I hate this contemporary, Rumsfeldian way of speaking where you ask a question and then answer it yourself. Example: “Does that mean things will be difficult for us? Yes. Does that mean we’ll quit? No.” It’s irritating and it displeases me, and when I have servants I will tell them so constantly.

Why don’t you just say “Things will be difficult but we won’t quit.” It’s shorter.

“Does it make you a douchebag if you answer your own questions out loud? Yes. Are you capturing my attention? No.”

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Apparently there was a local explosion of some sort, later in the evening. I was at the West Side today and on my way out I saw like, literally twenty fire engines scattered all over Clementi like a “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” bug.

Three or four fire engines is no big deal, you see it every day; twenty is scary. I checked my phone to see if today’s date was 9/11 upside down or something.

The firemen said a plastics place had caught fire. I didn’t smell anything but I’m sure it smelled terrific. I know because there’s construction underneath my apartment, and twice a month they turn on what sounds like a buzzsaw and immediately afterwards my apartment fills with the smell of burning plastic. For the first five minutes it’s terrible; for the second twenty minutes it’s bad; after that you can’t smell it anymore but you lose the ability to do math.

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I was never great at math to begin with; I somehow managed to defy my DNA imperative. I blame it on my attention deficit disorder. It’s an exquisitely cruel irony that the thing preventing me from being good at math is abbreviated "ADD."

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Jesus. I’m on a funk jag, and Average White Band’s “Cut the Cake” is the best thing to happen to me in a while.If you can listen to “Cut the Cake” without standing up at your desk, pushing the chair back and shuffling around then you are made out of wood. Like Jake Gyllenhaal. Yes he is, and you know it.

Pending Catchy Caption

I like giving people directions. I don’t know when it started, but lately I find myself crossing the street and approaching map-peering tourists that are clearly lost. If you ever wanted directions you would love the ones I gave you because they are clear, succinct and accurate. “Go two blocks, make a left.” “Go a block south to Holland Village, make a left, then make your second right.”

Most people are thankful, but some people don’t want my directions. They clutch their maps tight and look at me with actual fear, as if all the rumors they’ve heard about Asians are true and I’m going to pistol-whip them before taking their sneakers. But I push my directions on them anyway. “That’s north, that’s south,” I say, pointing to each. If they don’t wanna tell me where they’re going, fine; but at least I oriented them.

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So I’m used to approaching people, not so used to people approaching me. Yesterday I’m down in front of the Jade for my dinner, knocking off a smoke and officially neglecting my duties as Desperate Umemployed Guy. I've been trying to get companies interested for hours and I figure I can make do for fifteen. Anyways this kid comes up to me, maybe early twenties. Dressed down. Crew cut, intense look.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says, getting right up in my ear. “I’m taking a survey for my school.”

At a glance I figure he’s not a threat. “Sure.”“What do you think happens to you after you die?”

I think about it. Ten seconds passes. A breeze blows smoke from my cigarette into the kid’s face, but he doesn’t blink.

“I don’t think anything happens,” I finally say. “I think you die, then that’s it.”

The kid scribbles something into a notepad and shakes his head. “I’ve been getting a lot of those today,” he says. Which I thought was odd, because I noticed the notepad was blank; he was scribbling on the first page. “Maybe it was different before 9/11, or what’s going on over in Iraq. Some people think nothing happens to you when you die. But after you die, that’s an eternity, right? You’re stuck in eternity, don’t you think?”

Now I’m suspicious. “What school?” I ask.

“What?” he says, even though he heard me.“What school do you go to?”

“SA,” he says, and suddenly he looks uncomfortable. “I have something for you,” he says, quickly changing topic and pulling something out of his bag.

It looks like a wallet with twenties sticking out of it, but as he presses it into my hand I see it’s just a photorealistic brochure that’s been cut and designed to look like that. I open it up. There are multiple-choice questions inside.

“Thank you for taking the time,” he says, and walks off without another word.

I put the cigarette back in my mouth and start reading the questions.

- Do you consider yourself a good person?
- Have you ever stolen anything?
- Where do people go after they die?
- If someone tells you they are a thief, do you think they are a good person?

I flip to the back, and see a passage from the Bible. The numbers, the colons.

I look after the kid, but he’s long gone. You know, if he wanted to talk to me about God he could’ve just said so. Survey. Sheesh.

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I think about the people who don’t want my directions. When I see them with a map I tell them which way north and south is anyway, because I assume they need them. Maybe the kid figured he’s doing the same thing. Maybe he can see my soul and my soul is holding a map, so he figures he’s orienting me. I dunno.

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