How the Rest of 2011 Played Out

I’ve been in a powerfully good mood, which makes me a little uncomfortable as my good is running counter to the business cycle. So the following is an effort to construct a somewhat darker but still plausible scenario.

(Note: The rest of this post is made-up nonsense. None of it is true.)

There was one night when I couldn’t sleep, so I started watching the movie Lean on Me, which starred Morgan Freeman as “Crazy Joe” Clark, the rebel principal of a failing inner-city high school who used a combination of tough love, charisma, and ferocious creativity to turn the school around. Which is basically what I do every day, only with fast-casual restaurant concepts. BLAOW!

At the time, whenever I felt as though I had made a particularly noteworthy point, I would whisper-shout the word “BLAOW!” and then I’d do this arm-cross and stare in profile, like the cover of a rap album from 1985. Why, you ask? If I have to explain it, there’s no way you’d ever understand.

The main thing I have to say about 2011 is the following: Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, cheekbones, Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, black hair, Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, Alaka, pillowy lips, almond eyes, multiple stabwounds to my soul, the death of everything good and decent in the world. Really, it was more like a proximate cause situation, and the truth is that I wasn’t a serious human being, having spent most of my first post-college decade as a house-flipper. My excuse is that by the time I had reached my thirtieth birthday, I had inhaled almost the entire range of Benjamin Moore paints.

And in class-terms, I had become a non-person, having dropped out of my respectable middle-class ethnic world, which was I’m sure part of the reason I found Alaka so supernaturally compelling. Other people are people, but there are also jumbles of after-images, projections, etc., and I suppose the process of actually getting to know someone is like poking a spoon into a soupy fog of assumptions and trying to identify something more substantial. That could be the paint talking. So I guess Problem No. 1 is that I shouldn’t have actually poked her with a spoon. In some cultures, I explained, that is a sign of great affection. Really, I was raised by wolves: actual bloodthirsty wolves, and we’d feast on rabbits, possums, and whatever else we found on the praire.

By the time November rolled around, I knew what I had to do: I was going to go to MexiChina for an illegal operation that would give me superpowers. That’s how I wound up in a wheelchair for the next year and a half.