Wetwired an Austin Texas Blog

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We have all heard the epitaph from Palahniuk that says “On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero”. Never have truer words been spoken. We are all going to die, every single one of us. That’s the God’s honest truth and we all know it. We’ve known it in one form or another since we were children.

Unfortunately it’s not the whole story.

Death cannot be foregone, but it is also ugly and horrible and it’s stalking every one of us. Death is simply the name we give the end of our lives, but what it really is, is the destruction of our lives.

For a few of us, a very lucky few, we die in an instant when a drunk driver hits us out of nowhere on the day of our graduation or the birth of our children. Instant, painless death at a high point is the best anyone of us could ever beg for.

You see, they lie to us from the beginning. When they toilet train us, they don’t bother to tell us that in a hand full of years we will be crapping ourselves again, but at that time no one is going to think it’s cute. No one will dotter over us, or make happy little jokes about how our “little poopie stinky winkies”. When you’re 78 and you shit your diaper, the underpaid nurse just bends you over the bed, and cleans you, and wishes she had stayed in school or learned to type.

For your part you just stay there on the bed and try to think of more pleasant things than the woman sanitizing your ass and her cold, cold hands.

If you think any of this is funny, you wait for the punch line, its coming.

You see, the loss of control of one sphincter or another is really the least of the things you need to worry about at our age. Honestly the dehumanizing embarrassment of having a woman (who you would never even have over for dinner ten years ago) buff your rectum until it shines isn’t even the worst part.

The Pain is what you want to worry about.

The Pain that precedes our death is waiting for us all. It is waiting for all of us, and unlike death, it doesn’t even bother to stalk us in the night. We walk up to it and it embraces us, the only consolation being that it never discriminates. It holds everyone the same. A lucky few, a blessed few step out of line before they buy the ticket for that show.

Degenerative illness is a creation of 20th century medicine. They have figured out how to prolong our lives longer than they can make us comfortable. The drugs fail, we develop a tolerance and then all we do is wait. Sickness is ugly. Illness is degenerative. Life is degenerative. When it gets really bad, you look at death as Christmas. Only by then it never comes in time. By then it’s too late.

The reason it’s too late is that The Pain strippes us of all we have and all we ever were. It makes us see life for the truth that things will never be as good as they used to be again. Never, not ever or ever. The pain can get so bad that you beg for death and when all the begging and pleading that is left inside of you is gone, there is nothing to do but wait for death to take it’s slow ass time getting around to you.

You think that those people that commit suicide after being diagnosed with a major disease are weak?

Do you believe that euthanasia is wrong?

The very first time the medicine breaks down and you loose your voice because your body was never meant to scream that long, look me in the eyes and tell me that suicide is wrong. Tell me that doctors who intentionally overdose their patients are going to burn in a hell worse than anything we experience on earth.

I have seen doctors celebrate the “miracle” that will keep a patient alive for another two weeks, even though they know that there is no way to control The Pain.

Remember earlier when I mentioned a punch line? The Pain is waiting for you too. It’s waiting patiently for all of us. And the chances are that our death is going to be longer, and uglier and more debasing than anything that our parents or grandparents could imagine. Advances in medicine will keep us alive longer, but the odds are they will not improve the quality of our lives enough to make it worth the trouble.

There is this poem that has haunted me for years. It’s by Yeats and talks about the end of the world and the second coming of Christ. It says “Things fall apart, the center cannot hold”.

“On a long enough time line the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.” But for most of us, long before the time line runs out, we will be stripped of everything that made life worth living. We will be dehumanized, tortured by modern medicine and our own bodies until all that is left is a sack of warm meat that bears no resemblance to what we were, and can no longer beg for an ending that will never get here soon enough.

Feel free to start laughing anytime you like.

I went to this great little strip club with a friend of mine the other night. You know the kind of place, too loud, too dark and way too loose on the rules. Anyway, I’m sitting there and enjoying my third or fourth beer and watching the girls gyrate in various stages of undress and intoxication. In other words I was having a pretty good time of it.

Now for the most part I view strippers the way a well fed man views a decent steak, nice but completely interchangeable. However, and you know what I’m talking about guys, there comes along this one stripper that catches your eye. Skinny, but still with curves. Great, pert c/b cup breasts and just the right combination of too many drinks and too few morals to catch your eye.

Now, this is the kind of girl that you start to watch. You watch the way she dances and the way she works the customers, then if every thing is just right…you buy the lap dance.

Invariably her name is Rocket, or Diamond, or Mercedes, or Moonbeam, but it couldn’t matter less. Because, part of the joy of strippers is sexual stimulation without the burden of connection. On second thought, that’s not part of the joy of strippers, it’s the whole package. I don’t have to care if her grandmother is in the hospital, or if her boyfriend is cheating on her or even if she’s flunking out of remedial math at the community college. These things aren’t of any concern to me, nor should they be.

But the other side of it is even better. She doesn’t care about me, at all. I could live forever in perfect happiness or die right there in complete misery and she doesn’t care.

If you can think of a more deliciously nihilistic way to spend $35, then let me know. Have me paged. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.

I digress, let’s cut back to the lap dance…

So, I pay my money to Ms. Rainbow and she leads me back to a louder darker room divided by cubicle walls. She pushes me down on a worn, dirty vinyl couch and takes off her clothing. She was smooth shaven and her nipples were that perfect color of dusty rose against heavy cream colored skin. She turned around and began rubbing herself against my lap, and I let my hands begin to wonder. She kept me away from the most private of private areas but other than that I had free run of the amusement park.

No attachment, no connection, just drunk hands on drunk skin and a blissfully thought free moment.

Then I felt it. As I squeezed her deliciously plump right breast I felt a lump. It was hard and large and located an inch above the nipple. And in that one instant the whole illusion came crashing down around me. Suddenly she was a real person and she had a real name and real parents and she had one VERY REAL problem growing north east of her heart.

Only, she didn’t stop dancing. She had no idea what I had just felt and to her the illusion was still perfect.

Intact.

Whole.

Then the song ended and she climbed off, put her clothes back on and turned to leave after a hollow meaningless kiss on my cheek.

And there was the great white whale of morality glaring me right in the eyes and daring me to choose. Screaming for me to decide. Not just to decide, but to clarify my humanity with that decision.

Do I stop her and tell her what I felt, or do I let her walk off and catch another customer. Hoping that she already knew, or would find it herself, or maybe just hoping I could drink enough not to care, or even better not to remember.

I know what I did, but I want to know what you would have done.

Fill in a comment and let me know. But be honest.