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Guy de Maux-Duflet

Hello there!

Okay. A quick note on my offlineness self.

I’ve been working on a blog-novel, a bloggella, a novellogue. Of sorts. A kind of word dump. Not quite automatic but as close to it as my controlling brain will allow.

It’s an experiment. I don’t think I’ve written anything as blatantly pointless as this. I’d never written anything without an outline or, sideways, something profund to say. Til I reed it, of course, and sea it as compleat nuns nonce. And so why not start at port meaningless and see where it goes.

I can see my life as nothing but.

If you look at yours can you see it? your life? sometimes? often? never? as nothing but an absurdity. Totally. And by your life I mean the life around you. That of which you are a part apart, that which is a part of you, but isn’t you.

I guess that’s what I got up to. Just trying to put the parts in order. That there is a logic. I have the parts here to a motorcycle but I need something clean and white to lay it out on first, then I need a manual to help put it all back together. The manual never arrives. And the parts are scattered all over the living room floor.

Everything has its place. Sometimes its place, the things place, is wrong. No one or nothing is on the same page. The way life should be lived, prescriptively, is not the way life is lead intuitively, say. Especially as it relates to things. Things have a mind of their own. Their own inner logic. Their own power.

As do thoughts and motivations. But when the brain goes off -

And my brain was off for this. I wrote this as an escape from the fairly substantial jaw pain that was visited upon me by my history - from my genes to my generally lazy attitude toward my being, my body.

It may sound strange coming from a man, but I’ve never been happy with my body. There probably exits one picture of me with my shirt off. I was 19, running marathon distances and lifting weights. Though buff I was sexually a virgin when the picture was taken. I was lying on the couch reading a magazine. I have no idea what it was that I would have been reading. The TV listings? I seem to have a pen in hand. I was marking up a book.

But I think back to a time when I had energy. There was pain, too. By that point. Nothing like that which was about to be visited upon me. I was, as was put to me a few weeks later, a Candy Ass.

I’m not sure what a Candy Ass is. I’ve got an Ass. And it likes Candy. Brittle Ass? Big Ass? Lard Ass? Eye Candy for Homo Ass?

Candy Ass.

It never stuck as a nickname or anything. But it does speak to my toughness. And lackness thereofit.

I am a wus. A baby when sick. I’ll dodge everything and engage in nothing. Or next to it. I always do the bare minimum.

And so it was with this writing project. It started as one thing - an escape from pain - and grew into another - a Pain in the Candy Ass.

I had no Plan or outline with which to work. Something my wife suggested. Just create some characters and let them run loose. See what happens. My wife sees most of my blog writing as nonsense anyway - which it is - why not at least apply that point of view or use it as a technique. Or something like that. Do something! Narrative generator shit. New, never tried.

I did knows this. That whatever I did, I’d wrap by mid-January.

And with the people I have created, it’s about all I can take. I want away from them. They are awful people. Glad to have met you see you again maybe someday good luck with life. Which is Wally’s point.

Wally hates people. Which I don’t. I am not Wally. I suppose I should point that out. I think anyone of the few here who have met me will attest to the fact that I am not Wally. Nor, is Wally my mirror opposite. If Wally was a well rounded character he’d be best summed up, as he does in his own words, somewhere in the piece, something to this effect: Im usually in jail before I realize my brain has gone off. Wally is not stupid. His brain just goes off. Unfortunatley, the braindown coincides with a leap of faith and a leap into action.

Wally is based on no one in particular.

The language.

It’s language I hear every day. Pussy. Cunt. Barbaric. Animal like. But very human. And full of love.

Which this is. A love a story.

This is about as close to a love story as I’ll get. A tragedy? Yes. Mild. More than just mild. A fallen man hasn’t far to fall.

So, please feel free to ignore it. I’ll be pulling it down offline, doing a very minor edit, and publishing the result through some online publishing thing. As soon as I put the final strokes on it today or the next. Then you’ll be forced to fork out the 5 or 6 bucks the little book will cost.

So will I be back here?

No. I have a professional gig, ma-a-a-a-n. It’s sort of project management shit. Looking forward to it, too. I always start out these things with a good wind at my back, and then it shifts and it’s all uphill, in the rain, in a gale. At the end a good stiff drink and a long bath is what’s needed. Looking forward already to the rest at the end and I haven’t even begun.

I should just pour myself a large quart and retire to the tub now.

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We interrupt this hiatus to bring you an important meme.

1. I am NOT delusional.

2. Okay, I am delusional but it’s a harmless delusional like a dog waiting to be asked to sit at table for the Sunday roast beef.

3. Informed by my sister that I (at 17) was to be the MC at her wedding I got cold feet (life long extreme shyness/stage fright) and left the reception and went to play touch football with some nearby friends in my rental tux and platform shoes perfect for some glam field goal heroics.

4. I use to be firmly convinced that I would die before the age of 40. I am really not very well prepared for the rest of my life.

5. At 20 sat down with a friend and wrote out what we believed we would be by middle age. He was going to be a Hollywood actor. I was going to be a commercial novelist (psycho-horror) living alone in a small and isolated cottage on the west coast of Ireland. He did live in LA for a bit and had something of a career there and I have made a sort of living as a writer, neither of us has lived up to our potential. Women are to blame. Weak weak weak.

6. I can’t count.

7. 99% of my thoughts are useless.

8. People look at me weird when I tell them that I have visited Dachau and Hitler’s Eagles Nest and think both were great.

9. I threw up on Barbara Amiel (Lady Black pre Conrad) at a poetry festival.

10. I do not go to parties because guys keep thinking I’m hitting on their wives/girlfriends preferring conversation with women as I do, not sure what that is, but there you go. Shoes are important, say. The eyes light or not. Dinner parties are a no go as I was brought up in a family that believed the dinner table was a place to argue politics with your mouth full of food and to inform other people that their ideas are stupid. Mix that with wine and polite Canadian table manners - best I stay home.

11. The questions ‘do you ski?’ and ‘what do you do?’ send me and no one can understand why.

12. I have no friends. Those of you that read here probably have a better idea of who I might be than most.

13. I enjoy any time with my kids more than any time with adults unless the adults can think and act like kids without being childish and always demanding attention and/or snacks.

14. I am a terrible host but a good guest. I decline most invitations but will still send gifts.

15. Cross me and you are fucked. In my mind. Causes me a lot of grief and you’ll never notice. It’s a lose-lose proposition.

16. I’m discovering very late in life a candor which I’m finding particularly liberating.

17. The pads have been picked up. Back to being off blog for some months.

Tags upcoming if I can find anybody who hasn’t been tagged. Please feel free to pick this up.

Dummies for the ages. Writes itself, really.

Okay I’m going back away again.

Go visit Wally or Metzger or Inspector “I frequently get obsessed by small things” Lohmann and this is the only thing I want for xmas

And, oh, fainting goats a Cargill byproduct (we now know the eytymology of the name)

I’m going to be offline for a few months. Have a happy happy and a merry merry. See you in March.

The great American writer George Saunders has an insightful take on Borat. It is interesting that in Saunders’ stories he writes sympathetically about the same type of people that Sacha Baron Cohen exploits. They spend their doomed lives trying to rescue some dignity out of the absurd situations in which they find themselves. In fact, these people are usually victims of the same kind of power structure exemplified by Sacha Baron Cohen. The reason we find Borat funny is that humor often involves the sudden identification of ourselves with the powerful.

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The reason we find Borat funny is that humor often involves the sudden identification of ourselves with the powerful. Guess that depends on which side of the fence you sit. The dumbfucks exploited for monetary gain by the Jews, oops sorry, the power structure exemplified by this particular Jew, oops, Sacha Baron Cohen (is he a Jew?) are, to some of us in the world, the same fucktards whose ignorance and parochialism enable, encourage, and support the war criminal Bush, sans peep. Please forgive us a chuckle. We won’t do it again. Better stifle that guffaw next time some dimbulb walks into a telephone pole. My laughter might be mistaken as some sort of compensatory power transference.

The rest of the world, see, we sit and scratch our heads, in amazement, wonder. Oh yes, the American heartland and its good down home folk are the victims in this world. Holy fuck. Give it a rest. They spend their doomed lives trying to rescue some dignity out of the absurd situations in which they find themselves. Sympathy for the devil. The great American writer (sic) George Saunders - from what I can tell - exploits the doomed in a more subtle yet equally patronizing manner from his perch in academia. For all that, and despite the forced, lame, and unfunny satirical bent, it’s a pretty smart review of the film.

Come on, people. Supress yourselves. America needs your support. Get out this weekend and have a real laugh with Tim Allen’s Santa Clause Two.

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