout, but enough to help me find sleep later, when I got home.


So as he departs, Steve Forceman wishes you well—not that anyone reads this shit anyway…