Sum

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106847.post-42535733334802475482008-06-09T07:30:00.001-04:002008-06-12T08:09:59.045-04:00SumSum<o:p></o:p> "For any consistent formal, recursively enumerable theory that proves basic arithmetical truths, an arithmetical statement that is true, but not provable in the theory, can be constructed. That is, any effectively generated theory capable of expressing elementary arithmetic cannot be both consistent and complete."<o:p></o:p> — Kurt Gödel's first incompleteness theorem, 1931<o:p></o:p> * * * * *<o:p></o:p> Last night, I came upon an old drink recipe in faded ink on the wall in the men's room of a 210 year old bar. It read:<o:p></o:p> The Hobbled Minotaur<o:p></o:p> One [1] part Gödel's Incompleteness Theorem One [1]part Seneca's Fortuna Two [2]parts Roshomon Effect Serve over crushed ego w/a twist of zero-sum Beneath it in fresher letters was written:<o:p></o:p> I’m not as good as I once was but, once, I’m as good as I ever was<o:p></o:p> I’d found this place purely by accident, stumbling down an alley with an urgent need to pee. After I’d relieved myself, I sat at the bar and listened to a large gentleman and a smallish gentleman argue over where I might be from. Neither man bothered to ask me. Somehow, the conversation lasted longer than the five dollars I put in the jukebox. When it looked as if the bickering might come to blows, the bartender stepped in and attempted to soothe them with tales of Eartha Kitt and Patron at ten bucks a shot.<o:p></o:p> The man nearest to me, directly to my left, in fact, put a hand on my shoulder and a finger into my cheek. "This young man right here is decent! Ain't no way he come from hillbilly Arkansas. That's a fifty-nine hour drive!" This was the smaller of the two gentlemen. I leaned over and flat out told them where I was from hoping it would end the argument. "What the hell, kid? What made you think this had anything to do with you?", growled the wee man. <o:p></o:p> The large man held up a paw and started barking. “I got nothing against ‘im. You hardly know ‘im. I hardly know ‘im. We all ‘re just meeting an’ makin’ nice in here.” The smaller man nodded in agreement and bought a round.<o:p></o:p> Thirty seconds later, they were boxing one another's teeth out on the patio. The bartender glared at me and walked away. The owner of the bar was placed in a seat beside me, brought in by a young gentleman and an ogre who I later learned was the bouncer. She was much too drunk to stand or talk, but blissfully unaware of her handicap. She rocked back and forth, drooling her leathery face a contortion of wrinkles and pock marks. One scarred sexless breast hung out of her sundress, patchy with tans of varying shades. Bruises and veins stood out beneath a sheen of sweat and drool. The nipple looked like it had been sewn on yesterday. I couldn’t look away. <o:p></o:p> When the man beside her stood to leave, she pulled his pants down to his ankles, kneading his crotch and gurgling incoherent sexual innuendo. He swept her into a passionate embrace and they made out like sloppy teenaged cartoons. I pretended not to notice.<o:p></o:p> The bouncer came over and stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders. He squeezed and rubbed –I couldn’t tell if it was a botched massage or well executed torture. He put his lips up to my ear and said “Do you know a guy named Pedro?”. He sounded serious.<o:p></o:p> “No.” I said. “No sir.”<o:p></o:p> “Fucking liar.” He clamped even harder onto my shoulders. “I don’t pal around with scum”. I tried to tell him that I lived no where near this town but he’d already walked away. I ordered another beer.<o:p></o:p> Having pissed herself, the owner ended the makeout session. She swore and called for a bar towel. “I’m no geriatric. Woo! That Bud is… it’s like a acid in my panties!”<o:p></o:p> Apparently, this happens all the time.<o:p></o:p> The bartender obliged her request with a smile. I cocked an eye a the barkeep. “The hell just happened?”, I asked.<o:p></o:p> "Oh this is nothing” he said. “She's actually doing real good tonight". He set a fresh beer in front of me. "And she likes you. This one's on her".<o:p></o:p> The owner fell on her back from a full standing position and pulled her sundress up over her head. She was not wearing panties. She dabbed her pudendum with the bar towel and threw it into her lover’s face. “Oh sugar!”, he groaned. “That’s a bad girl!”<o:p></o:p> It was time to leave. <o:p></o:p> On my way out the door, I was stopped by the brawlers who had decided that I was, in fact, from Arkansas. They bookended me and walked me outside. The larger one spoke first. He backed me up against the building, gripping the shiny black dog-tags that hung around his neck. He was more than a little pissed off. The small man lit a cigarette and looked away. <o:p></o:p> “Did I say something racially offensive to you?”<o:p></o:p> I shook my head no. <o:p></o:p> “‘Cause I would never do that! I would never say anything racially offensive! I don’t have it in me! I AM NOT A FUCKING RACIST!”<o:p></o:p> He was loud and getting louder all the time. The bouncer came outside and bummed a smoke from the smaller gentleman. I looked over and gave him my best “help me” expression. “Little help here?”, I said meekly. <o:p></o:p> “Brock’s a handful, ain’t he?”, laughed the bouncer. He and the smaller man disappeared into a nearby alley. Seconds later, the air was filled with the smell of pot. Brock began grunting and speaking in German.<o:p></o:p> I looked up at Brock and smiled, figuring it would be my last smile. “Ever watch the Venture Brothers?”, I asked. It was too much for Brock. He put a hand on my shoulder and bowed his head, shaking with sobs. “You’re ok, kid”, he said through his tears. I laughed in spite of my impending death. “I’ve got sadder stories than that”, Brock moaned. “And I ain’t no Venture Brother”.<o:p></o:p> “Huh?” I asked. He dragged me back inside.<o:p></o:p> By then, the owner was dancing with a morbidly obese woman in a mobility scooter. No music was playing. The air was tangy with the smell of piss and gin. Brock retold my “joke” and tequila shots appeared. The bartender leaned over and smiled at me. “What time is your flight back to Wichita, son?” I cringed. Brock slammed both fists on the bar and stormed outside. <o:p></o:p> The bartender chuckled and said, “I just saved your life kid”, <o:p></o:p> I flipped him the bird.<o:p></o:p> The bar owner sat next to me and demanded pretzels or “something groovy”. The bartender screamed, “We haven’t had pretzels in here for thirty years, bitch!”<o:p></o:p> The owner threw back her head and cackled madly. “I know! I know! Isn’t it awful?”<o:p></o:p> Later that evening, I stopped off at a convenience store to grab something to drink that wasn’t beer. When I pulled out the cash to pay, a card fell out of my pocket. Scrawled on one side of the card was the name “Luscious Alice” with a phone number beneath it. I gave it to the cashier along with directions to the bar. “Best bar in the state”, I said laughing. He frowned at the card and placed it on the counter. “This is a local number”, he said, almost to himself. “She told me she was from Arkansas”.<o:p></o:p> * * * * *<o:p></o:p> A F T E R W O R D<o:p></o:p> Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in.<o:p></o:p> Leonard Cohen – Anthem<o:p></o:p> I hid from my problems this weekend – tried, anyway. The hope was that I'd somehow be able to have a few days of something approaching "normal" or "fine". Things didn't quite work out that way.<o:p></o:p> After a few days, I gave up and decided to go home. <o:p></o:p> On the way home, I drove past a house with a sign outside. Eight squares of paper hung on a line, each square painted with it’s own colorful letter. Bonnie Rait’s I Can’t Make You Love Me came on the radio as I pulled past the sign. It read:<o:p></o:p> L O V E H A R D<o:p></o:p> I cried the rest of the way home.<o:p></o:p>Drewnoreply@blogger.com