Fuck you. I want to shoot guns for fun, do push-ups until I feel my bacon dinner coming up, & play video games that possess the sole feature of ridiculous violence.

With that out of the way, back to the story:

The Front Page is basically a daily summary of the news, compressed to about seven or eight minutes. Included in the run down is what’s mostly featured on—you guessed it—the front page of the New York Times. There’s some national news, international disaster reporting news, some New York news, &c. The format is such that it’s long enough to get me up to speed on what I missed the day before, but short enough that I don’t have to sit down to listen to the whole thing. Being able to listen to it, either via the iTunes or on my phone, is a real treat.

That is, if James Barron is reading the news that morning.

The man’s voice makes the podcast compelling. It’s good if someone else is reading the news, but it is downright riveting if he gets behind the mic. I don’t know what it is about him, but when the producers started soliciting feedback on the Front Page, I felt that I should respond.*

*Not having a goddamn thing to do at work for eight hours also pushed me to use my words, lest I go insane smelling farts and listening to blathering about eating the cheese off pizzas.

To whom it may concern,

James Barron’s voice is a drug that I need to operate. Even caffeine
cannot replace what he brings to my ears. Without his reading of the
day’s headlines, the morning sky is dreary, the birds are silent, the
motorists on my cycling commute angrier. Part of me dreads the
weekends when I realize that my iTunes cannot bring me that booming
baritone.

The length of the program is perfect, long enough to tantalize me with
the goings-on of the previous 24 hours. I could do without the
occasional advertisement, but I understand the need to generate
revenue, especially at a time as tumultuous as this one (speaking to
both the transitions that print media must endure and the global
economy that is shaky at best).

Thank you for the service you provide. I look forward to many more
mornings waking up to the Front Page jingle and Mr Barron’s
transmissions.

Most sincerely,
[REDACTED, YOU NOSEY SIMPS]

I sent my note into the ether, expecting nothing at best or the cancellation of the podcast at worst. Instead, I got better than the best.

Nine days later…

When I’m having one of those days — when nothing’s going right and I need more than the usual amount of caffeine — I’ll re-read your e-mail. Thanks so much.
As for the commercials, yes, we need revenue. Your comments are a reminder to do as much as we can to keep everything compatible.
Again, thanks.
Best,
James Barron

HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!1!!!one!!! James Fucking Barron sent me a fucking note [in a blue font, no less] that probably took about 35 seconds to write but blew my mind for days. I got the email on my phone at work, but couldn’t share it with anyone. Not just because they wouldn’t know who James Barron is, but because they probably don’t even know what the NY Times is.**

**Sorry, you don’t get to call me an elitist because I know about the Times. See note above.

This was a while ago, but I’m thinking of touching base soon, seeing how everything’s going with that mosque, er, community center. Maybe I can talk my way into a guest spot on the show, reading an ad for some product meant to replace Print or some service that provides a false sense of security while you use a cell phone as you drive. Or maybe I can get him to sign a t-shirt from CATS.***

***Oh yes, this is the man himself.

THE INVISIBLES
a review of the end of the aeon

I wanted to savor it. I wanted to take in each panel, each line of dialogue and let them seep into my brain and my core. I wanted a moment as I read that last panel. I wanted this last book to make me cry.* But now, having just completed the series, I sit in my chair at work, alone in the office on my break, picking pieces of burnt brown rice out of my teeth. There was no great awakening for me, no great truth, no surge of emotion as I held my breath, turning that last page.

There is only confusion, a story wrapped in metaphysical/existential/societal-analytical/astrophysical layers that may or may not be stripped away to reveal what?

But maybe that’s just me. Maybe I lost something when I did not slowly absorb everything in every panel, referencing previous issues for clarification and reiteration. Maybe it’s my fault that I did not see anything profound, even though it was spelled out for me on the last page. Perhaps I can only appreciate the simple wrap-up [say, at the end of Ellis's TRANSMETROPOLITAN or Gaiman's AMERICAN GODS] that clearly spells out the main characters final zing for the Forces of Evil or Fate or baby Jesus in a manger. Though, who’s to say that the point of it all was the conclusion? Although, it really seemed to me with the last two panels that this point of The End was the emphasis.

I think that where I got lost was about the point where we lose two-fifths of our original cell. So much of the story was about these people coming together to fight the Forces of Conformity. However, at the start of the final trade paperback [the twelve issues of Volume Three], I felt like the story was meandering. I expect and enjoy that sort of exploration at the beginning or even in the middle of an opus like this, but at the end of the story, I want see where threads are leading, but not necessarily where they end. I felt that Morrison was just meandering with most of the Division Six storyline, and any impatience I experienced was only exacerbated by the overly-cartoony art style brought in by Bond.** The switching of artists in later issues was appropriate and was used to strong effect.
As I write this, I realize that I think this all may be a comprehension issue. You-the-Reader are probably nodding your head “Of course” or shaking your head in disappointment. I think I get the Big Picture, I understand what happens to Fanny, and Boy. Gideon goes through some sort of series of time leaps to shoot the King-of-All-Tears [what a great name].

Does Robin OD or something? I thought she had leapt back to the future, to right after she left for her past. But then she’s cruising around in her drug-writing bubble in some university basement. Was that a commentary on how writers immerse their personalities into their work? Or a reveal about her role in the series?

And Jack. He touches Barbelith and then time ends? Then restarts? & what was going on with all that jive talk about immune systems and parts of a living thing gaining consciousness? Or something? And how does that tie into Barbelith? Does it? The alien abductions and satanic rituals were all coping mechanisms for contact with this thing. What is it all? I need some clarification and a Wikipedia.

There are no sides, became the mantra toward the end. A jag-off would say that the story became as obtuse as the five-dimensional crystal growing in the liquid of Time. I would say that maybe I just need to reach enlightenment before I can understand & appreciate whatís going on here.

*Not much, but an honest tear down my cheek; more valuable than any new conclusion about space-time or human nature or the illusions of civilization—honest emotions in the moment are timeless, but perspectives shift as rapidly as the winds.

**For git’s sake, please refrain from using bold lines for everything outlined and otherwise.

Wish I understood this shit better, then maybe I would appreciate the significance of this paper. I suppose reading the article in a quiet place that induces focus (read: not on phone at work while waiting for database to load) could help.

Starting Monday, I get to punch an honest-to-goodness timeclock! It’s probably been about five years since I last did that…

Taking stock of fitness level and it looks like I unfortunately must postpone my triathlon debut. My discipline has not been there and a serious lack in consistency with training would most likely lead to disaster. Good news is that triathlons happen frequently. Better news is that I can move forward with the Austrian Project…

James Barron (or more likely, his producer) is looking for feedback. I get mildly giddy when I hear the music for the Front Page starting. If I couldn’t hear this podcast in the morning, it would prolly be on par with quitting coffee…

Did live blade cutting on Monday. That shit is fun but to do it well is tough. One could always just cleave an opponent with a katana, but there is no skill in it. Plus, every time that happens, a reincarnated samurai cries in a Brazilian favela…

Consequently, rust spots have appeared on my blade. Need to research removal methods. Until then, any home invaders risk tetanus along with decapitation…

Speaking of which, been listening to Non-Phixion’s “The Green CD.” The freestyles remind me of the reason I never got into rapping: flow. Content is more about their brand of global violence, and less about drugs (which I can get into – talking about getting wrecked gets boring very quickly). There’s also lots of references to NYC, the sort of which express a grounding in their environment. “Got so much trouble on my mind / Refuse to lose” Many gems here, so many I would want to hear in the helo, right before parachuting into a battle…

In other news: poison ivy all over. Life is pain.

* * * * *

The man with hair like Roadhouse-era Patrick Swayze walks past me again, snickering to himself about how hard I’m working. Sure, I’m looking at something inane on the internet, but it’s the tail end of my lunch break and, more importantly, none of his business.

* * * * *

A long time ago [or at least it feels like a long time ago], I wanted to tear down the world around me so that it could be rebuilt in a way that reached its [our?] greatest potential. Instead, I was locked out of the blind vanguard that professed their desire for the same. A mixed blessing, I realized the extent to which one can control another. Of course, that extent varies based on what those are willing to give & take. But a truly unwilling, uncooperative party will not bend, no matter how enticing the other side sees their own offer. The will to change oneself, however, is all that is needed to convince the other party, since that other party is also the self [I think I'm going to skip the discussion on ego, id, superego, &c. today].

* * * * *

Last December, I sat down & wrote out a list. I titled it “Priorities.” I got very, very specific with this list, starting with Shelter, Food, Heat; then moved to taking care of my charges [because I still had two cats back then]; then moving on to social needs—human interaction. Beyond that, the list became somewhat vague, though the spirit was clear: what could I do to reach my potential as a human?

* * * * *

For the last six months, I’ve been working on an answer. There are steps I have started, some of them working directly toward my goal [triathlon training, taijutsu class, writing more often] and others work in parallel or enable the steps toward my goal [steady income, eating better]. The important thing for me, which is sometimes easy but sometimes difficult for all different reasons, is building up a positive inertia [emergence] on a steady foundation [i.e. not getting too big of a head about doing little tasks that don't contribute to the main goal] while battling negative inertia [entropy], such as skipping out on tasks because I’m feeling lazy. Motivation is key, not just to get to the top of those 15 steps, but to climb the next one thousand that lay ahead.

OUTLINE: At the start of the episode, Malory introduces a new employee: Omar. He is revealed to not be a full-time employee, rather a contractor-translator hired for their next mission… Before they leave, however, the women of the company realize that the no-fraternization policy has a loophole that seperates full-time workers and contractors. Carol wants Omar’s “chocolate hands” around her neck and Pam wants to exploit the loophole. Cyril begins to suspect that Malory is playing both sides — or at least his paranoid desire for revenge on the company that continues to employ Lana imagines that Malory’s intentions are duplicitous.

ISIS goes to Afghanistan, ostensibly to sabotage ODIN’s attempt to recruit local warlords to fight against the invading USSR. Malory goes with Archer & Lana, but ends up in a threesome with the heads of both ODIN and the KGB. Meanwhile, Archer’s hypersexuality makes him the target of a local warlord, who is threatened by his antics. In the end, ISIS fails at their effort, ODIN provides weaponary to a young soldier named bin Laden, and Archer is left stranded in the Afghan countryside.

SCENE: AFGHANISTAN MOUNTAIN REGION.
EXT: DAYTIME.

Close-up on STERLING ARCHER. He is wearing a checkered head wrap of Middle East origin, something out of Arafat’s closet or a shelf at American Apparel. He seems quite concerned by something surrounding him.

ARCHER
Uh, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?

CAMERA PULLS OUT to reveal FOUR ARMED MEN [outfitted with ammo belts, AK's, varying sized beards, striped articles of clothing made of cotton, &c.] surrounding ARCHER, closing in on him. His hands are out in a calm-the-fuck-down-I-was-just-joking-about-your-sister-and-that-goat motion.

ARCHER
I mean, calm down: I was just joking about your sister and that goat.

CU on one of the ARMED MEN. He speaks as he brings his rifle butt to his shoulder and sights down the barrel.

ARMED MAN
//something in Arabic// [Who told you about my sister and her shameful secret? You will bleed to death for the disrespect you have shown my family!]

Pull out to see the other ARMED MEN lifting their weapons and flicking their safeties off. A dull beating sound off in the distance starts to get louder. The ARMED MEN look up in confusion.

ARMED MEN IN UNISON
Huh?

Death comes from above for the ARMED MEN. They are torn apart by some sort of large caliber fire from the TOP LEFT of the screen. In characteristic coolness, ARCHER ducks while screaming. He starts screaming before the firing stops, so that his words are drowned out.

ARCHER
—call me ‘Duchess,’ whatever, just save me, God!

The bullets stop but the helicopter still whirs off screen. A speaker buzzes; LANA addresses Archer.

LANA
[buzz]ahaha! How you holding up down there, ‘Duchess’?

ANOTHER VOICE FROM THE HELICOPTER
Hahaha!

CU on Archer as he pulls his face out of the dirt. He looks confused then pissed.

ARCHER
Lana?! Is that you? What the hell are you doing?

Camera level with helicopter, looking at LANA in the pilot seat. She is wearing an all-black burqa, head-piece removed, and of course her shoulder holster.

LANA
Saving your ass, ‘Duchess’! Ha!

Shot is of behind Archer, looking up at Lana in the helicopter.

ARCHER
‘Duch-’ Wha? No! I was talking to God. You don’t get to call me that.

Camera shifts to Lana’s POV, looking down on Archer as she hovers in the helicopter. Archer continues to yell as he pulls out a pistol from his waist belt to shoot one of the ARMED MEN that was severly wounded but not killed.

ARCHER, con’t.
Only God can call me that, but only if he would have saved me. Which he obviously didn’t. I didn’t make that deal with you.

Back to helicopter-level with Lana. She is studying Archer through narrowed eyes.

LANA
So, what do I get for saving your worthless ass?

ARCHER
You didn’t save me! You nearly blew my head off! I could have taken care of myself, with my Krav Maga! I didn’t need your help.

CAMERA back to looking down at Archer from over Lana’s shoulder. Archer starts to shadow box in the middle of the circle made by the dead men, yelling “hi-ya!” and groaning and making the sounds of cracking bones.

LANA
I don’t think anyone can help you, Archer.

CAMERA back down to Archer’s level. He is still Krav Maga’ing. His upper body is filling most of the right side of the frame. The helicopter sits to the left.

ARCHER
What was that, Lana? I couldn’t hear you over my opponents begging for mercy.

The helicopter turns around and flies away while Archer is facing away from it, poorly imititating an Arabic-accent, presumbably that of one of his attackers.

ARCHER, IN AWFUL ARABIC-ACCENT
Please spare my life, O Great Master Spy. Take my wife and a goat. Just let me live!

He snaps back to reality as the sound of the helicopter fades out. He turns to where the helicopter is headed. The CAMERA cuts to above the tail of the helicopter. Archer is quickly getting smaller, as is his voice.

ARCHER
Lana? Lana! LAAAANAAA!

CU on ARCHER

ARCHER, FALSETTO
What?!

ARCHER, SINGING
Danger Zooone. [a beat] God, I wish I had a goat right now.

So last Tuesday morning I was walking to the subway. As I was walking across L St, Approaching 4th, I saw a guy laying in L on his chest, palms down on the asphalt, across 4th from me. As best as I could tell he was drinking a small stream of water that was running over the curb from a garden hose on the sidewalk. As I walked up the stop sign, a car pulled up heading in his direction – he pushed up on his hands and with an enormous grin shouts at the car: “I make my livin’ CONTRACT KILLIN’!!!!!”

As a walked by him he lept up and ran across the street at me asking to bum a smoke. I obliged and as he took it and lit it up, cigarette clenched between his teeth as he spoke, says to me: “You know, you don’t have to sit in an office all day. You need to remember your training and do what I do! I make my livin’ CONTRACT KIIIIILLLLLLIIIIIIIIN!!!!!!” At that point yanking the cigarette out of his mouth and thrusting his chest forward, arms back, head tilting to the sky.

As I walked away towards the subway, he moved into the middle of the street and started shouting half at me, half at the cars trying to make their way around him about how he made his living.

No joke, that shit was the weirdest shit I’ve seen in a while.

I sometimes forget that we live in a wonderful world. Maybe I should take up smoking again to enable these sort of interactions.

Back to this place: I am constantly reminded that in every joke, there is a truth. Here, the truth of every office satire, stereotype, and barb is played out dozens of time a day all over the Compound.* The drones buzz from place to place, dead eyes fiiltering out the world around them. I think of Seth Godin constantly and all of his inspirational blog posts: “Take care of your customers and they’ll take care of you” or “Take charge of your dreams. Take risks, think big, make mistakes, ship it!” or “Don’t be a wang.” The people here seem to not want anything beyond the mediocrity of their days, or the inertia of nine-to-five has crushed their spirits. The stereotypes play out again and again, but there is the truth, bleary-eyed and lazy, nursing its paunch and watery coffee.

*Sure, I’m speaking broadly, based on my two days and 90 minutes of experience at this place. I have not talked to everyone and do not understand the individual perspectives of every person. I can only speak of the general feeling that seeps in as I walk the hallways, piss in the urinals, and swipe my ID card to open doors.

The job is to last six months, at least. I cannot let myself be crushed. I have to constantly remind myself that this place is but a means to an epic end. And that end is really just going to be another start.