The priest addresses the church, filled to the brim with everyone I've ever known. All have their attentions directed utterly to the podium.
"WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, KITH AND KIN, TO THE FUNERAL OF ALEX DEWEY."
The crowd is silent.
"IN THE COURSE OF HIS LIFE, I SAY UNTO YOU, ALEX'S BLOGS AND SONGS APPEARED TO ALL OF US AT SOME POINT, PERHAPS IN A SURREPTITIOUS "REPLY TO ALL" OR A HAND-DELIVERED, FRAMED POSTER-SIZED VERSION OF ONE OF HIS BLOGS."
The crowd is silent, though a general nodding sweeps the stage.
"ALSO DON'T FEEL GUILTY IF YOU DIDN'T GET THROUGH THEM, ALEX TOLD ME JUST BEFORE HE DIED THAT WAS ALRIGHT. HIS LAST WORDS. LET'S GIVE HIM A HAND!"
The crowd roars with approval.
"SOME OF THOSE SONGS AND BLOGS WERE CRAP, WEREN'T THEY. WHAT ALEX TOLD ME IS IT WAS LIKE PART OF A PROCESS, AND IF IT DIDN'T GO WELL SOMETIMES, WELL, THAT'S THE PRICE TO BE PAID, AND HE HOPES YOU ENJOYED WHAT YOU READ."
The crowd continues to cheer.
"BUT NOW, OF COURSE, ALEX IS DEAD."
The crowd is silent again.
"ALEX IS BATHED IN LIGHT, NOW, ALEX IS WANDERED TO THE GREAT BEYONDERED. HE IS DEAD, BUT ALIVE, IN ANOTHER SENSE." The priest is visibly pleased with his own wordplay, unaware that "beyondered" is only a word in a better world than this. The priest raises his shoulders with confidence now, though. "ALEX IS ALIVE IN ALL OUR HEARTS, IN ALL THE SPRIGHTLY AND AWKWARD AFFECTS OF THE YOUNGER GENERATION. YOU CAN SEE A CHILD STUMBLE AND SMILE ABOUT IT AND REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO HAVE HIM."
The crowd cheers. A child falls over, seemingly from the sheer unendurable ennui of having to listen to eulogies for someone's child he never knew. He also appears to forget how to stand. He is that clumsy. The crowd laughs affectionately, remembering the departed.
"AND IN THE END THAT'S WHAT MATTERS, THAT WE HAVE SOMETHING TO HOLD ON TO. BUT ALEX HAD DOUBTS, MY FRIENDS, ALEX HAD DOUBTS."
"What about? WHAT ABOUT DEWEY'S DOUBTS, PREACH?" one of my drunk friends asks.
"ALEX DOUBTED THAT HE WOULD GET TO HEAVEN, MY YOUNG FRIEND. HE DOUBTED HE WOULD GET TO WALK IN THE PATH OF THE LORD. AND HE DOUBTED THAT HE HAD DONE RIGHT WITH HIS ART, MY FRIENDS."
The crowd gasps. Self-doubt from this gregarious titan of artistic industry? Unimaginable!
"DOUBTFUL, ALEX SAID IT WAS TOO METATEXTUAL, THAT THE METATEXTUAL ELEMENTS OVERWHELMED THE TEXTUAL ELEMENTS! HE SAID IT WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH TO SHOW THE CROWDS IT NOW ADORNS. HE SAID THAT HE JUST NEEDED TO STOP TALKING ABOUT TALKING AND START TALKING ABOUT THE WORLD ITSELF."
The crowd boos my doubts.
"BUT I SAY UNTO YOU THAT ALEX IS BATHED IN LIGHT NOW AND, THOUGH BESET BY SIN AND DOUBT, SPOKE ONLY FROM A PLACE OF TRUTH, FROM HIS EARLIEST, FORLORN EXPERIMENTS. I SAY UNTO THEE, MY FRIENDS, THAT ALEX WAS NEVER TOO METATEXTUAL AND HE WAS NEVER TOO TEXTUAL. HE WAS ALWAYS JUST METATEXTUAL ENOUGH. IN THE WORDS OF THE BOBBY TROUP STANDARD HE WAS SO FOND OF... "HIS HEART WAS... FULL OF SPRING" REJOICE AT THE FALLEN, MY FRIENDS!"
Big cheer for this. The priest wraps up.
"Thank you all for coming out. There is food and refreshments at the back. Eat, drink, and be merry. Oh, and one more thing... he didn't die."
Audible gasps.
"In fact, he's right here." A spotlight shines on the very center, front row of the church. I go up to the podium, wearing a huge grin. I speak directly into the mic, obviated the need for shouting. I speak with perfect calm. Everyone is happy.
"I didn't die, after all." I put some shades on just as the spotlight hits me, I reflect light, for a moment, like the sun and begin to rap. "YO I BROUGHT ALL YOU HERE SO YOU COULD HEAR MY RAP. I'VE BEEN WORKING ON MY FLOW, JUST THOUGHT THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW, I'M NOT ONE AND DONE IN THIS LAND OF ENDLESS SUN. I COULDN'T HAVE DIED JUST TRY TO THROW THE SHADE... ON A MAN THAT DOESN'T HIDE, YO I GOT IT MADE. IT'S ALL THANKS TO YOU... SUPPORT THAT HELPED MAKE THE GRADE... YOU READ MY STUFF WHEN I WAS LITTLE... NOW I'M IN THE WALL STREET JOURNAL... OF HIP-HOP. PEACE..."
The crowd is totally silent. No one knows what to say. Except me.
I drop the microphone and it falls into the center of the Earth. I'm cold like that, and no obstacle prevents the mic from reaching its destination. No one can say anything to that.
The End
Epilogue: The act was a tremendous success. Owing to a couple producers I'd invited less-than-scrupulously, the priest and I now embark upon a 67-funeral tour spanning three months.
June 25, 2013
June 19, 2013
On Consciously Rejecting Paranoia and Its Safety Net
"Has he simply run out of things to say?" the malicious voice inside Alex Dewey asks, knowing the effect it will have on him.
"Has he simply run out of things to say?" the paranoid voice repeats, revealing in its pathetic refrain the banality of the supposition to him.
When your paranoid voice speaks to you and it's talking about whether that vagrant is positioning himself near you to mug you? You listen - it's a voice possessed of bigotry and instincts, after all, but sometimes that's the only thing that matters.
But when you're paranoid about big-picture stuff, like conspiracies, impossible surveillance, gigantic state secrets without a rational reason to exist? Then you hear it, stop in your tracks, and you walk in the opposite direction. When your paranoid voice is lecturing you about the meaning of life, you silence it like the zealot it is. And almost as soon as you make this commitment to silence the paranoia and see the good in a person or a situation, it's like watching a flash flood as the self-deceptions erode and what you are left with may be unpleasant, but closer to truth than when you started.
"Has he simply run out of things to say?" the paranoid voice repeats, revealing in its pathetic refrain the banality of the supposition to him.
When your paranoid voice speaks to you and it's talking about whether that vagrant is positioning himself near you to mug you? You listen - it's a voice possessed of bigotry and instincts, after all, but sometimes that's the only thing that matters.
But when you're paranoid about big-picture stuff, like conspiracies, impossible surveillance, gigantic state secrets without a rational reason to exist? Then you hear it, stop in your tracks, and you walk in the opposite direction. When your paranoid voice is lecturing you about the meaning of life, you silence it like the zealot it is. And almost as soon as you make this commitment to silence the paranoia and see the good in a person or a situation, it's like watching a flash flood as the self-deceptions erode and what you are left with may be unpleasant, but closer to truth than when you started.
May 21, 2013
Yet Another Richard Jefferson Post on Pearls of Mystery
As ultimately derivative and deprecating as we are of Free Darko at our core, we (okay; it's just me) at Pearls of Mystery are aware of the cosmic irony of this pronouncement. Being about ten years Shoals' younger, we're not oblivious to the fact that Pearls of Mystery is ultimately destined for a still more farcical conclusion than anything we've published yet, or any interaction yet, be it with Shoals or RJ or Burl Ives or even with the gnawing belief that "maybe it's wrong the things I wrote there." Who knows how it will happen? How will Pearls of Mystery die? Well, no one knows. Who by water and who by fire? Who by sword? Who by beast?
Who by simultaneously vindicating and deconstructing happenings in the world of basketball? Enter Richard Jefferson and his amazing series against the Spurs, his former comrades. Frig. In 2:44 of Game 1 against the Spurs, Warrior Richard Jefferson put up a -14, and his only contribution statistically was to miss two free throws. In this void of meaningful basketball activity, the Spurs struck with an inspiring comeback, ultimately helping the Spurs to finish the Warriors off after a strong series. Granted, the entire series was not his fault, but the one time Jefferson did visibly play defense, he botched it so badly I had to laugh. In transition against Tony Parker, he either committed to the lane (but didn't actually help) or committed to the corner (but didn't actually cover the corner), giving the Spurs either an easy layup or an easy corner three. Even the Warriors that could have stopped one of the options were hurt by Jefferson's defense, as they assumed he'd be covering something. It was amazing, guys.
Who by simultaneously vindicating and deconstructing happenings in the world of basketball? Enter Richard Jefferson and his amazing series against the Spurs, his former comrades. Frig. In 2:44 of Game 1 against the Spurs, Warrior Richard Jefferson put up a -14, and his only contribution statistically was to miss two free throws. In this void of meaningful basketball activity, the Spurs struck with an inspiring comeback, ultimately helping the Spurs to finish the Warriors off after a strong series. Granted, the entire series was not his fault, but the one time Jefferson did visibly play defense, he botched it so badly I had to laugh. In transition against Tony Parker, he either committed to the lane (but didn't actually help) or committed to the corner (but didn't actually cover the corner), giving the Spurs either an easy layup or an easy corner three. Even the Warriors that could have stopped one of the options were hurt by Jefferson's defense, as they assumed he'd be covering something. It was amazing, guys.
May 5, 2013
Spurs vs. Warriors Part I
Ah, what is there to write about in the NBA? Nothing, it seems. At present there are four series presenting themselves. First found Kevin Durant having to go it alone against the Memphis Grizzlies, in the wake of Russell Westbrook's injury! Second, we have the Knicks and Pacers deciding whether they would grind it out or would shoot the ball; in other words, who would win the series. Third, we have the Heat looking to sweep the Bulls without Rose, and the Bulls - on whom Nate Robinson is literally the best offensive player - were looking to... not get swept? And finally we have the Spurs in the second round of the playoffs. Ho hum. But what is this? They would be facing Richard Jefferson-led Golden State Warriors? This I have to cover.
Alright, let's back up. Just like RJ, not a starter. He is a back-up. I lied about that leadership thing. At 32 or 33, Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds the oldest and most experienced player of the young Warriors, and simultaneously their best and worst role model imaginable. He is definitely not their leader. Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds not the Warriors' leader.
But, carrying himself with class and dignity, the not-so-young Jefferson conducts every interview trying to root out all things he cannot possibly be held accountable for, and then apologizes for each of them in turn. "Do you feel they were giving the other team cheap fouls?" he'd be asked, and without hesitation would respond, "You know who gets cheap fouls? Savvy vets. I don't care if I wasn't on the floor, you know, I failed to teach these younger guys how to draw and avoid cheap fouls. It's on me." Savvy of him to note - he takes a burden of fault off the young players and places upon himself, while still putting that burden on them in the future. Savvy of him to note also because it reinforces that he has some reason to exist. And, really, he does. He genuinely tries his best to teach the young players, not just about being savvy but about the subtle margins and compensations every player must make in order to succeed. Jefferson notes with a laugh that he has one of the biggest hitches in his shot in the league, and one of the worst handles. He openly admits it because he doesn't expect to join another team. Even the Spurs he kept this information from, but now, he laughs about it. His punchline: "I never got into a conversation that would end in HORSE or a one-on-one. I avoided those conversations with wily cleverness. I got into a lot of dunk contests, though, haha."
Alright, let's back up. Just like RJ, not a starter. He is a back-up. I lied about that leadership thing. At 32 or 33, Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds the oldest and most experienced player of the young Warriors, and simultaneously their best and worst role model imaginable. He is definitely not their leader. Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds not the Warriors' leader.
But, carrying himself with class and dignity, the not-so-young Jefferson conducts every interview trying to root out all things he cannot possibly be held accountable for, and then apologizes for each of them in turn. "Do you feel they were giving the other team cheap fouls?" he'd be asked, and without hesitation would respond, "You know who gets cheap fouls? Savvy vets. I don't care if I wasn't on the floor, you know, I failed to teach these younger guys how to draw and avoid cheap fouls. It's on me." Savvy of him to note - he takes a burden of fault off the young players and places upon himself, while still putting that burden on them in the future. Savvy of him to note also because it reinforces that he has some reason to exist. And, really, he does. He genuinely tries his best to teach the young players, not just about being savvy but about the subtle margins and compensations every player must make in order to succeed. Jefferson notes with a laugh that he has one of the biggest hitches in his shot in the league, and one of the worst handles. He openly admits it because he doesn't expect to join another team. Even the Spurs he kept this information from, but now, he laughs about it. His punchline: "I never got into a conversation that would end in HORSE or a one-on-one. I avoided those conversations with wily cleverness. I got into a lot of dunk contests, though, haha."
Interlude: Pearls of Mystery Tackles the Big Questions
So I get to this site, and it asks me to take a survey to see the page. I just wanted to, you know, see the cap space on all the teams in the league, you know? I'm (theoretically) making the NBA world a little more comprehensible. I'd been asked a direct question, and I wanted to answer. And so I get to this site. And this site has the audacity to ask me a fairly personal question, you know, or share the page with all my little friends on Facebook or Twitter, so now everyone knows I'm reading this page (I haven't read it yet!) or some anonymous marketer somewhere gets to look at his quarterly numbers and say "Thank God for Alex Dewey; we can go to Aruba now." I don't even know where Aruba is, and, frankly, you know, I don't think I'd want to. I thought about it and closed the web site without getting that information. Other places would have it.
But like, here's the thing... like, I was curious, because, like, I've seen this a few places, newspapers and all that, and it pissed me off every time, right? So I started researching it. I was curious, you know, what's the protocol for society when someone invents something that immediately annoys us? What's the proverbial ventilation for our social irritants?
But like, here's the thing... like, I was curious, because, like, I've seen this a few places, newspapers and all that, and it pissed me off every time, right? So I started researching it. I was curious, you know, what's the protocol for society when someone invents something that immediately annoys us? What's the proverbial ventilation for our social irritants?
April 19, 2013
Mall Outlet Apology
I'd like to apologize for that last post. Enough of you complained and I heard you. So let me just say a few things and we can get on with the blog.
Look, a mall outlet is a beautiful thing. I've gone to mall outlets once or twice, perhaps even taking an evening to peruse the mall outlets. Never drinking, I nevertheless get a rush akin to intoxication at the multifaceted vendor complex of even an average suburban mall. And the workers are so kind: Shaped like squids to me, almost, because of my peculiar mental disposition, their emanant grunts I find satisfactory and even polite. One goes to a mall complex for an experience; a mall outlet all the more so. It's a beautiful experience and I didn't mean to offend anyone. That Sugar Foot Rub flyer was real. And yet, in my rush to create a story, I invented a facsimile as a vessel for my writerly machinations and I hereby apologize.
Look, a mall outlet is a beautiful thing. I've gone to mall outlets once or twice, perhaps even taking an evening to peruse the mall outlets. Never drinking, I nevertheless get a rush akin to intoxication at the multifaceted vendor complex of even an average suburban mall. And the workers are so kind: Shaped like squids to me, almost, because of my peculiar mental disposition, their emanant grunts I find satisfactory and even polite. One goes to a mall complex for an experience; a mall outlet all the more so. It's a beautiful experience and I didn't mean to offend anyone. That Sugar Foot Rub flyer was real. And yet, in my rush to create a story, I invented a facsimile as a vessel for my writerly machinations and I hereby apologize.
April 17, 2013
The Mall Outlet
I received the flyer for a "Sugar Foot Rub" in the mail after arriving by bus at my home. There was a free massage that the flyer promised. The only "rub" is that for my freedom from cost on this account, I would have no respite from cost on the rub itself. At the mall a mile from my house, this sugar foot rub would no doubt be pleasant and exfoliating. So, having little else to oblige me that night but my precious books, I figured I had no choice, and immediately got into my luxury sedan.
I walked from the parking lot to the mall's entrance in sunny spirits, despite the dismal gray of an evening, a continuous rain having only ceased in the last hour. The sunshine in my heart did not warm all the way to my extremities, but I put my hands in my pockets, the better to resist beggars and thieves and cold, unfeeling others, and walked into the mall of commerce.
I have a pathological fear of maps at malls so every mall is an adventure to me, its own special maze. But that's another story for another occasion. Whatever the cause, for twenty minutes, I wandered around the mall, like Moses. At seven I reached the mall outlet I'd sought, this "Sugar Foot Rub" of published legend. I wondered where I'd heard about its pleasant, exfoliating effects, or how I'd even decided to make my way here.
I walked from the parking lot to the mall's entrance in sunny spirits, despite the dismal gray of an evening, a continuous rain having only ceased in the last hour. The sunshine in my heart did not warm all the way to my extremities, but I put my hands in my pockets, the better to resist beggars and thieves and cold, unfeeling others, and walked into the mall of commerce.
I have a pathological fear of maps at malls so every mall is an adventure to me, its own special maze. But that's another story for another occasion. Whatever the cause, for twenty minutes, I wandered around the mall, like Moses. At seven I reached the mall outlet I'd sought, this "Sugar Foot Rub" of published legend. I wondered where I'd heard about its pleasant, exfoliating effects, or how I'd even decided to make my way here.
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