Alan Moore, �The Ballad of Halo Jones: Book One�
[Disclaimer: Since I�ve had a hard time finding time for personal writing between four jobs and graduate school, the stories began to mesh together. Hence, this is long. Read it at work so you can get paid for goofing off. Hopefully, it will be worth it.]
As I�ve documented dozens of times before, I have a hard time keeping things that are totally inappropriate from flying out of my mouth, simply because I find it funny. Even around the right people with a similar predilection for dead baby humor, I�ve crossed lines. I don�t know why this is. It�s not like I�m personally looking for boundaries to cross. It just happens. Lately, it�s been happening a lot.
First example: Last week, for no discernable reason, my communications instructor brought in a television crew from the community station. For two entire class periods, we learned how to set up equipment and wire cameras and audio and whatnot. Finally, we got to put our knowledge to work, dividing up the class into different tasks such as camera man, sound guy, and director.
I was too tired from the four jobs to do anything that involved standing or moving, and so elected to take the role of �switcher,� which is a glorified term for a monkey hitting buttons to switch camera angles. We filmed two different instructors giving our group a special lecture that nobody listened to, as we were all busy with our assigned tasks. When the class finished, the instructor announced the television station needed volunteers to help film a lecture, entitled �Why Are They Killing Journalists?�
Simple answers to that question would be �Because they can,� �I thought they were a herd of deer,� and �I respectfully and regretfully refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it may incriminate me and/or others.�
Extra credit was offered. Not that I need extra credit at this point, but what the hell. I agreed to meet them. They gave me the location � a place called Sacred Hearts Academy. The next day I pedaled up the hillside to the address, only to discover that Sacred Hearts was a Catholic school for girls, complete with a life-sized statue of the big J-Dawg, arms outstretched in a combination of raising the roof and saying �I wuv you THIS much!�
And of course, I�m wearing my Econochrist shirt.
I walk onto the campus, passing by giggling girls in plaid jumpers until I find the auditorium. The crew from the community television station � all two of them � are relieved to see me. It seems we�re two people shy of having a proper crew, and most important, they�re missing a director.
�Would you like to be the director?� one asks me.
�No,� I say, �I wanted to be a dictator.�
�It�s pretty close to the same thing,� he answers.
And this is the aspect of my willingness to not censor myself that causes a dichotomy. It was obvious they offered me the job because I had self-confidence, simply from the sarcasm spewing forth. But they didn�t know the extent of my self-confidence and soon regretted putting me in charge, as they were trying to retain some semblance of being a professional television crew.
�Camera one, can you hear me?� I said into my microphone after we�re set up. �Good. Listen, how close is the crowd to where you�re set up? Two rows away? Good. Sorry? Why? Oh, I just wanted to know, because since you�re in the middle of the crowd and I�m behind the doors where nobody except you can hear me, so I�m going to tell you the filthiest jokes I can think of to try and make you start laughing during the most inappropriate times.�
Camera One Man giggles nervously.
�How many Catholic school girls are in the row in front of you?�
�Uh.... Five?�
�Perfect, �cause I was just gonna ask how many Catholic school girls it takes to screw in a light bulb.�
�Five?�
�Is that what you kids are calling it now? Light bulb? You are one sick cameraman. Does this television network conduct background checks?�
In my defense though, I think I�m getting better with withholding my scalding wit. As the speaker droned on about atrocities in the Philippines I simply suggested new camera shots to look for. And you should all be proud that when she started to talk about the excessive rapes in that region, I didn�t say, �Camera two, focus in on somebody rapeable.�
But I thought it.
---
The next day, I rose early to work at The Company. This is the place where I�m most likely to get into trouble, because I don�t give a fuck what they think. After describing my workday and the onslaught of my wit, one person asked if I was just trying to see how much I could get away with before they fired my ass.
Maybe.
Then again, I can�t be sure. Even though I hate the job with The Company, I�m still showing up to work on time and helpful, and all that other crap. But the mouth is still going. For instance, they wanted us to show up to work in costume for Halloween last week, even though Oct. 31 wasn�t for another eight days. When I showed up last Friday in my normal clothes, they asked why I didn�t come in costume.
�I did,� I answered. �I�ve come dressed as a happy, content, employee for The Company. I can�t think of a costume that could possibly be more creative.�
The reason I haven�t already been fired is probably due to the fact that for the past three days I�ve worked for them, I stayed longer than I was scheduled. Last Saturday was no exception, though I certainly wanted it to be. I was counting down the last seconds of my four-hour shift, when the manager asked if I could stay a little longer.
�How much longer?� I asked.
�Oh, until about seven?�
This was at two in the afternoon. �No,� I said with finality. Still though, I agreed to stay for another two-and-a-half hours before I had to go to the bartender job, thus insuring that I would work a full 17 hours straight on my feet, inundated with bad music.
But I agreed because we were so busy � it�s my damned work ethic getting in the way again. So after an hour-and-a-half passed and they told me to go on a half-hour break, I balked.
�Listen,� I said, �I can only stay until 4:30 anyway. There�s a line of people waiting to buy things. I�m gonna keep working. The reason that I�m still here is because it�s obvious that you need me here. Therefore, it�s stupid to send me away right at the point that you need me the most.�
The manager shook her head. �It�s illegal for us to not send you on a break. I know we could use you, but...�
�In a half-hour, I bet you won�t need me,� I said. �Besides, this is a store that sells anarchy apparel. If you�re so concerned about getting in trouble by the government, that tells me you don�t really believe in what you�re selling.�
But I took my break. And I was right � when I returned, I wasn�t really needed any longer. The last half-hour was spent with me listening to the managers� gush over and over how grateful they were that I was willing to stay.
Then I remember � The Company has an employee of the month award.
Oh dear god.
My mind is very visual. I envision them presenting me with a cheap computer printout declaring I�m the best worker The Company had under their employ for the month.
I decide that if this does becomes a reality, I will take the printout and eat it in front of them.*
---
Alan Moore, in writing the introduction for this collected volume of his early work, defended this rather weak collection where nothing really happens except for girls going shopping by simply asking, �What�s the matter? Don�t you like girls?�
Well, that depends.
See, I escaped two jobs with my mouth and my wit still attached. Then I went to the nightclub job. As I walked up the stairs, the owner was looking over sheet of paper, giggling softly.
�What the hell are you laughing at?� I asked.
�You know about our Halloween event? I just got the rule sheet and contract.�
�You have to sign a contract? Isn�t this your club?�
�Not for me, stupid. It�s for the participants.�
�You have to sign a contract to get into the club? Why the hell would you have to sign a contract?�
He handed me the flier and the contract. As it turns out, we�re having an Exotic Erotic Ball. On the flier, prominently advertised in the center in big bold letters, reads �BEWARE OUR TORTURE CHAMBER!!!�
OK. I�ll keep that in mind.
You know, I don�t consider myself conservative with anything except my wallet. But after reading this contract, I�ve learned that I might be kinda square. See, this contract comes with some rules.
Here are some of the rules: (Syntax, grammar, and punctuation for the most part is left as printed, unless the error was just WAY too annoying.)
- #1. No non-consensual Scenes.
- #6. No Stalking.
- #7. Do not touch others without permission.
- #8. Do not interrupt Scenes.
- #12. Do not under any circumstances mention the names of persons attending. We live on very small Islands. Confidentiality is Tantamount to our well-being.
- #9. Please socialize in the area provided.
- #14. No alcohol, those arriving drunk will be asked to leave.
Well, there goes the chance for tips. And by tips, I mean for serving them a drink, pervo. And yes, I know, these rules don�t seem odd. But you may have noticed there were rules I left out. Some of these included:
- #10. Nudity is allowed in all appropriate areas.
This needs explaining. I�ve already begun to call the Saturday night deathrock events �Night of the Living Flesh." I don�t mean to be a dick. All right, maybe I mean to be a dick, but I know that most body image issues are unrealistic and damaging. Good on some of these people for making themselves comfortable with their own bodies.
I think that�s great, but I gotta be honest � I�m not always comfortable with their bodies. When you have to use some elaborate industrial pulley system to get those corsets tied, it may be time to rethink the wardrobe, Vampira. It�s disconcerting to see flesh bunching up and attempting to escape from its restraints from unlikely areas like the bottom of your neck and your shoulders. Then again, I bet it�s going to be worse to see it unfettered in all its jiggling glory.
Back to the rules.
- #11. Please clean the play area after you Scene.
Oh, thank god. I didn�t want to be in charge of clean up.
- #13. Slaves have been designated to clean up. Please make yourselves at home.
Wait, didn�t you just say they should clean their own areas? Do �slaves� mean wageslaves as well? I ask, because there are these other rules that I�m a little uncomfortable with, and I�m kind of a wageslave...
- #4. Any possible Body Fluid contact needs to be protected. Latex and Polyurethane is provided for your needs. No Unprotected Sex!
And even with the protected sex, you guys are going to clean up after yourselves, yes? Yes?
- #3. No overt or messy Blood Play.
Blood play? Uh, guys? I don�t even know what this is, but I think I�m glad it�s not allowed. But hey, back to that whole thing about slaves cleaning up...
- #2. No Scat Play.
Um. I think I read my schedule wrong at my other job? Which one? Um... all of them? So, I think I may have to be somewhere else. Yeah, I�m sorry I didn�t tell you earlier...
- #5. If you choose to do Golden Showers, please speak to the host.
...But see, I think I really have to go... hide... in a fortified compound.
---
I�m sort of at a loss to describe how I�m feeling about what�s going to happen tomorrow. �Anxious� doesn�t really work, and it�s the same with �nervous.� People can do what they want, and hey, if they have slaves to clean up, I�ll be in the beer garden, though it hardly seems worth it. I mean, where are you gonna store a wallet?
Don�t answer that.
But like I said quite awhile ago, sarcasm finds a way of flying out of my mouth at the wrong moments. Those rules? They were the just the basic rules which filled the first half-page of a two page contract. Further in, there are rules pertaining to the entire BDSM scene, with rules like �Keep in mind that some Tops are very strict and do now allow their �property� to be touched or communicated with without specific permission.�
I already see myself trying to empty ashtrays. �Hey, can I clean some of this up for you?�
�DON�T ADDRESS MY PROPERTY, WORM!!�
�Yes, Master� I say in my best Tom Waits/Renfield voice.
Oh, sweet christ.
Worse is that yesterday I met the promoters of this event. The woman was at least 50, sporting a Martha Stewart like pantsuit outfit and matching hairdo. I bet she�s the Top. The Bottom? Are you familiar with that ill-chosen mascot for the Six Flags theme parks? If not, you can see him on their Web site.
Now imagine him with a skintight white mesh shirt, vinyl pants, and a dog collar.
No wait, don�t. Oh, god, I�m really sorry I said that. Look, I know the old and ugly need to get spanked just like the rest of us. But I really don�t need to see it.
I�ll really be glad when Saturday night is over. The thing is, I bet most of you are thinking the same thing, but just so you can hear about it.
And so who�s really the perverts here, huh?
Don�t answer that either.
---
*After working on my feet at three different jobs for 17 hours straight, I somehow �forgot� I was supposed to work at The Company the next morning. When I finally woke at three in the afternoon � four hours after my shift began, I found three messages on my machine from my managers, frantically wondering where I was. I�m not fired, but I�m not worried about eating my own work ethic anymore.
