Who’s there?

Question #17:

You have won a prize. The prize has two options, and you can choose either (but not both). The first option is a year in Europe with a monthly stipend of $2000. The second option is ten minutes on the moon.

Which option do you select?

vs.

At first glance, this seems to be a question about time. One year versus ten minutes. Or perhaps at first glance this question is about place. Europe vs. the moon. But then again, maybe this question is about something else. Maybe it about memory, or better yet, remembering. As in, which experience would be more memorable? I’m not sure though. Maybe it’s simply about experience. So then, what is experience? Perhaps I’m making this question far too existential. It might just be that this is a very simple question with a very simple answer, which place would you simply prefer. We are constantly struggling to justify our preferences and most of the time we cannot pinpoint the true motivations for our preferences. They are buried deep in a history of life experience, both first and second-hand. Imagine the exact opposite of young Bartleby’s response, “I prefer not to.” Picture yourself simply saying, “I prefer to.” No rhyme or reason given. It’s just that simple because it’s simply that complex.

I would choose a year in Europe with a stipend of $2000. Sure, some of you may be thinking, “Of course you’d pick that you book reading, cultural whore. You probably value the experience of meeting interesting and foreign people in Parisian cafes and Spanish cathedrals more than the unearthly experience of seeing exactly how small we really are.” To you, I say, “Nah. I just prefer to.”

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Knock Knock.

Question #16:

You are sitting in an empty bar (in a town you’ve never before visited), drinking Barcardi with a soft-spoken acquaintance you barely know. After an hour, a third individual walks into the tavern and sits by himself, and you ask your acquaintance who the new man is. “Be careful of that guy,” you are told. “He is a man with a past.” A few minutes later, a fourth person enters the bar; he also sits alone. You ask your acquaintance who this new individual is. “Be careful of that guy, too,” he says. “He is a man with no past.”

Which of these two people do you trust less?

See that man to the right? What’s his name? No, not Clint Eastwood. I mean the character. What’s his name? Can’t remember, can you? Don’t worry, your brain isn’t melting from one too many acid trips. He doesn’t have a name. He’s the Man With No Name. He has no past, and therefore no name. No one knows from whence he came and for what he keeps on keepin’ on for. He just does. He just is. And if he walked into the bar, I would leave immediately because people are gonna straight up be killed.

But you see this guy, to the left there? He does have a name. It’s William “Bill” Munny. He has a name, and a past. In his past he killed everyone. And I mean everyone, including children. If he walked into a bar, I would also leave immediately and rush home to change my diaper. Yes, if I lived in the Old West, I’d wear a diaper. But mostly because outhouses are gross. Plus scorpions are known to hide out in outhouses. And really, who’s gonna suck out that poison? No one. That’s who. NO ONE.

So it seems like I don’t have much of a choice. A man with a past, and without, can be equally terrifying. But I’ll make a decision, no cop outs ’round here. I trust the man without a past less. A man with past has a reputation, and though it’s no guarantee, it’s better than knowing nothing. And I hate knowing nothing. What do you know about it anyway?

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It’s about time.

Question #15:

Someone builds an optical portal that allows you to see a vision of your own life in the future (it’s essentially a crystal ball that shows a randomly selected image of what your life will be like in twenty years). You can only see into this portal for thirty seconds. When you finally peer into the crystal, you see yourself in a living room, two decades older than you are today. You are watching a Canadian football game, and you are extremely happy. You are wearing a CFL jersey. Your chair is surrounded by books and magazines that promote the Canadian Football League, and there are CFL pennants covering your walls. You are alone in the room, but you are gleefully muttering about historical moments in Canadian football history. It becomes clear that—for some unknown reason—you have become obsessed with Canadian football. And this future is static and absolute; no matter what you do, this future will happen. The optical portal is never wrong. This destiny cannot be changed.

The next day, you are flipping through television channels and randomly come across a pre-season CFL game between the Toronto Argonauts and the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Knowing your inevitable future, do you now watch it?

You know what? This is great news. As it stands right now, I was sure that in two decades I would either be that guy drinking vodka by himself at 2:15 p.m. at Hooters, or I’d be living in my parents’ guest bedroom masturbating to old aerobics tapes. Also, this is a huge relief because up until seeing my future as a CFL fanatic, I was also quite sure that our entire civilization would collapse by the year 2025, and if I wasn’t drinking myself to death at Hooters or rubbing one out in a sock in my parents’ house, I would be wandering the road deciding whether mere survival was worth the effort, while fighting cannibals and other road warriors for food, water, and boots. I’m serious. I really believe this shit. A post-apocolyptic world is not far away. Mark my words. First, China is going to collect on our debts. Obviously we can’t pay, so the value of the dollar crashes to absolutely nothing. The government stops being able to pay for basic infrastructures, like phone, sewer, water, electricity, public transportation, public works maintainence. Everything just falls apart. Within a year, food supplies run out, we begin eating each other. Mark. My. Words. You know what my bathroom reading is? A wilderness first-aid and medicine manual. I’m joining a gun club and learning to how to shoot all kinds of guns and rocket launchers. I’m learning at least three different martial arts. And practicing holding my breath underwater. Oh yeah, and I fall asleep watching Survivorman.

Canadian Football. Hell yeah. I consider that a success. A full success. Shit, I’m not waiting. Do they have an ESPN Classic Ocho that shows the best CFL games in the history of the CFL?

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I was gone. Now I’m here. Where I’ll be next? Well, lend me your ear. Here’s a riddle, see if you can figure it out.

I’ve gone many places, but nowhere I’ve been.
I’ve walked to and fro, but I’ve yet to become lean.
I’ve met many youths, but none know my name.
I’ve written many letters, but to the recipient they never came.

Question #14:
You have a brain tumor. Though there is no discomfort at the moment, this tumor would unquestionably kill you in six months. However, your life can (and will) be saved by an operation; the only downside is that there will be a brutal incision to your frontal lobe. After the surgery, you will be significantly less intelligent. You will still be a fully functioning adult, but you will be less logical, you will have a terrible memory, and you will have little ability to understand complex concepts or difficult ideas. The surgery is in two weeks.
How do you spend the next fourteen days?

Are brain tumors even that deadly anymore? I’ve seen House cure like a bunch of those. Pancreatic cancer, now that shit is deadly. Look, I hate these types of questions. You have 24 hours to live, what will you do? If you could say good-bye to just one person who would it be? They are stupid questions with stupid answers. I mean, how can you know that shit until it’s actually happening. I mean the thing we human beings fear the most is death, well, death and waking up to find out you’re best friend is this guy. He will throw you under the bus for a ride on that spaceship. To get back to it, we fear death. We fear it so much that it is nearly impossible for us to imagine it. I mean we invent religions around our fear of death. These great little stories that scare us and then make us all warm inside as long as we make empty promises pray to the right god. The point is I don’t think we can answer these questions truthfully. But I guess that’s isn’t the point is it? I’m supposed to answer it and you’re supposed to read it and make some sort judgment about the kind of person I am. Fine.

But let me ask this first. How much actual intelligence will I lose? Just a little bit? Or is it Flowers for Algernon-style. Cause if it’s just a little bit, I mean, who cares? I probably won’t do anything different. I’d just enjoy what I do now in anticipation that the experience will be slightly different in two weeks. If I’m headed for trisomy 21, for the next 14 days I’m going to have sex with the beautiful, smart woman lying next to me ’cause she probably won’t want none of my retard mentally challenged sperm.

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I’d like to get you, the reader, more involved in this. Following Harrumph’s lead, we here at nonpretentious would like you take part in this column. Tell us your answer to these existential questions taken from Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. How would you want your lover to answer? Do you find the question pretentious? Click here to get involved in previous questions.

Truth be told, I’m only lonely.

Question #13:

For reasons that cannot be explained, cats can suddenly read at a twelfth-grade level. They can’t talk and they can’t write, but they can read silently and understand the text. Many cats love this new skill, because they now have something to do all day while they lay around the house; however, a few cats become depressed, because reading forces them to realize the limitations of their existence (not to mention the utter frustration of being unable to express themselves).
This being the case, do you think the average cat would enjoy Garfield, or would cats find this cartoon to be an insulting caricature?

Garfield. I remember reading Garfield on long road trips, laughing till I had to pee in the pee bottle because my parents wouldn’t want to stop. It was a red opaque bottle that was angled precisely for a prepubescent penis to easily squirt without worry of any mess. I was both intrigued and disgusted by the surprising warmness of my urine in that bottle. It haunted me like the ghost of my dead hermit crab, Hermie.

I do not want to assume I could speak for all cats. But I believe a majority of them would enjoy reading Garfield. The comic centers around Garfield and his unfortunate existence with a slobbering, mindless dog, and…well, a slobbering, mindless owner. Garfield is the only sane one of the trio and is barely holding onto his own sanity because of the daily antics he must deal with from Jon and Odie. Garfield would provide the much needed critical commentary of home life and retard owners that the cats would find themselves frustratingly unable to convey themselves. In that, sense, reading Garfield would become a cathartic endeavor, the only thing saving them from complete and utter mind-bottling insanity.

And let’s face it. Reading at a 12th-grade level these days doesn’t count for shit. OMG! LMAO!

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My life is falling apart. Please, be my glue. Rubber cement preferably.

Question #12:
Every person you have ever slept with is invited to a banquet where you are the guest of honor. No one will be in attendance except you, the collection of your former lovers, and the catering service. After the meal, you are asked to give a fifteen-minute speech to the assembly.
What do you talk about?

I’m not sure why’d I be the guest of HONOR? I’m pretty sure I’d be the guest of UN-HONOR. I fear it would be more like a roast. Not to mention there’d be like 5 people there, and that might be a lie. 15 minutes, huh? I guess I would talk mostly about myself, what I’m doing, what I plan to do, blah, blah. Then I’d probably perform karaoke. Most likely the wildly popular but completely inappropriate for this gathering, “Glory of Love” by Peter Cetera, or as I like to call, the Ex-Cetera. Which actually is perfect. I would then most likely try to get them all liquored up and suggest an orgy. What? I’ve already seen them naked.

Slippery when wet, and all that jazz.

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God, I miss myself.

Question #11:
You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, “I will now make them a dollar more attractive.” he waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell nothing is different. But—somehow—this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can’t deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though—you can only pay him once. You can’t keep giving money until you’re satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum up front.
How much cash do you give the wizard?

I am poor. And already extremely good looking. I often get up in the morning and wonder, what can I do with my good looks? How can I make a living off of how extremely good looking I am? My girlfriend then punches me in the face and tells me to brush my teeth.

What is this wizard wearing? Does everybody else see him? Is he white? These are all important questions that will determine exactly how much money I would give him. It really comes down to two options: 1) Everything in my wallet, or 2) $2. Which on a normal day option 1 would be the same as option 2. Like I said above, I’m poor.

You know, I’m not even going to bother contemplating the other option of just giving him nothing and saying, “Nah. I feel good about who I am, I don’t need a wizard to make me feel better about myself or how I look.” Cause that’s kind of bullshit. We all need a wizard. Shit, I used to go to the bar and drink copious amounts of alcohol in order to make everyone else better looking. I might as well spend a little dough to make myself sexier, without the guilt of plastic surgery. So, I’d give him $5. The cost of a semi-quality tasty brew. Cheers.

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I am deadlier than thou.

And on my way to certain disaster, I’m trying to find my way to ubuntu. If you know the way feel free to take my hand.

Question #10:
You are watching a movie in a crowded theater. Though the plot is mediocre, you find yourself dazzled by the special effects. But with twenty minutes left in the film, you are struck with an undeniable feeling of doom: You are suddenly certain your mother has just died. There is no logical reason for this to be true, but you are certain of it. You are overtaken with the irrational metaphysical sense that—somewhere—your mom has just perished. But this is only an intuitive, amorphous feeling; there is no evidence for this, and your mother has not been ill.
Would you immediately exit the theater, or would you finish watching the movie?

Historically, my feelings have gotten me nothing but trouble. My mother and I don’t really get along. Hold on, let me take that back. We get along fine. But we fake it. We’ll get along until the next time we fight. Until that day, we pretend, mostly for my father and brother. Or perhaps I fake it for her and she is faking it for me. Too much effort? Maybe. But I’ve been doing it for about 15 years now. I’ve gotten rather good at it.

I’d stay till the end of the movie. If it turned out it she was dead, 20 minutes wouldn’t make a difference. I would just have 20 less minutes to grieve and question my decisions of the past. My name is RustedJesus and I’ve never claimed to be saint.

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I might have gone to see to a teenage romantic comedy by myself this week. But your sources haven’t been able to confirm it yet. I also need to have a conversation with myself regarding the fact that I now have 300 friends on Facebook and speak to nearly none of them. I think my life is in need of a serious re-evalution. But that’s not really here nor there. On to the question.

Question #9:
A novel titled Interior Mirror is released to mammoth commercial success (despite middling reviews). However, a curious social trend emerges: Though no one can prove a direct scientific link, it appears that almost 30 percent of the people who read this book immediately become homosexual. Many of these newfound homosexuals credit the book for helping them reach this conclusion about their orientation, despite the fact that Interior Mirror is ostensibly a crime novel with no homoerotic content (and was written by a straight man).
Would this phenomenon increase (or decrease) the likelihood of you reading the book?

Well, first, I find it hard to believe that a crime novel has no over/undertones of homoeroticism. It should at least have some narcissism, which could possibly qualify as homoeroticism. I mean, Dick Tracy is homoerotic even though you can see Madonna’s nipple. But if I am to answer the question as written, I suppose I’ll do so.

I would actually like to believe that the phenomenon would neither increase nor decrease the likelihood of me reading the book. Because either notion is potentially dangerous. If the phenomenon decreases the likelihood of me reading the book, it would expose in me a belief that being gay is a bad thing. If it increases my likelihood of reading the book, it contributes to the cultural tendency to other and exoticize certain groups of people, gays in this case.

I am, by nature, curious. And while this curiosity has not led me to ‘experiment,’ I would find myself tempted to read such a book just to see what would happen. I was the kid who when the morning news warned us not to look at the eclipse because it would burn our corneas/retinas out of our heads, I went ahead and stared at the sun for about 20 seconds. Then I cried and cried because even though I could still see, I was certain I was going to wake up blind the next day.

I also think of it this way. I’ve had terrible luck with women for most of my life. What if I read this book, suddenly realized I was gay, and was significantly happier for the rest of my life. I know, I know, this is a ludicrous notion for many reasons. One, I probably actually haven’t had bad luck with women. I mean the fact that I’m nearly 29 years old and haven’t been able to remain in a relationship longer than 6-7 months means absolutely nothing, right? Two, if I became gay, that certainly wouldn’t solve these issues.

So, whatevs. I’d read it while listening to Elton John (not that gays listen to Elton John, it’s just that, well, I like Elton John, and he’s gay, and…whatever. It doesn’t matter.)

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Florida is ridiculous for many reasons that I’m too depressed to get into now, perhaps
later. But for now, do what ever you can to avoid this place. Please, please. I’m dying
inside. Save yourselves.

Question #8:
You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal: You find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating, consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they have one quirk: This individual is obsessed with Jim Henson’s gothic puppet fantasy The Dark Crystal. Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a month, he/she peppers casual conversation with Dark Crystal references, uses Dark Crystal analogies to explain everyday events, and occasionally likes to talk intensely about the film’s “deeper philosophy.”
Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?

Oh, man. Romance + Nerdery = Orgasm. At least in my book. You know, I’ve actually never watched The Dark Crystal. Perhaps I should. I’ve watched Labyrinth and it seems to me they are the same genre at least. Though I think I do prefer watching a creepy, but awesome, Bowie with a cod piece, making weird inappropriate passes at a 15-year-old Jennifer Connelly. Not because I enjoy wearing cod pieces and making inappropriate passes at 15 year olds, but just because the whole thing is ludicrous. Especially when you start to think of the movie outside of itself, as in imagining the production meetings when they are going over the kind of makeup and costume Bowie will be wearing, what the director is asking Bowie to do…That sort of thing. Of course it’s all conjecture. For all I know, Bowie just showed up on the set wearing that shit, possibly having been out partying the night before and not having time to shower and change, and the director and producer see him and say, “Genius, great costume Bowie.” And in a saucy British accent Bowie replies, “It’s not a costume. I was out last night with Elton, and well, let’s just say we had a breakthrough and we saw the world for what it really is. Elton and his obnoxiously big limo dropped me off here a moment ago. I have a funny taste in my mouth, do you have any mouth wash?”

ANYWAY, you know it’s hard to tell how I would feel about such a woman in the long term. I know for certain I would immediately overwhelmingly attracted to her. Nerdery is a prime component to my attraction to women. Why? Because I am one. See here’s the thing. Not only would I have to put up with her obsession with The Dark Crystal, but she would have to put with my obsession with The Lord of the Rings. The extent of my obsession you ask? Well I can’t speak Orc or Elvish, but I do read the books EVERY summer. And I periodically watch the extended versions of the movies as if they were a tv show (i.e. I watch them episodically). And I often randomly quote the books and/or movies (mostly movies, I’m an audio learner, but I guess I’m also visual, just not in a reading way, more pictorally). For instance, as I’m driving some lost fool will ask me, “Where are we going?” I respond completely inappropriately in a gruff voice, “Into the wild Master Gamgee.” Which is usually met with silence or rarely with a “Unhand him Longshanks or I’ll run you through,” in which case we have hearty generous laugh and make uncomfortable eye contact.

I guess in my ideal world I would marry this amazing woman who is obsessed with The Dark Crystal and we would have amazing fantasy sex all the time. I would usually be Aragorn of course. But on particularly generous days I would be a cunnilingus-doling dwarf named Gimli. And my wife, she would be Kira I suppose. I might be into that.

I guess, the question that remains is whether I ever “intensely talk about the film’s deeper meaning” in regards to LOTR. I think I do, never as a classic example of manichaeanism, because it is, which is actually a fault of it I believe, not to mention of its archaic use of black/primitive motifs for evil and white/ethical/moralistic motifs for good. But perhaps I would speak of its take on the definition of home (Frodo’s whole struggle with returning home and then leaving again because he realizes that the Shire was never really home for him, bringing into consideration the loss of his parents, lack of romantic interest [save for his homoerotic relationship with Samwise Gamgee], and apparently innate taste for travel and adventure). LOOK, I’m already starting to do it.

I’ll stop there, since you aren’t the love of my life and we have no chance of fantasy role playing coitus. Unless we do, and in that case, you know how to get a hold of me.

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