December 26, 2010
I arrived at the farmhouse yesterday, Christmas Eve.
Mrs. Muggins has been plagued with back pain
recently, so I found the place in even greater disarray than usual.
It’s very much a camping-out vibe here in the
mountains of rural Kansai. You heat your soup and your feet with a
wood-burning stove. You wash your hands with dish soap. You sleep on a
cot under six quilts, wearing a stocking hat, with puffs of freezing air
buffeting your face, the ancient windows being no match for the shrieking
mountain winds. When there is no meat, you eat crawdad. When there is no
crawdad, you eat sand.
Okay, that last part was cadged from Raising
Arizona. But the rest is all true. But none of these self-imposed
privations changes the fact that I owe readers one last post in 2010, and
I’m fresh out of ideas. So let me chuck another log in the stove and dish
up some leftover musings from my “joshblog”
* * *
I have written about my sex toy, a blowjob simulator called
the Rolling Fella Bomber (or “Bomba” in Japanese) and about the self-loathing that
attends possession of such an item. What could be more embarrassing than
to be caught with this eyeless-face-having critter in the back of one’s t-shirt
drawer, I have wondered aloud. Well, how about getting
caught actually using your sex toy—and being a woman, and being
topless, and being in your car in a public place. It’s
stories like this that put one’s petty concerns into perspective…
* * *
Female orgasm, I guess, is like a video game: In both,
there's always a Next Level that one can hope to achieve with enough
* * *
If it ever came down to a hard choice, I’d rather be a
spree killer than a serial killer. Serial killing is just too much of a
commitment for me. There’s the whole issue of victim selection, there’s
all the planning to secure one’s escape, all the skulking about, lying in
wait and so forth…the cleaning up of evidence…the obligatory taunting
messages to the authorities. And every time out, having to top yourself
in gruesomeness just to make sure the media don’t forget about you.
As a spree killer, you don’t concern yourself with any
of those things. One way or another, your business is probably over and
done with in a single day—with luck, you can
break before lunch. The name itself has a carefree, cheerful ring to it. Spree
killer! I’m not a bad guy, really! I’m on a spree!..
* * *
Nothing remotely like the things
described in this article ever happens to me. And yet, somehow this
warms my heart and makes me that much happier to still be living in this
* * *
When I was in sixth grade, I spent an hour one day
contemplating this question when I should have been struggling with Base
6 math problems: Suppose human consciousness were not concentrated into a
single body, but that one individual consciousness was distributed among
five bodies, all born around the same time.
That way, instead of being stuck as Josh Muggins exclusively, 24-7, I could experience on some
level being Jim Yonkman all the while, and know
what it was like to be the bully instead of the victim. I could, for that
matter, have a taste of being Jerri Hackenbroch,
including unlimited access to her naked body. Heck, I could be one-fifth
Michael Jackson if I had a mind to.
I must say that, looking back, I’ve always thought this
a rather extraordinary rumination for a sixth-grader, and one that I have
revisited from time to time ever since. These days, my curiosity re
consciousness distribution relates less and less to opportunities to play
with Jerri Hackenbroch’s breasts and more and
more to the question of voluntary childlessness, which I have written
about here and here.
Today, of my five bodies, I would opt for marriage and
family life for two of them and childlessness for the other two. The
fifth one would probably be gay, so depending on the time and place of
this hypothetical existence, marriage and children might not be an option
for him/her. That would be the ultimate experiment, wouldn't it? As the
CEO of this five-body corporation, one could measure which lifestyle
leads to greater satisfaction for a person of one’s own temperament.
Then, after the last of the five dies out and you get
reincarnated with a fresh set of five, you could make results-based
decisions. "Screw it," you might say, "I'm going childless
with the whole set this time." Sort of like basing your whole
portfolio on aggressive growth stocks, no bonds or funds...
* * *
And in closing:
For no particular reason, I sat around one day riffing
on the old “Opinions are like assholes: everybody’s got one” saw. These
are the best I could do.
Opinions are like assholes, one often hears said. The
vast majority never get thoroughly probed.
Opinions are like assholes: you ought to clean ‘em up good before you open ‘em
for public airing.
Opinions are like assholes: if forcibly silenced for
too long, a sudden and unseemly expulsion may ensue.
Opinions are like assholes: both begin with vowels.
Opinions are like assholes: it’s a shame to die in the
middle of one.
Opinions are like assholes: on any given day, scads of
them can be perceived in Congress.