Alex Grass's Blog
October 11, 2020
Steven Seagal SAVES EARTH!!! Ep. 1
It had been seventeen days. Seventeen days since his last kill. Seventeen days since he’d tasted blood, since his fury had unleashed itself like a yogurt canister that had been left in a sunbaked car and then suddenly opened by an unsuspecting soccer mom, exploding all over the place.
Soccer moms. They don’t know how good they’ve got it. All they do is shuffle their kids back and forth to their pee-wee games. With their juices and their snack-cups. Clorox. Clean jerseys. Life is so simple for them. They’ve never had to rip a man’s throat out of his throat. But Steven had. He'd ripped men’s throats out of their throats. He'd ripped men’s throats out of their skulls, out of their chests, out of their butts. You want to tell Steven you can’t rip a man’s throat out of his butt? Well, then, you haven’t seen war.
Steven was trying to walk the path of peace. But it was hard. Harder than his forearms, which were like the hardest thing in the world—like titanium or teflon, or some kind of teflon titanium that no one had invented yet. Peace is elusive. Like a baby bird in the mouth of a zebra. He nodded at his own wisdom, reached for his moleskin notebook that he kept wedged between his abdominal muscles under his Nehru-collar silk jacket. But then, Steven realized that he couldn’t write down this brilliant aphorism he’d just crafted, for two reasons. Number one, he didn’t carry a pen with him, because he always wrote memos in the blood of his enemies. Seventeen days. Yogurt. Soccer. Number two, because Steven wasn’t wearing his silk jacket…
He was shirtless.
Just as he was leaving the Kenno Seinaru Hana (Holy Flower of the Fist) monastery he’d founded—well, really he was only a co-founder; his spiritual silent partner was the Dalai Lama—a small boy yelled out to him.
“Mr. Seagal! Mr. Seagal! Please, I need your help.”
The kid couldn’t have been older than three. Or eleven. Steven wasn’t really good with children’s ages. No, he was good with his fists. And his feet. And also his elbows and his head and all the other parts of his body. But especially his fists. And when you’re good with your fists, you find yourself being pulled away from the Path of Peace, away from fatherhood. Once, he thought he could be a father. When he was much younger, he was in love with a girl named Mai Ling. They were both so young and fresh-faced, innocent and ready to set sail on the seas of Adolescent Adventure. Mai was only fifteen; Steven was only forty-seven. God, was he ever that young? But Mai’s father had objected—something about the age gap…Steven hadn’t really been listening, and it was hard to hear Mai’s father through the gurgling of the old man’s throat being ripped out of his throat. Or was it his armpit?
After that, Mai-Ling was upset, although Steven never discovered why. Women. As mysterious as a menopausal dragon. He wanted to write this one down, too, but then remembered—right…no shirt, no blood. No service. And there was still the kid.
“What’s the matter, kid? Is someone trying to rape you?” Steven said in his manly rasp, low and sexual (even when he was trying not to be).
“What…no—why would someone be trying to rape me?”
“You tell me, kid. I don’t know what you’ve done. Just like…” Steven turned away and looked down and away, with a tremendous and unfathomable sadness borne of his bloody past, “just like you can never know what I’ve done.”
“What do you mean?” The kid responded. “Did you rape someone?”
“What...no! Why, is someone asking questions?”
“No. I’m here because…it’s my father.” The kid started getting misty, which Steven thought to be very unmanly. After all, he’d only cried once in his whole life. The day the Dalai Lama died. But, actually, the Dalai Lama hadn’t died yet, so Steven hadn’t cried that cry. No, that cry was in the future. Which meant that he’d never cried. But Steven was trying not to judge the kid. After all, how many throats has that kid even seen? Steven was born pulling criminal's intestines out of their nose-holes…but that doesn’t make it right. He’s just a kid. Let him be a kid. Let. Him. Be. A. Kid.
“What’s wrong with your old man, kid? Did someone rape him?”
“No! The Albanians. They…they…they said he’s got to pay them protection money, or they’ll kill him and burn down the store.”
Seventeen days. That was all the peace Steven Seagal would get. For now.
Soccer moms. They don’t know how good they’ve got it. All they do is shuffle their kids back and forth to their pee-wee games. With their juices and their snack-cups. Clorox. Clean jerseys. Life is so simple for them. They’ve never had to rip a man’s throat out of his throat. But Steven had. He'd ripped men’s throats out of their throats. He'd ripped men’s throats out of their skulls, out of their chests, out of their butts. You want to tell Steven you can’t rip a man’s throat out of his butt? Well, then, you haven’t seen war.
Steven was trying to walk the path of peace. But it was hard. Harder than his forearms, which were like the hardest thing in the world—like titanium or teflon, or some kind of teflon titanium that no one had invented yet. Peace is elusive. Like a baby bird in the mouth of a zebra. He nodded at his own wisdom, reached for his moleskin notebook that he kept wedged between his abdominal muscles under his Nehru-collar silk jacket. But then, Steven realized that he couldn’t write down this brilliant aphorism he’d just crafted, for two reasons. Number one, he didn’t carry a pen with him, because he always wrote memos in the blood of his enemies. Seventeen days. Yogurt. Soccer. Number two, because Steven wasn’t wearing his silk jacket…
He was shirtless.
Just as he was leaving the Kenno Seinaru Hana (Holy Flower of the Fist) monastery he’d founded—well, really he was only a co-founder; his spiritual silent partner was the Dalai Lama—a small boy yelled out to him.
“Mr. Seagal! Mr. Seagal! Please, I need your help.”
The kid couldn’t have been older than three. Or eleven. Steven wasn’t really good with children’s ages. No, he was good with his fists. And his feet. And also his elbows and his head and all the other parts of his body. But especially his fists. And when you’re good with your fists, you find yourself being pulled away from the Path of Peace, away from fatherhood. Once, he thought he could be a father. When he was much younger, he was in love with a girl named Mai Ling. They were both so young and fresh-faced, innocent and ready to set sail on the seas of Adolescent Adventure. Mai was only fifteen; Steven was only forty-seven. God, was he ever that young? But Mai’s father had objected—something about the age gap…Steven hadn’t really been listening, and it was hard to hear Mai’s father through the gurgling of the old man’s throat being ripped out of his throat. Or was it his armpit?
After that, Mai-Ling was upset, although Steven never discovered why. Women. As mysterious as a menopausal dragon. He wanted to write this one down, too, but then remembered—right…no shirt, no blood. No service. And there was still the kid.
“What’s the matter, kid? Is someone trying to rape you?” Steven said in his manly rasp, low and sexual (even when he was trying not to be).
“What…no—why would someone be trying to rape me?”
“You tell me, kid. I don’t know what you’ve done. Just like…” Steven turned away and looked down and away, with a tremendous and unfathomable sadness borne of his bloody past, “just like you can never know what I’ve done.”
“What do you mean?” The kid responded. “Did you rape someone?”
“What...no! Why, is someone asking questions?”
“No. I’m here because…it’s my father.” The kid started getting misty, which Steven thought to be very unmanly. After all, he’d only cried once in his whole life. The day the Dalai Lama died. But, actually, the Dalai Lama hadn’t died yet, so Steven hadn’t cried that cry. No, that cry was in the future. Which meant that he’d never cried. But Steven was trying not to judge the kid. After all, how many throats has that kid even seen? Steven was born pulling criminal's intestines out of their nose-holes…but that doesn’t make it right. He’s just a kid. Let him be a kid. Let. Him. Be. A. Kid.
“What’s wrong with your old man, kid? Did someone rape him?”
“No! The Albanians. They…they…they said he’s got to pay them protection money, or they’ll kill him and burn down the store.”
Seventeen days. That was all the peace Steven Seagal would get. For now.
October 9, 2020
Boogalie Woogalie BLAH!
In the tradition of the greatest ponderers, I offer to you my thoughts to kick off the weekend:
•My mother-in-law comes to clean my house at least once a day. But what if I moved to a junkyard or a sandbox? What would she clean then? WHAT. THEN?
•I read about another author who, in addition to writing, directs "immersive theatre". Isn't all theatre immersive? You pay an airline's ticket worth of loot to go to the show, sit next to strangers (and their farts), and pretend not to feel rushed when there are fifty-dozen men who look like your father or your high-school gym teacher waiting behind you at the urinal. That's immersive.
•No matter how loudly you fart on an airplane, it seems no one can hear you. Is this because there are no farts in space, and an airplane is the atmospheric median between the surface of the earth (where farts are audible) and the vacuum of outer space?
•Italian women love to clean. If there were a nuclear-zombie-civil-war-apocalypse tomorrow, my mother-in-law would survive so that she could rearrange the rubble and put Pledge on the ashes of the irradiated corpses. My wife would fight her for the right to apply that Pledge.
•Don't vote. Instead, buy yourself a nice lunch and smile more than you would on most days. Then, if someone asks who you voted for, confuse them by saying you're a member of the Spicy Chicken Sandwich Party and you don't get elected until someone tastes your BBQ sauce. If no one offers to taste your sauce, you will have made the right choice. If someone DOES offer to taste your sauce...run.
And now, peace be upon you my friends!
•My mother-in-law comes to clean my house at least once a day. But what if I moved to a junkyard or a sandbox? What would she clean then? WHAT. THEN?
•I read about another author who, in addition to writing, directs "immersive theatre". Isn't all theatre immersive? You pay an airline's ticket worth of loot to go to the show, sit next to strangers (and their farts), and pretend not to feel rushed when there are fifty-dozen men who look like your father or your high-school gym teacher waiting behind you at the urinal. That's immersive.
•No matter how loudly you fart on an airplane, it seems no one can hear you. Is this because there are no farts in space, and an airplane is the atmospheric median between the surface of the earth (where farts are audible) and the vacuum of outer space?
•Italian women love to clean. If there were a nuclear-zombie-civil-war-apocalypse tomorrow, my mother-in-law would survive so that she could rearrange the rubble and put Pledge on the ashes of the irradiated corpses. My wife would fight her for the right to apply that Pledge.
•Don't vote. Instead, buy yourself a nice lunch and smile more than you would on most days. Then, if someone asks who you voted for, confuse them by saying you're a member of the Spicy Chicken Sandwich Party and you don't get elected until someone tastes your BBQ sauce. If no one offers to taste your sauce, you will have made the right choice. If someone DOES offer to taste your sauce...run.
And now, peace be upon you my friends!
