Posted on by Matt Thomas

On the Pre-Game: A Response to Neil Strauss’ The Game

Note: This piece overlaps with my three essays in the Week with Elodie series, though it approaches that week from a somewhat different direction. Where those pieces follow the arc, this one lingers on the moment before it resolves—the pre-game, as I’ve come to understand it.

It is also a direct response to Neil Strauss’ book The Game. I don’t intend to rebut Strauss so much as to correct what I see as a fundamental weakness in the subculture he dissects. The reader will judge whether or not I succeed.

Epigraphs:

Someone had to play that tune. I guess it was up to me.

— Bob Dylan, “Up to Me”

It all made some sense if you know what to play

– J Mascis, Elastic Days

I. Ippei

At around eleven one night, I was at Zaza, the nightclub on Kiyamachi in Kyoto, when a Japanese man of about fifty-five approached me. Let’s call him Ippei.

He had a proposition. Would I help him pick up two women? All I had to do was pretend to be an old friend from California, someone he hadn’t seen in twenty years.

He did this every night, he told me. The night before, he’d had a threesome.

We went over to the women. Ippei launched into a conversation in Japanese, working his story. I went upstairs to smoke. Twenty minutes later, I came back down. Ippei was still going strong, telling the same story to the same women.

I watched him for a moment.

He didn’t need me. He just needed me to play a role.

His story had landed. Reality was accepted. It was all on.

II. Neil Strauss’ The Game

I’ve read Neil Strauss’ The Game twice. I respect Strauss as an investigator of subcultures, and I think the book is serious reportage. He went inside a world, learned its language, followed its characters, and documented what he found.

My problem isn’t with Strauss as a reporter. It’s with the worldview at the center of the subculture he describes.

The premise is that attraction can be engineered. Learn the right language, the right sequence, the right signals. Find the moves that will break down a woman’s resistance and get you into bed.

It’s a kind of linguistic technology, NLP at its worst.

The system scripts what should be alive. It turns a conversation into a sequence of maneuvers, an encounter into a problem to be solved. Everything becomes instrumental. The point of the interaction is no longer the interaction itself. It’s the outcome.

There’s no room for romance in that equation. No room for the unexpected moment that changes the direction of an evening, or a life. The system is designed to get you somewhere, but it can’t tell you whether that somewhere is worth going.

Look at the group house, with Mystery, Strauss, and Courtney Love, for whatever Courtney Love-related reasons. It’s a sausage fest. And it is simply not cool.

The Gamers may have mastered the game. But somewhere along the way, they’ve stepped outside life itself. They’ve become incel-adjacent: men who have devoted themselves to understanding women while losing sight of the possibility of actually connecting with one.

I’m not interested in rebutting Strauss point by point. Instead, it’s a response.

And for me, that’s where I part ways.

III. The Game Itself

I’ve gone all the way with about a dozen women. The precise number is under strict NDA. I’ve made out with more.

Until this past summer, I wasn’t sexually active by the standards of the pickup community. But I’ve flirted with, connected with, and crushed on dozens of women.

And the truth is, I enjoy crushing on women.

I enjoy the tension, the ambiguity, the possibility. The spark that might become something, or might not. The moment when you can feel something happening but don’t yet know what it is.

For most men, the pre-game is a means to an end. It’s the part you get through on the way to the thing you really want.

For me, it’s the end itself.

However, I’m a highly specific kind of action junkie.

Wittgenstein was said to have manufactured his own oxygen. I manufacture my own action.

I don’t chase it blindly. I don’t optimize for it. I don’t try to force it into existence through systems or scripts.

I generate it. Selectively. Intentionally. And in moments where it actually might mean something.

IV. Luna

I was at Umineko in downtown Kyoto with Mr. Editor. It was around six in the evening when I saw her.

She was stunning.

I have to go talk to her.

So I did.

We spoke in Japanese. The conversation flowed. There was a spark. At some point, I asked for her Instagram. She gave it to me.

I was on Cloud Nine.

The next afternoon, I sent her a message. She didn’t respond.

Was that a failure?

Not for a pre-gamer.

I got the moment. I got the spark. I approached a woman I wanted to meet, and we had a brief, electric encounter. For a little while, there was the possibility of something.

That was the action.

That was the point.

For the Strauss guys, the night ends when the text goes unanswered. The interaction has failed to produce the desired outcome. The system hasn’t delivered.

For me, the night ended at the bar.

With Ippei, the action was more or less scripted. With Strauss, it was systematized. With Luna, it was self-contained.

This is where the epigraph from Dylan starts to carry real weight.

The pre-game isn’t simply a technique for getting what you want. It’s the moment before the outcome, when the possibilities are still open. It’s the point at which you have to decide what to do without knowing what will happen.

You can follow a script. You can learn the system. You can spend years studying the game.

Or you can pay attention.

A script can tell you what to say. A system can tell you what to do next. Neither can tell you what a particular moment means, or what it might become.

And that’s the difference.

The pre-game is not about controlling the outcome. It’s about recognizing the possibility in front of you and deciding whether to act.

No script. No system. No Ippei handing you a premise.

There is only the moment as it actually exists, and your ability to see it clearly.

And then the second part.

It was up to me.

Not to escalate. Not to optimize. But to decide.

The game ends when something happens. The pre-game ends when you decide it should. That is all.

Dedication:

For pre-gamers everywhere. May you get a little action tonight, baby.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Would you like a bit of Mr. Kelvin today kind sir?”ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT

Subtitle: The Trip.com Talking Blues

Epigraphs:

Trip.com you are way outta control.

Hey Kelvin suck another towel coach.

One fine day I went into Trip.com settings
To turn off the red thing that was pissing me off
I figured it’d take me about half a second,
But the folks who designed it were outta control
I clicked on the menu, I looked at the screen,
I was calm, I was patient, I was courteous and clean.
Then a question appeared that I’d never foreseen:
Would you like to set your temperature?

Well, I don’t want a temperature, I want these weirdo notifications gone,
I’ve been pushing these buttons since the break of dawn. Which is way bad.


I don’t need a forecast, I don’t need a degree,
I just want Trip.com to quit bothering me.
But the little screen asked me, with his sneaky little charm,
If I’d like to select a temperature alarm.
I said, “No, thank you kindly, I mean no offense,”
But the question came back with no common sense.

It said, “Would you prefer Celsius?” I said, “No.”
“Would you prefer Fahrenheit?” I said, “No.”
It said, “We have another scale you might like to employ.”
I said, “Buddy, I’m a grown man, not a temperature boy.”
It said, “There’s a third option, a scientific delight.”
I said, “I came here to turn off a red light.”
Then it offered me something from the physicists’ shelf:
Kelvin. I said, “What are you smoking? Get a grip.”

Now Kelvin Sampson, the basketball coach he didn’t do a thing,
But his name came to mind like a telephone ring
I thought of this bozo and I started to grin,

Ralph Sampson hit a three. Rockets win.


While Trip.com was asking me to let thermodynamics in.
I was trying to go to bed, I was trying to get free,
Now absolute zero was being offered to me.
I said, “I’ve got enough problems, I’ve got bills to pay.
I don’t quite need Lord Kelvin in my settings today.”

Oh, I know all about Celsius, I know Fahrenheit, too,
And I know that absolute zero is a scientific breakthrough.
I know Lord Kelvin had a reason for the scale that he made,
But I wasn’t in the market for a temperature trade.
I wasn’t booking Antarctica, I wasn’t measuring space,
I was trying to get one red notification the fuck outta my face.
You can put all your units in a beautiful array,
But I came here to say what I came here to say.

Now I’ve got my phone settings, I’ve got apps by the score,
I’ve got permissions and tracking and a hundred things more.
I’ve got background refresh and a microphone switch,
I’ve got Siri and Search making life a little rich.
I’ve got Live Activities and a location decree,
I’ve got every damn company trying to manage me.
But when I ask for one simple thing, here’s the answer I get:
A choice of temperature I never asked for yet.

So I laughed till I cried, and I laughed till I wheezed,
I laughed at the screen and I laughed at the keys.
I was dead, then alive, then deceased once again,
While Trip.com kept on behaving like an administrative hen.
I thought of my house and the money I need,
And the things I must sell and the bills I must feed.
I said, “I’ve got a whole life to get back on track.
I don’t need Kelvin. I want my notifications back.”

So here’s my conclusion, my statement, my vow:
I don’t want your temperature, then or now.
Celsius can leave, Fahrenheit can depart,
Kelvin can take his thermodynamics and make a fresh start.
Trip.com, listen, and listen up well:
I’ve got one little message, and here’s how I’ll tell—
You can ask me a thousand times, but the answer’s still NO.
ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT. Now let me go.

Dedication: Kelvin Sampson you are outta control.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Marci Gets Abducted by Aliens, and Mr. Johnson Freaks Out

Marci Gets Abducted by Aliens, and Mr. Johnson Freaks Out

I’ve got a two-pack habit and a motel tan.

—Steve Earle

There are aliens in our midst.

—Wussy

Scene One

One fine day, Marci was abducted by aliens.

That’s right! A mothership just popped down and scooped her up while she was mowing her lawn.

Marci lives in a nice suburban house outside Wilmington, Delaware, with her husband Fred and their two kids.

Next door lived Mr. Johnson and his wife Betty.

Mr. Johnson had recently fallen in love with Marci.

Obviously.

When Marci woke up, she was strapped to some kind of bed in a room with white walls and very bright lights.

Her head hurt.

A tall alien stood over her.

“Hey, Marci. Welcome to our mothership. I’m Bob. I’m the boss around here.”

“Okay, Bob. I want to go home,” said Marci.

“Yeah, pretty soon,” said Bob. “But first we need to run a few more tests.”

“Tests?” said Marci. “What kind of tests?”

“Oh, you know. Blood tests, nitrogen levels, respiration rate, that kind of stuff.”

“Oh, really? Come on, Bob, make it quick.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Bob. “And then we also have to give you the environmental spiel.”

“The what?”

“Oh, the environmental spiel. You watch TV, right? You know aliens are always giving the environmental spiel. Like information on how the environment’s dying and it’s bad and everything.”

Marci looked up at him.

“Bob, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Yeah, Marci, sorry. It’s just something we have to do.”

“Why?”

“No reason really”said Bob.

“Huh?”

“Anyways, you’re an important test subject. We’ve got a lot of work to do together.”

“Whatever, Bob.”

Scene Two

Meanwhile, back on Earth, somebody had noticed that Marci was missing.

A random passerby had called the police.

Police Chief Dan Collins got the call. 

He called Mr. Johnson.

“Hey, Mr. Johnson. How are you doing today?”

“So so Chief Collins. What’s going on?”

“Call me Dan.”

“Sure thing, Dan. What’s going on?”

“Well, we don’t know yet,” said Chief Collins. “Looks like Marci was abducted by aliens.”

“Holy shit,” said Mr. Johnson. “Really?”

“That’s what we’re hearing.”

“Well shit.”

“Yeah. I’ll let you know when we know more.”

“I’m coming over,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Wilson, don’t…”

Mr. Johnson had already hung up.

He was increasingly freaking out.

Scene Three

Mr. Johnson got in his Buick and drove to the police station.

Chief Collins went out to meet him.

“Hey, Wilson. I told you there was no need to come over.”

“I know, Dan, but I had to come. You know I’m in love with Marci.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think everyone knows that by now there, Wilson.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

CRASH!

“Hey, Wilson, what the heck was that?”

“I don’t know, Dan. Some kind of car crash.”

“Shit,” said Chief Collins. “Let’s go take a look.”

They walked around the side of the building.

A Jeep 4×4 had run into the side of the police station.

The wall was slightly dented, but looked OK. 

A somewhat older man with long hair tied back in a ponytail and a salt-and-pepper beard climbed out of the Jeep.

He winced and looked around.

“Are you alright?”asked Mr. Collins.

“I think so,” said the man. “I’m sorry about the building.”

“What happened?”

“I was driving home and, well, I guess I ran into your station.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Maybe just a little.”

“How much?”

“One or two, I think.”

Chief Collins knew this was bullshit, but he let it slide.

“Hey, Dan,” said Mr. Johnson. “I could really use a drink myself.”

“Maybe later. We got to make sure this guy’s alright

“What do you do?” asked Chief Collins.

“Well I’m Steve Earle and I’m a songwriter. Yeah, I write songs and stuff.”

“Well, that’s cool, Steve. Are you, like, famous or something?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you could say I’m kind of famous. I mean, I do okay.”

“Well, fucking A, Steve Earle. That sounds pretty cool.”

Steve Earle nodded.

Then he looked up.

About two hundred feet above them, a huge silver mothership was hovering in the sky.

Mr. Johnson’s face went white.

“That’s where Marci is.”

Steve Earle looked up at the ship.

“Marci?”

Then he looked at Mr. Johnson.

“Oh yeah, I know Marci. I think I can get her down.”

SCENE THREE

Mr. Johnson blinked and registered the fact that Steve Earle apparently knew his girlfriend Marci.

Steve Earle lit a cigarette and offered one to the two men. “You boys wanna smoke?”

“Hell yeah Steve Earle” said Mr. Johnson. In addition to freaking out Mr. Johnson was also just a bit stressed. 

“Thanks there Steve Earle. I’ll have one after we get Marci back.” 

Chief Collins was, after all, a professional. 

“Suit yourself” said Steve Earle. 

He walked back to his Jeep, opened up the back, and pulled out a heavy-duty tow cable.

“What’s that for?” asked Chief Collins.

“Getting things unstuck.”

Steve looked up at the ship.

“I don’t know guys” he said. “It’s just sort of hanging there. Let’s see if this works.”

He looked down at the cable and back up at the ship.

“What’s the plan, Steve?” asked Mr. Johnson.

“I’m just making a little fishing line for that there spaceship.”

“You can’t lasso a spaceship Steve” said Chief Collins.

“Well, I guess we’re gonna find out,” said Steve Earle.

Steve hooked the cable to the winch on his Jeep.

Then he slung the cable into the air. Somehow the cable caught around the middle of the mothership.

Steve Earle yanked the winch.

The cable tightened and the mothership began to descend. Slowly at first, then faster.

“Holy shit!” said Chief Collins, as he watched.

Steve Earle kept working the winch.

The mothership came down into an empty field behind the police station with a tremendous metallic WHUMP.

The ship was somewhat  damaged and a door popped open.

Marci stumbled out. She looked around and saw Mr. Collins and Mr. Johnson. 

Then she saw Steve Earle standing beside his Jeep with one hand on the winch.

“Hey, Marci. What’s going on?” said Steve Earle.

“Well, I don’t know, Steve. It looks like I just got abducted by aliens.”

“Yeah figures,” said Steve Earle.

Mr. Johnson was increasingly freaking out.

“Hey, Marci, how do you know this Steve fella anyway?”

“Oh, you know, Wilson. I’m a big fan of Steve’s, and I won this contest thing to have lunch with him.”

“Yeah, Marci’s a real riot there Wilson,” said Steve Earle.

“Yeah, okay, Steve. But, like, Marci—I mean, did you guys sleep together or what?”

“No, no, silly,” said Marci. “We didn’t sleep together. Anyway, I’m married, as you know.”

Steve Earle and Mr. Collins exchanged knowing glances.

“But I’m in love with you,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Yeah, I know,” said Marci.

“Also, I saved you,” said Mr. Johnson.

“No, you didn’t. Steve Earle did. How did you save me actually Steve?” she asked. 

“Well, I guess I just kind of lassoed the spaceship,” said Steve Earle.

“Yeah, we saw that,” said Mr. Johnson. “But that was a pretty weird thing to do.”

“Yeah,” said Steve Earle.

“You just lassoed it with a rope?” said Mr. Johnson.

“Well, technically it was a tow cable.”

Mr. Johnson turned to Marci.

“You had lunch with this guy. You drank brandy with him. He put you in a limousine. And now he lassoed a fucking spaceship and saved you, or something?”

“Pretty much,” said Marci.

“Jesus Christ, Marci.”

Steve Earle reached into the passenger side of his 4×4 and pulled out a mostly full bottle of vodka.

“Here you go, Mr. Johnson. This is the good shit,” he said.

“Oh, hey, thanks,” said Mr. Johnson. “This will really hit the spot.”

Mr. Johnson took a big slug, and then another.

“Hey, you might want to slow down there, Wilson. You have to drive home, right?” said Chief Collins.

“Well, I was hoping Marci could drive me home,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Jesus, Wilson. I just got off this totally random ass spaceship and you’re not even going to drive me home? What’s going on?”

“Yeah, what are you smoking there, Wilson? Something good, I hope,” said Steve Earle.”

“Hey, Steve. I’m not really smoking anything right now. I’m just drinking your vodka. Thanks again.”

“Yeah, drink up.”

Mr. Johnson passed the bottle to Marci who took a big drink. 

“You are gonna drive me home after all aren’t you W?” said Marci.

“No, he’s not,” said Chief Collins. “I’ll call you an Uber.”

Chief Collins pulled out his police cell phone and called an Uber.

A few minutes later, the Uber arrived.

The driver’s name was Jack.

Jack looked at the damaged mothership.

Then he looked at the dented police station.

Then he looked at Steve Earle.

Then he looked at Marci, Mr. Johnson, and Chief Collins.

He decided not to ask any questions.

Marci and Mr. Johnson slipped into the back seat.

Before getting in, Marci leaned over and gave Wilson a quick kiss on the cheek.

Mr. Johnson blushed.

“Hey, Wilson, you were really freaking out back there for a bit,” said Marci.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Johnson. “I guess I was. I’m just happy to have you home, honey.”

“I’m happy to be home too,” said Marci.

They got into the Uber and drove off together.

Steve Earle watched the car disappear down the road.

Then he turned to Chief Collins.

“Hey, Chief. That was quite a day, wasn’t it?”

“Sure was,” said Chief Collins.

He looked at Steve Earle.

“Hey, Steve, what do you have going on there? Some kind of motel tan?”

“Yeah,” said Steve Earle. “Something like that.

FIN

Dedication: For Marci. Hope you got home safe there babes. And for Chief Collins, Mr. Johnson, Steve Earle, and some guy called. Jack. You’re a bunch of bozos, but you’re still ok in my book. Finally got my Middle School French teacher Monsieur Dreyer. You’re getting all outta control again there sir and you’re a bit of a weirdo, but you still rule baby.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Beavis and Butt-Head See J Mascis Smash His Guitar

Hello everyone. I hope you are all having a great start to Fall. 

I’ve taken a little break from publishing on the Kibitzer for various reasons nobody needs to know. Ha ha ha.

Today I’m happy to release a new piece called “Beavis and Butt-Head See J Mascis Smash His Guitar.”

This is my second installment in my ongoing Beavis and Butt-Head series. You can read the first one here Beavis and Butt-Head, Play Two.

I was 19 when Beavis and Butt-Head premiered on MTV in 1993. I wasn’t the biggest fan at the time, but I always appreciated their humor and thought they were hilarious. Which is an understatement.

Today, I still enjoy the Beavis and Butt-Head universe, so I thought I’d take a turn at writing a few episodes of my own. Writing Beavis and Butt-Head episodes is a lot of fun, however it’s also a little challenging in that you want to be a bit careful not to overdo the boys’ catchphrases.

“Shut the fuck up, Butt-Head.”

“Shut the fuck up, Beavis.”

“No, you shut the fuck up, Butt-Head. You’re a dumbass.”

“No, you’re the dumbass. And you’re a moron.”

“Oh, yeah I am a dumbass. I forgot.”

Well, something like that.

These redolent phrases are a big part of what makes Beavis and Butt-Head who they are. However, as someone relatively new to the Beavis and Butt-Head game, I have a tendency to overdo them. I’m trying to keep this tendency in check, while still giving the boys enough room to be the boys.

If you’ve read any of these episodes, please drop a note in the comments and let me know what you think. Am I getting the balance right, or am I leaning too heavily on the familiar catchphrases?

I hope you enjoy this one, and thank you as always for reading.

===== =====

One fine September evening, Beavis and Butt-Head went to Santa Cruz to see a J Mascis concert. They got there somehow.


The boys got in a little early, each grabbed a couple of beers, and found a spot somewhat near the front, in the center of the crowd.


“Hey, Butt-Head, look at that!”


“What?”


“This guy’s a fucking J Mascis guy. He’s, like, smashing his guitar or something.”


“What the fuck you talking about, Beavis?”


“Look, Butt-Head! He’s, like, smashing his fucking guitar and there’s sparks going all over the place.”


“Really?”


“Yeah, look!”


Butt-Head looks.


“Holy shit, Beavis, you’re right. It’s fucking going all over the place.”


The sparks fly higher. A small fire catches beneath the drum kit.


“Hey, Beavis, look at that fucking drummer. His hair’s on fire.”


“Oh shit, Butt-Head! His hair’s on fire!”


“Is he gonna die?”


“Yeah, Butt-Head. Dying rules. Die, die, die!”

The drummer looks behind him, notices the fire, and kicks at a burning cable. A roadie rushes onto the stage with a fire extinguisher.


“Whoa, check it out, Beavis. He’s, like, putting out the fire or something.”


“Yeah, Butt-Head. What a dumbass.”


“Hey, Beavis, I’m gonna go to the bathroom and smoke a cigarette.”


“Okay, Butt-Head. Yeah, watch out.”


Butt-Head makes his way toward the bathroom.


Inside, he enters a stall and lights a cigarette. A pair of shoes appears beneath the partition.


“Hey, what are you doing in there? You smoking?”


“No. Shut up.”


Butt-Head takes a drag.


Fucking dumbass.


The man leaves.


Butt-Head finishes his cigarette and walks back into the hall.


J Mascis and the band prepare for the encore. The first few notes of “Electric Days” are played.


“Hey, Beavis! This is that song, ‘See You at the Movies,’ right?”


“Uh, yeah. I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know. Yeah. Uh…”


“Shut up, Beavis. It is. It’s ‘See You at the Movies.'”


“Yeah, whatever.”


The band continues to play “Electric Days.” Beavis looks up and starts paying attention

.
“Hey, Butt-Head.”


“What?”


“I think he’s saying, like, ‘Electric Days’ or something.”


“Yeah, dude. That’s part of the song.”


“Yeah, Butt-Head, I don’t think so.”


“Hey, Beavis.”


“Yeah, Butt-Head?”


“What if he’s singing, like, singing about the movies and the days are electric?”
“What?”


“You know, like, the days are electric and the movies are something.”


“Yep. That’s what I just said.”


“Yeah, whatever.”


The song builds. J Mascis leans into the guitar, his hair hanging over his face. The crowd moves closer to the stage.


“Hey, Beavis.”


“Yeah, Butt-Head?”


“Smash it, smash it.”


“Yeah, Beavis. He’s gonna smash it.


J Mascis finishes the song without smashing his guitar. The crowd cheers.


“Hey, Beavis, that guy was pretty cool.”
“Yeah, Butt-Head.”


“Think he smashes all his guitars?”


“Yeah, Butt-Head. He smashes his guitars.”


“Cool.”


“Yeah.”


“Hey, Butt-Head.”


“What?”


“Do you think he gets paid for that?”


“Shut up, Beavis.”


The boys finish their beers outside the ballroom.


“Hey, Butt-Head.”


“What?”


“I’m gonna go back in and get this guy J Mascis’s autograph.”


“Why?”


“Because he rules. I want, like, a fucking autograph or something.”


“Beavis, that’s stupid. What’s he gonna autograph? Like, your ass?”


“No, dumbass. I’ll get the poster, too.”


“Okay, fine, Beavis. Whatever. But with what money?”


“I got money.”


“Where’d you get money?”


“Shut up, I got money. Whoa, check it out. Four dollars.”


The boys walk back into the ballroom.
Inside, a line has formed near the stage. A folding table has been set up, with posters and a few records laid out on it.


“What the fuck is all this line about?” Move, people, move, move.”


“Shut up, Beavis. Get in line.”


The boys stand at the back of the line.


“Hey, Butt-Head. This is taking too long.”


“Shut up.”


“Hey, Butt-Head, what if he leaves?”


“Then you don’t get your stupid autograph.”


The line moves forward.


Eventually, Beavis reaches the table. J Mascis is sitting behind it, smiling politely.


“Hey, J.”


“Hey.”


“You’re fucking cool, J.”


“Thanks, man.”


“Can I get your autograph?”


“Sure.”


Beavis places four dollars on the table.


“Can I get a poster, too?”


“Yeah, they’re four bucks.”


J hands him a poster. Beavis looks at it.
“Whoa. This is fucking cool.”


J signs the poster and hands it back.


“Thanks, J.”


Beavis steps away from the table.


“Hey, Butt-Head, check it out.”


“Yeah, I saw that, dumbass.”


“I got this guy’s autograph.”


“So what?”


“I’m gonna be famous.”


“No, dumbass. J Mascis is famous. You’re not.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot.”


“Shut up, Beavis.”


“Yeah, but I got it.”

THE END

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Habbibi Habbibi, You’re No Habbibi of Mine

“20th Century Habbibi.”
— Me, by way of T. Rex

“I’d go the whole wide world just to Habbibi.”
— Me, by way of Wreckless Eric

HABBIBI I:

There are Habbibis everywhere. This is one of the things I have learned.

There are Habbibis on trains. Habbibis behind counters.

Habibis smoking cigarettes outside convenience stores. Habbibis who give directions and Habbibis who give you cigarettes and Habbibis who cannot help you but seem genuinely sorry about it.

There are bank Habbibis, hotel Habbibis, street Habbibis, temporary Habbibis, provisional Habbibis and men who look extremely promising from fifty meters away but turn out, upon closer inspection, to be no Habbibi of mine.

Oh Habbibi Habbibi Habbibi you’re fine, but Habbibi you’re no Habbibi of mine.

Habibi is not a word anymore. I understand that it was a word before I got hold of it. It is now an all-purpose descriptor for people and things of all kind. I apologize in advance to Arabic.

It is now a lexical system.

A Habbibi is somebody who makes the world briefly less difficult.

That’s it.

You’re broke. You’re sweating. Your bankbook has betrayed you. Your hanko has vanished. You have dragged your suitcase halfway across Kyoto for reasons that seemed compelling three hours ago. You are beat.

You are hungry. You are thirsty. You need a cigarette. Bad.

You have reached that peculiar point in the day when every automatic door, ticket gate and escalator appears to have developed a personal grievance against you.

And then somebody does one decent thing.

Nothing enormous. He holds the door. She tells you where the elevator actually is.

The guy behind the counter understands your terrible Japanese and does not make a production of it.

Some glorious bastard gives you an entire pack of Marlboro Reds when you have almost no money.

Habibi

My Habbibi. You motherfucking Habbibi of mine. Be my Habbibi for all time.

You don’t earn Habbibi through greatness. Greatness might actually work against you. Nobody needs another great man. History is crawling with great men, and look what they’ve done to the place.

A Habbibi is smaller.

My Habibi is local.

A Habbibi is the guy who sees that you are having a bad day and, without knowing anything about you, makes it three percent better.

Three percent is enormous.

I know because some days I have been living on three percent.

Of course Habbibi status can be revoked just as quickly as it was granted. There is no tenure. No due process. No appeals court. One minute you are Habbibi, my Habbibi. The next you are not.

Habbibi Habbibi Habbibi this time…

You’re still no Habbibi of mine. Habbibi.

HABBIBI II:

There are other Habbibis.

Paul Westerberg, a.k.a. Pauly Paul the lead singer of the Replacements is a serious Habbibi. He’s is one glorious motherfucking Habbibi that’s for sure.

He had his moments of depression. He talked about suicide. Oh Habbibi. Before all shakedown, Habbibi stop it. Nevertheless, he carried on. Thank god Habbibi. Oh my Habbibi.

Give him his props, Habbibi. Habbibi.

Habbibis III-IV:

Lemmy Habbibi.

Mr. Motörhead himself. Oh Habbibi.

Now, I don’t know enough about Lemmy it’s true. That’s all right. You don’t have to know everything about a Habbibi to recognize one in the wild.

Lemmy looked like a Lemmy. And a Habbibi. RIP Habbibi my Habbibi. There was no second Lemmy. Nobody at the factory said, Yeah, give me another one of those. 

They made Lemmy, broke the mold, smoked whatever was left of the mold, plugged a Rickenbacker into an amplifier approximately the size of Luxembourg and got the fuck out of the way. Habbibi, play the ax my man.

Habbibi rip it up.

Habbibi had the mutton chops. The mole. The boots. The hat. The cigs. The bass slung over his shoulder like it was not a bass at all but some kind of industrial equipment he had been licensed to operate under an obscure British law. Habbibi. Chill.

And that voice.

Not a beautiful voice. A Lemmy voice.

That’s better. Habbibi you’re bizarre. Habbibi.

He was in Hawkwind. He got thrown out of Hawkwind. Fine. Habbibi. He went and made Motörhead. Better Habbibi. He spent decades making the music he wanted to make, at the volume he wanted to make it, which was fucking loud. Naturally. Habbibi crank that motherfucker up to 110. Good god Habbibi. Settle down.

And he kept going.

That’s the Habibi part.

Not because everything was good. Not because everything he did was admirable. Not because surviving automatically makes anybody wise.

Because the motherfucker remained unmistakably himself. Habbibi.

Paul Westerberg did too.

Different Habbibis, same genre.

Pauly could disappear into the basement, get sad, get strange, write something devastating, come back upstairs, fuck around with the Replacements and occasionally set the whole fucking building on fire.

Lemmy just seemed to be there.

Same Habbibi. Year after year. Decade after decade. The world changed. Lemmy kicked it. RIP.

Habbibi

HABBIBI IV:

Krispy Kreme Habbibi

Habbibi, Habbibi, Habbibi it’s fine

Habbibi you’re no Habbibi of mine

Shut the fuck up, Krispy Kreme.

Fuck you.

Fuck off, Krispy Kreme.

You’re too delicious. You’re too damn nice. You’re too damn tasty, baby.

There’s no reason for a doughnut to behave like this.

A doughnut should have some structural integrity. It should put up a fight. I should bite the doughnut and the doughnut should, at a minimum, acknowledge that an exchange has taken place.

Not you you punk.

You melt on my motherfucking tongue, Habbibi.

You’re barely food. You’re an event. A glazed little hallucination. Somebody took flour and sugar and oil and bad judgment and engineered a small edible pillow that disappears six seconds after entering the my mouth.

Habbibi

And the Original Glazed? That’s the one.

Fuck off.

Don’t put cereal on it. Don’t put a fucking candy bar on it. Don’t make it purple. Don’t make it Pokémon. Don’t put twelve additional Habbibis on top of the original Habbibi.

Give me a hot one.

Give me the glaze.

Give me that sweet, sweet cream. Powder cream, baby. Of course.. Nice one Habbibi.

And then you put twelve of the motherfuckers in a box.

Why twelve?

That is irresponsible.

Nobody needs twelve Krispy Kremes. Nobody has ever needed twelve Krispy Kremes. Twelve Krispy Kremes is not a food purchase. It is in fact an Habbibish situation. Whatever that means. Habbibi oh Habbibi you are a Habbbibi of mine. I guess.

Habbibi.

Dedication:

To each and every Habbibi around these days. You rule my Habbibi. And yes Habbibi, you are, after all, still my Habbibi. Habbibi.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Bill Simmons’ Half-Baked Ideas

Note: Free vasectomies. Sicario Fantasy Camp. Bring back dumbwaiters. These ideas are not fully baked. That is the point.

This piece represents my first attempt to come up with some of what Bill Simmons and Kevin Wildes call “Half-Baked Ideas.” Simmons is, of course, the longtime sportswriter and podcaster whom I have discussed elsewhere on The Kyoto Kibbitzer. I roasted him pretty good in that piece, but that’s okay. He can take it.

“Half-Baked Ideas” is not my very favorite of Simmons’ recurring bits, but Simmons and Wildes are always funny, and I enjoy the bit. So, of course, I decided to try to come up with some of my own.

This proved to be a little difficult. For Half-Baked Ideas, you really have to thread the needle between complete absurdity and partial plausibility. A Half-Baked Idea can’t simply be a terrible idea. It needs to sound just reasonable enough that somebody might listen to it and think, You know, that actually might work. Then, usually about ten seconds later, the whole thing should begin to fall apart.

For my version, Simmons will be joined by his old friend Cousin Sal. Why? Because I know Cousin Sal better, and this is my website.

Half-Baked Idea #1: Free Vasectomies

SAL: Dude, I think I got one. I think this is the definition of a Half-Baked Idea.

BILL: What’s that, Sal?

SAL: Free vasectomies. Every city in America. Several locations. But here’s the thing: they have to be immediately reversible.

BILL: Okay…

SAL: Because think about it, Billy. You got a hot date with Tracy. You think you’re gonna score. You don’t want to use a condom, obviously.

BILL: Obviously?

SAL: Come on, Billy. You’ve been known to pull the goalie from time to time.

BILL: Maybe.

SAL: So you stop in on the way to dinner. Get the snip. Boom. You and Tracy get down to business. Next morning, you go back and get it reversed. No problem.

Pause.

BILL: I kind of like it.

SAL: Right?

BILL: Except then you’re getting surgery before every date.

SAL: It’s not surgery, Billy. It’s the snip.

BILL: I think the snip is still surgery.

SAL: All right, whatever. That’s why they have several locations.

END SCENE.

Half-Baked Idea #2: Sicario Fantasy Camp

BILL: Okay, Sal, I think I got a good one too.

SAL: Okay. Hit me with it.

BILL: Dude. Picture this. It’s just called Sicario Fantasy Camp.

Pause.

SAL: Hmm. I guess it could work. But how?

BILL: Well, just think about it. You get to choose from five characters. You can be Matt Graver. You can be Benicio. You can be Kate. You can be Kate’s partner. Or you can be Ted, the cowboy guy who tries to kill Kate and pays the price.

SAL: Why would anybody pick Ted?

BILL: I don’t know. Somebody’s gotta be Ted.

SAL: Okay.

BILL: Then you spend the weekend doing Sicario things. You get the sunglasses. The tactical gear. You ride around in a convoy—

SAL: Where?

BILL: Arizona. Somewhere. And, Sal, get this.

SAL: What?

BILL: You get to fly a drone.

SAL: A real drone?

BILL: Yeah.

SAL: With missiles?

BILL: No, Sal. They’re not gonna give you missiles.

SAL: Well, then what am I doing with the drone?

BILL: Sicario things.

Pause.

SAL: I don’t know, Bill. Sounds a little complex. And the movie’s kinda old.

BILL: Come on, Sally. Everybody loves Sicario, right?

SAL: Yeah, Bill. You do, anyway.

Later, at the pitch meeting

Several executives sit across the table from Simmons.

EXECUTIVE: Okay, Bill. And what exactly do people do in Arizona for the whole weekend?

Pause.

BILL: Sicario things.

END SCENE.

Half-Baked Idea #3: Bring Back Dumbwaiters

BILL: Okay, Sal, we gotta wrap soon. What’s your last one?

SAL: Okay, Bill. I’ve been thinking about this one for a little while.

BILL: Okay.

SAL: I don’t have it fully worked out yet.

BILL: Great start.

SAL: But basically, it’s: bring dumbwaiters back.

BILL: Dumbwaiters?

SAL: Yeah.

BILL: Were they gone?

SAL: Exactly, Billy. That’s the problem. Nobody knows.

BILL: Okay, but that’s not quite what I meant.

SAL: Think about how much shit you carry around your house every day. Food. Drinks. Laundry. Amazon boxes. Whatever. Why am I carrying this stuff upstairs myself? It’s 2026.

BILL: So you want an elevator for your sandwich.

SAL: Not just the sandwich, Billy. Anything.

BILL: How big is this dumbwaiter?

SAL: I don’t know. Pretty big.

BILL: Can a person fit in it?

SAL: No.

Pause.

SAL: Maybe a kid.

BILL: Sal.

SAL: I’m not saying you put the kid in there. I’m saying technically the kid fits.

BILL: Okay, so now every house in America has this child-sized elevator going between floors.

SAL: Exactly.

BILL: That seems incredibly dangerous.

SAL: Well, we’ll put a sticker on it or something.

BILL: Okay, sure, Sal.

END SCENE.

And the drone is the next beat:

BILL: Then you spend the weekend doing Sicario things. You get the sunglasses, the tactical gear. You ride around in a convoy—

SAL: Where?

BILL: Arizona. Somewhere. And, Sal, get this.

SAL: What?

BILL: You get to fly a drone.

Pause.

SAL: A real drone?

BILL: Yeah.

SAL: With missiles?

BILL: No, Sal. They’re not gonna give you missiles.

SAL: Well, then what am I doing with the drone?

BILL: Sicario things

Posted on by Matt Thomas

The Most Insane People of All Time (aka You’re Outta Control!): #4 Azalia Banks

I just wanna sip the punch with your peeps and
Sit in that lunch if you’re treatin’

— Azealia Banks, “212”

I. Introduction

In my opinion, Azealia Banks is the greatest rapper of all time.

I do not say this lightly.

These days, I don’t listen to much rap and hip-hop. I regret this a bit. However, life is short, there is a lot to do, and there is simply too much music to listen to. I am familiar with and enjoy a number of hip-hop artists, mostly from the late 1980s and 1990s: LL Cool J, Sir Mix-a-Lot, Wu-Tang Clan, KRS-One and A Tribe Called Quest, among others. I especially like A Tribe Called Quest’s “I Left My Wallet in El Segundo.”

Of course you did, dude. You went to El Segundo. You lost your fucking wallet. Naturally.

I also enjoy the more jazz-inflected end of the genre: De La Soul, Digable Planets and Basehead. Among later artists, I know Nas, Kendrick Lamar and Kanye West to varying degrees. Kanye is, of course, completely outta control. I do not believe I am alone at this point in saying that I do not care for Kanye West as a person. His flirtation with Nazi imagery and rhetoric is indefensible. Nevertheless, Kanye is certainly a talented artist, and I do like—or at least once liked—My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Its lyrical density and imagination are something to behold.

However other than Azealia, my favorite rap group remains Public Enemy.

Public Enemy arrived when hip-hop was still a relatively young genre, and pushed it into territory that was denser, louder, angrier, more political and, to my ears anyway, considerably more interesting. I respect N.W.A. and their place in the tradition. I like “Fuck tha Police” well enough. Ice Cube obviously went on to enormous fame and fortune, and Eazy-E had a tough life. RIP. Nonetheless, for my money, Public Enemy is the more important and enjoyable group. “911 Is a Joke” is great. “Welcome to the Terrordome” is my favorite Public Enemy song. Terradome rules.

So I guess at the end of the day I do regard Chuck D as the greatest rap/hip-hop lyricist of all time. However, these days I don’t find myself listening to Public Enemy all that often. “212,” on the other hand, I listen to regularly.

And baby, here we go.

212

It only makes sense to start with “212.”

Azealia Banks released “212” in 2011, when she was twenty years old. It subsequently appeared on her four-song 1991 EP in 2012 and, eventually, on her debut album Broke with Expensive Taste in 2014. 

“212” is stuffed with the most amazing collection of rhymes, near-rhymes, internal rhymes and alliteration I have ever heard. I understand that hip-hop and rap lyrics depend on these techniques and that plenty of rappers have demonstrated extraordinary mastery of them.

Azealia, in my opinion, takes the whole thing to another level.

My favorite line in the song, by far, is not even one of the blue lines:

I just wanna sip that punch with your peeps and / Sit in that lunch if you’re treatin’

I love this line so very much, primarily because it establishes Azealia’s modus operandi when it comes to her business and career.

Azealia is on the come-up. She’s going places. She has designs on the crown. The girl has talent for days, and the industry is listening. But the second half is arguably even more essential to understanding how Azealia works.

She wants to sit in that lunch if you’re treatin’. Then or now, Azealia Banks is the last person who is ever going to pay for lunch.

This, incidentally, makes the eventual title Broke with Expensive Taste almost impossibly perfect.

And then we get this:

I’m the one today / I’m the new shit, boo / Young Rapunzel / Who are you, bitch? New lunch?

Followed, repeatedly, by this immortal threat:

I’ma ruin you, cunt.

Of course you are, Azealia. Of course you are.

The funny thing is that these lines would prove somewhat prophetic.

Azealia clearly thought she was the shit.

I agree.

“212” was an extraordinary announcement of a young artist who seemed capable of doing almost anything. Contemporary critics heard it too. When Pitchfork reviewed 1991 the following year, the publication was already emphasizing the slyness beneath Banks’s aggression and the enormous expectations surrounding her. 

And then Azealia started ruining people. For real.

I’ma Ruin You Cunt

Azealia Banks has been involved in so many public feuds that trying to compile a complete list would require an entirely separate essay.

This is not that essay. Instead we will take a few representative samples.

There was Zayn Malik. In 2016 Banks accused the former One Direction singer of copying her aesthetic. That dispute escalated into an extraordinarily ugly series of racist and homophobic attacks from Banks. Then the fourteen-year-old Disney actress Skai Jackson made the apparently catastrophic decision to tell Azealia to simmer down.

Baby no.

You do not tell Azealia Banks to simmer down. No one does. Azaalia does not settle. Period.

Banks promptly opened another front, this time against a fourteen-year-old girl. Sure babes, why not. Ruis her too. Just because. Twitter suspended her account, and a UK festival subsequently dropped her from its lineup. This is one of the places where we can move beyond speculation about whether Azealia’s behavior damaged her career. Here it plainly did. 

And then there was Grimes.

Oh my God. Baby take an aspirin. Now.

In 2018 Banks went to Los Angeles expecting to collaborate with Grimes and ended up at the house Grimes shared with Elon Musk. The proposed musical collaboration went nowhere. Obviously. Banks hung around for a bit and then things got weird. Real weird.

Banks began posting about the experience publicly, describing her time with Grimes and Elon as bizarre and increasingly hostile terms and making allegations about Musk and drug use. Musk denied the drug allegation. But somehow an aborted Azealia Banks/ Grimes recording session had become entangled with Musk’s already notorious “funding secured” Tesla tweet and the securities controversy surrounding it.

That’s the thing about Azealia.

She can start out trying to make a song with another musician and somehow end up adjacent to a federal securities investigation involving one of the richest men on Earth.

How?

Because she is Azealia Banks baby. And you are not. No other explanation required.

And these were hardly isolated incidents. She feuded with T.I. and Iggy Azalea. She attacked Perez Hilton. Of course. She criticized Pharrell, Baauer and Disclosure. Pitchfork noted as early as 2014 that some of these fights were no longer merely entertaining sideshows: they were costing her potentially valuable collaborators. She was hurting career for no apparent reasons. At all.

Azealia would gun down anybody. She does not give a single shit.

Men. Women. Musicians. Producers. Celebrities. Minor celebrities. People who were minding their own business. People who were very much not minding their own business. Teenagers. Whoever. Whatever. Funk em all Azealia. Fuck em all.

It didn’t matter.

I’ma ruin you, cunt.

And she did.

Broke with Expensive Taste

The tragedy—or comedy, depending on how you look at it—is that through all of this Azealia Banks remained enormously talented.

Her debut album, Broke with Expensive Taste, finally appeared in November 2014 after years of delays and a disastrous relationship with Interscope Records. Banks had gotten herself released from her deal and retained the rights to the recordings. The record finally came out on her terms. More or less. 

And the critics liked it. Quite a lot, actually.

The Guardian described a record luxuriating in sound and language, bouncing around among underground club music, house, garage and stranger territory. Pitchfork heard essentially the same thing: an artist jumping almost recklessly among genres, held together by Banks’s own voice and formidable technical ability. 

I recently listened to Broke with Expensive Taste again and really enjoyed it. Some of it runs a little long for me, but there is great stuff all over the record.

All this complicates the easy story.

It would be simple to say Azealia Banks destroyed her career because she couldn’t stop fighting with people. It would also be wrong.

The record industry contributed plenty to the mess. Her relationship with Interscope was dysfunctional. Banks believed the label simply did not understand the record she wanted to make. There is some evidence that she was right. Broke with Expensive Taste is a strange record. It is difficult to classify. It does not sound particularly interested in behaving like a conventional major-label rap debut.

Indeed, after Banks finally got out of the Interscope arrangement, she told Pitchfork that other labels liked the album but remained wary of her. Banks laughed about her reputation. 

So the record-company story and the Azealia story meet somewhere in the middle.

The industry didn’t know what to do with her. Azealia frequently didn’t know what to do with Azealia. She is, of course, totally outta control at all times.

And nobody knew what the fuck was going on.

The Prophecy

There is one more remarkable thing about “212.”

Amid all the obscenity, comedy, sexual swagger, threats and spectacular displays of technical skill, Banks suddenly turns the camera around.

She warns herself:

Why are you procrastinating? You have all this talent. Baby you’re wasting it. People are going to forget you, and when they do, ultimately you’ll have yourself to blame.

TIME noticed the eerie quality of this almost immediately when Broke with Expensive Taste finally appeared in 2014. What had sounded in 2011 like the self-motivation of an extraordinarily ambitious young artist three years later sounded like prophecy. 

That strikes me as much more interesting than another catalogue of Azealia Banks saying outrageous shit on the internet.

Because the talent is real. The promise is real. The record is real.

And this is why Azealia Banks drives me so nuts.

I don’t particularly care that she’s badly behaved. Plenty of great artists are badly behaved.

I care because she’s so fucking talented.

“212” remains an astonishing piece of writing. To me, the song feels as fresh today as it did when it was released. The rhymes and internal rhymes are off the hook. The alliteration is just nuts. The profanity is dialed to 11. And the song makes me crack up every single time I hear it.

Brother just listen to what this woman could do.

Baby told us in 2011.

I’ma ruin you, cunt.

Shut the fuck up Azealia. But I will say this: you certainly ruined a lot of people along the way.

But nobody ever did more damage to Azealia Banks than Azealia Banks.

Dedication:

For Azealia Banks. Baby, you’re completely out of all reasonable and rational control. And that’s why I love you so very, very much. Baby.

Posted on by Matt Thomas · 1 Comment

Beavis and Butthead Play Two

Note: A couple of months ago, I wrote my first play about the love of my life, Elodie. It is called Wayfarer. Today, I’m pleased to publish my first TV script.

The script is, of course, a Beavis and Butt-Head episode.

I’ve wanted to do one of these for the longest time, simply because Beavis and Butt-Head are completely fucking hysterical. I know the show is a bit old at this point, and one could argue that the humor is sophomoric. Probably so. But that’s the point.

For anyone who somehow missed them, Beavis and Butt-Head are Mike Judge’s two magnificently stupid teenage metal heads, unleashed on MTV in the early 1990s to watch music videos, insult everything and everything they encountered, misunderstand nearly everything happening around them, and occasionally stumble into something resembling wisdom. They are idiots, but they are very particular idiots. There is a strange precision to their stupidity, and after all these years their friendship remains weirdly endearing.

I love the Beavis and Butt-Head universe, and I plan to write several more of these. Stay tuned.

This first one sends the boys to Chicago for a Cubs doubleheader. There is a girl. There is a box of love letters. There is a Chevy Suburban outfitted for bass fishing. There is George Brett.

Naturally.

Epigraphs:

It’s a great day for a ball game; let’s play two!
— Ernie Banks

Change it Butthead.
— Beavis

Shut the fuck Beavis.
— Butthead

I: Beavis’ Birthday

PING-PONG.

Butt-Head looks toward the front door.

“No.”

“Beavis.”

“Beavis. Someone’s at the door. Go get it.”

“You get it, Butt-Head.”

“Okay, Beavis. Let’s go together.”

The boys get off the couch and approach the door.

Stuart is standing outside in his Winger T-shirt.

“Hey, guys. I heard it was Beavis’s birthday. You guys wanna hang out?”

“No,” Butt-Head says.

He begins to close the door.

“Wait a minute,” Beavis says.

Butt-Head stops.

“What?”

“He does have a point.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It is my birthday, Butt-Head.”

“Yeah, dumbass. I know.”

Butt-Head pauses.

“But yeah. Happy birthday, Beavis.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“Now shut up Beavis.”

Stuart is still standing outside.

“So you guys wanna hang out or what?”

“No,” Butt-Head says. “We have important stuff to do.”

“Yeah,” Beavis says. “Important birthday stuff.”

“We’re going to Chicago, Stuart.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’re going to see the Cubs tomorrow.”

“It’s a doubleheader,” Beavis says.

Stuart smiles.

“That sounds pretty cool.”

“Shut up, Stuart,” Butt-Head says.

He begins to close the door again.

“Wait,” Beavis says.

“What?”

“You forgot to tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

Beavis lowers his voice.

“Amanda.”

“Oh yeah.”

Stuart looks from Beavis to Butt-Head.

“Who’s Amanda?”

Beavis’s face changes.

“Amanda,” he says reverently.

“She’s a ball girl for the Cubs,” Butt-Head says.

“She’s hot,” Beavis says. “She wants me.”

“Shut the fuck up, Beavis. She doesn’t want you. She wants me.”

“No dude. She wants me. But whatever. Why do you think Butt-head that she wants you.”

“I saw her on TV.”

“You were on TV Butthead?”

“She was on TV, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah. I forget”

Stuart looks confused.

“What”s going on?” said Stewart “What’s a ball girl?”

The boys stare at him.

Butt-Head closes the door.

“Stuart, you need to leave.”

II: Uncle Ken

A Chevy Suburban rolls up outside the house.

It belongs to Beavis’ Uncle Ken, a Chevy dealer from greater Kansas City. The Suburban is outfitted for bass fishing and elk hunting. One of Ken’s major clients is George Brett, the former star of the Kansas City Royals.

Ken parks and gets out.

Beavis and Butt-Head are sitting shirtless in lawn chairs, drinking forties.

Improbably, the boys have found an extension cord and snaked it outside. A small black-and-white television sits between them, playing music videos.

Ken lights a Camel.

“You boys ready for your first ball game?”

“Yeah, Ken,” Butt-Head says. “I guess.”

“Thanks, Uncle Ken,” Beavis says. “You rule.”

“Ok. Let’s go.”

A few drops of rain begin to fall. Beavis picks up the television and puts it under the awning to protect it.

The boys leave the lawn chairs where they are. They climb into the Suburban, still shirtless.

They both sit in the back.

Ken passes them a bag containing sandwiches, chips, oranges and iced tea. Beavis looks inside.

“Thanks, Uncle Ken. You rule.”

Butt-Head lowers his voice.

“Beavis, your uncle may rule, but he also needs to shut the fuck up.”

“Why?”

“There’s not enough food to get us to Chicago.”

“Dumbass. We can stop on the way.”

“Oh yeah.”

Ken butts his cigarette in the front ashtray. The boys throw theirs out the window.

A few minutes later, Butt-Head leans forward.

“Hey, Ken.”

“Yeah?”

“Was this really George Brett’s Suburban?”

“Yeah, Butt-Head. It sure was.”

“Whoa.”

Beavis looks around the interior.

“George Brett played baseball.”

“Yeah, Beavis. Everybody knows that.”

“Oh yeah.”

Butt-Head leans farther toward the front seat.

“Hey, Ken.”

“What?”

His voice drops.

“But did George Brett score in here?”

Ken looks at him in the rearview mirror.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

The boys look at each other.

“Whoa dude”

III: The Motel 6

The rest of the drive passes without incident.

Around seven, Ken pulls into a roadside Motel 6. Beavis looks through the window at the motel.

“Butt-Head.”

“What?”

“It’s a motel.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re gonna score.”

“Oh yeah, Beavis. We’re gonna score all right.”

Ken overhears them from the front seat.

“Boys, if you’re really serious about scoring tonight, there’s a truck stop right over there.”

The boys look over.

“I don’t know for sure,” Ken continues, “but I’ve heard there are a lot of lot lizards around there at night.”

Beavis looks at Butt-Head.

“What the fuck is a lot lizard?”

“Shut up, Beavis. A lot lizard is just another word for a lady of the night.”

“Oh yeah.”

They eat chicken-fried steak at a diner beside the motel. By ten-thirty, Uncle Ken is asleep.

Beavis and Butt-Head are not.

They stand outside their motel room drinking two of Uncle Ken’s beers.

“Beavis.”

“Yeah?”

“You wanna go find those lizards?”

“Yeah. Heh heh.”

They walk across the parking lot toward the truck stop.

There are no lot lizards. There are, however, approximately forty trucks.

Beavis stops beside one.

“Butt-Head.”

“What?”

“Do you think George Brett ever drove a truck?”

“No, dumbass. George Brett played baseball.”

“Oh yeah.”

They continue walking.

After a moment Butt-Head stops.

“Although he did have a Suburban.”

“Yeah.”

They both consider this.

“Maybe he drove a truck.”

“Yeah, dude. Maybe.”

The boys return to the motel around eleven. Ken has his own room. Beavis and Butt-Head share a twin room.

Beavis sits on his bed.

“Butt-Head.”

“What?”

“We got the big game tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“Is tonight the night we finally cuddle?”

“Shut up, Beavis. I’m not gonna cuddle with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you smell, Beavis.”

“Oh yeah.”

Butt-Head points to the bed by the wall.

“I’m sleeping on this one.”

“Fine, Butt-Head.”

“Good night, Beavis.”

“Good night, Butt-Head.”

Beavis turns out his light and prepares to go to sleep. Butt-Head leaves his light on.

He takes out a small box. Inside are twenty Xeroxed letters.

Beavis raises his head.

“What are you doing, Butt-Head?”

“I’m reading my letters to Amanda, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah. I guess you do that every night, huh, Butt-Head?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you do that, Butt-Head?”

“Come off it, dude. I’m in love with her. What do you think?”

“Oh yeah.”

IV: The Cubs Game

The next morning, the three eat breakfast and continue to Chicago. By noon they are outside Wrigley Field. The boys are wearing their shirts again.

A man is standing over a barbecue grill surrounded by about a dozen people. This is George Brett.

“Ken.”

“George.”

They shake hands.

George looks at Beavis and Butt-Head.

“These the boys?”

“Yep.”

Butt-Head looks at George.

“Hey, George.”

“Hey.”

Beavis looks at the grill.

“Are those hamburgers?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I have one?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, George. You rule.”

George hands him a hamburger.

Butt-head says “Hey, George.”

“Yeah?”

“Was that really your Suburban?”

“Yeah.”

“Sweet.”

Pause.

“I mean, did you ever score in it?”

George looks at him.

“Probably.”

The boys look at each other.

“Whoa.”

They have box seats on the first base line. Before entering the park, the boys put four beers from the Suburban into their pants. Improbably, this works.

The game starts, and Butt-Head immediately begins looking for Amanda.

“Beavis.”

“What?”

“There she is.”

“Where?”

“Down there, dumbass.”

Butt-Head points toward the field. Amanda is working along the first-base line.

Beavis stares at her.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s hot.”

“Shut up, Beavis.”

“But she is.”

“I know. That’s why I’m in love with her.”

“Oh yeah.”

The game begins.

For most of the first three innings, neither boy watches it.

Every time Amanda moves, Butt-Head points her out.

“There she is.”

“I know, Butt-Head.”

“There she is again.”

“I know.”

“Dude. She just picked up a ball.”

“Whoa.”

“She rules.”

“Yeah.”

A foul ball comes toward their section.

Both boys stand.

“Whoa!”

The ball lands approximately twenty rows away.

They sit down.

“Baseball sucks,” Butt-Head says.

“Yeah, it does.”

During the seventh-inning stretch, George Brett leans toward Butt-Head.

“Hey, Butt-Head.”

“Yeah, George?”

“If you’re really serious about this Amanda chick, I can get you down there after the game.”

Butt-Head stares at him.

“No way.”

“Sure. I know some people. I can get you into the clubhouse.”

Beavis leans across Butt-Head.

“That would be awesome, George. You rule.”

“I know.”

Butt-Head looks back toward Amanda.

Just before the ninth inning, Beavis leans over and whispers in Butt-Head’s ear.

“Butt-Head.”

“What?”

“I gotta tell you something.”

“What?”

“Well, the thing is, I’ve been watching Amanda all game.”

“Yeah.”

“And I think I’m in love with her too.”

Butt-Head slowly turns toward him.

“Shut the fuck up, Beavis.”

“I’m serious.”

“You can’t be in love with Amanda. I’m in love with Amanda.”

“Yeah, but I’m in love with her too.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, Beavis. You just think she’s hot.”

Beavis considers this.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“But I also love her.”

“Dumbass. She’s mine.”

A few minutes later, Amanda looks toward their section.

“Dude,” Beavis says. “She looked up here.”

“She looked at me, Beavis.”

“She looked kind of to the left.”

“I’m to the left, dumbass.”

“No, I’m to your left.”

Butt-Head looks around.

“Oh yeah.”

V: Meeting Amanda

After the game, George takes Ken and the boys into a small lounge adjoining the clubhouse. Butt-Head is clutching his box of letters.

Beavis, improbably, has gone to the bathroom and washed his face. He is trying to look his best for Amanda.

Amanda enters the lounge. A couple of tables have been set up with drinks and snacks.

“Amanda,” George says. “This is Beavis and Butt-Head.”

“Hi, guys. Thanks for coming to the game today. Did you have a good time?”

Beavis speaks up.

“We had a great time, Amanda. And the best part was seeing you.”

“Shut up, Beavis.”

Butt-Head looks at Amanda.

“But yeah. He’s right. You’re super hot.”

Amanda blushes slightly.

“Why, thank you, guys.”

“Anytime,” Butt-Head says.

They sit down.

George, Ken and the boys crack beers. Amanda has a lime spritzer.

Beavis takes out his cigarettes.

“Butt-Head.”

“What?”

“Can we smoke in here?”

“No, dumbass.”

“Why not?”

Butt-Head looks around.

“I have no idea.”

“Oh yeah.”

Beavis puts his cigarettes away. After a while, George stands.

“Well, I guess it’s time for me to say goodbye.”

“George, do you really have to go?” Ken asks.

“Yeah, Ken. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Well, George, it was great seeing you.”

“Good seeing you too.”

Beavis looks at him.

“Yeah, George. It was great to meet you. You rule.”

Butt-Head nods.

“Yeah, George. You rule.”

“Thanks, guys.”

George Brett leaves. Ken and the boys crack another beer. Amanda is still working on her lime spritzer.

Butt-Head looks at her.

“Hey, Amanda.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever get my letters?”

“Yeah, Butt-Head. I saw one or two.”

Beavis leans forward.

“Well, he only wrote like a thousand.”

“Shut up, Beavis. I wrote twenty. I counted.”

Beavis looks at him.

“Butt-Head, you can count?”

“Shut up, Beavis. Yes, I can.”

“I’m just saying.”

Amanda smiles.

“I thought the letters were sweet.”

Butt-Head looks at Beavis.

“See, dumbass.”

He opens the box.

“I brought them.”

Amanda looks inside.

“All twenty?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Butt-Head pauses.

“In case you forgot.”

“Oh.”

Beavis is getting impatient to speak to Amanda.

“Hey, Amanda.”

“Yeah?”

“I washed my face.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“I did that for you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Butt-Head looks at him.

“Dumbass.”

Amanda finishes her lime spritzer. She stands and stretches.

“Well, guys, I should probably get going.”

Butt-Head stands immediately.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Beavis stands.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“You guys have a good trip home.”

“Thanks, Amanda,” Beavis says.

“Yeah,” Butt-Head says. “Thanks.”

Amanda waves.

“Bye, guys.”

“Bye, Amanda.”

She leaves.

The boys remain standing. Beavis looks at Butt-Head.

“Did you score?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Another beat.

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

Ken finishes his beer.

“You boys ready?”

“Yeah.”

VI

The cab pulls up outside the Hyatt.

Ken pays the driver. Beavis and Butt-Head climb out.

They walk toward the entrance.

“Hey, Butt-Head.”

“What?”

“I think we came pretty close.”

“No, we didn’t, Beavis.”

“Oh yeah.”

They enter the hotel.

Later, Ken says good night and retires to his room.

Beavis and Butt-Head return to theirs.

Butt-Head points to the bed by the wall.

“Beavis. That’s mine.”

“Yeah, Butt-Head. I know.”

The boys are tired from their long day. They crawl into bed and turn out the lights.

The television remains on.

“Hey, Butt-Head.”

“Yeah, Beavis?”

“We tried our best.”

“Shut up, Beavis.”

A beat.

“But yeah. I guess we did.”

They watch television.

“1979” by the Smashing Pumpkins is playing.

“Beavis.”

“Yeah?”

“Turn it down a little.”

Beavis turns it down a little.

“This song sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Beavis changes the channel.

Peter Gabriel’s “Red Rain” is playing.

Butt-Head looks at the television.

“Beavis.”

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t this that song from the movie?”

“What movie?”

“Say Anything, dumbass. With John Cusack.”

“Oh yeah. He sucks.”

“Of course he sucks, Beavis. But he also rules a little bit.”

Beavis considers this.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

They watch a little longer.

“This song is lame,” Butt-Head says.

“I don’t know. I think it’s kinda sweet.”

Butt-Head turns toward him.

“Shut up, Beavis. This song sucks.”

FIN

Posted on by Matt Thomas

For Elodie, My Baby: A Love Poem

Note: I spent about a week with Elodie eight years ago. I fell madly, historically in love. Obviously. She is absolutely stunning and took my breath away. I was beyond gaga and remain so to this day.

She is my one and only baby. Naturally. My darling, my sweetheart, my lover, my queen. My baby. I will never forget anything from that week. I remember the yellow she wore when we met. I remember Pret in the morning, wine before dinner, cigarettes, the park, the bridge, the chapel, the airport, the songs we sent each other, and a great many things that I could just as easily have forgotten.

As if I could ever forget.

Since the years since I met her I have written six essays and a play about her. I know dude, it’s a lot, So what? I am crazy in love with her and always will be. I will soon turn all of my Elodie material into a book. It will be good and I hope you like it. I know I will.

So in anticipation of that about I wrote her a love poem. Here it is:

Epigraphs:

“I didn’t know what I was in for when I set out for that run.”
— Better Oblivion Community Center

“Two suns in the sunset/ Didn’t know my race was run.”
— Pink Floyd, “Two Suns in the Sunset”

“Don’t stand so close to me.”
— The Police

Elodie, baby, I’m massively in love with you
I always have been, and I always will be.

I arrived on a Sunday. We met on Monday
You were wearing yellow, I recall
You touched my arm and said, “I’m an Aries moon too”
And that began my fall.

We walked lightly to the next session
I had no idea what I was in for
We compared charts and we matched
And I knew I was a goner before we even reached the door.

We sat side by side at the table
Elbows and hands touching tight
When your fingers clasped mine, I almost passed out
You were absolutely stunning, a total knockout.

At dusk we went to dinner
It was inside the main hall
There was turkey, there was gravy,
There was cranberry and all.

Before dinner, we drank wine
Red and white as you please
I bought a bottle with some money
I probably pulled out of my sleeve.

You may have been impressed that I had money
But you probably didn’t care
All I could think was, oh my god, this girl—
Look at her hair.

It was colored chestnut brown
And stretched halfway down her back
It was right about this moment
That I had a heart attack.

After dinner you broke out cigarettes
I’d had a dozen in sixteen years
I caved immediately, of course
I was the victim of all fears.

I feared a future without you
That was something I could not stand
When I got back to my room
I knew I’d have to take matters in my hand.

I played “Mistakes Were Made” by the Mendoza Line
I had to call a spade a spade
The title sounded like some kind of sign
I wanted desperately to wank
There, I said it. Bank.

At the time I had only one thought
Running around my brain
I’m massively in love with this girl
And I cannot stop this train.

I wanted to move to London
Would I? We would see
It probably wasn’t the best idea
But baby, you know me.

Tuesday morning we went to Pret
It was just a ten-minute walk
On the way there all we did
Was talk and talk and talk.

We split the cost of Pret
And walked back to the quad
We sat down in the back garden
I was feeling rather odd.

You had a hearty breakfast
You was at her eating peak
After that you mostly stopped
And I became a little worried
You were looking rather weak.

We never went to another session.

I’d been thinking about muses
And I cast you in the role
When you went along with this
I knew I was in a hole.

She talked about her career
She was a photographer, you see
You was good at what you did
But weren’t making enough green.

You’d had a gig in Italy
With some famous movie stars
But your career was on the downslide
You weren’t getting very far.

You had a job photographing hands
You didn’t like it much at all
You had to do it for the money
Through it all my girl stood tall.

Before dinner you said something
That changed the course of the week
“You’re super charming like my father.”
I knew then I was in deep.

I couldn’t have sex with her. Why?
I just couldn’t say
It had to do with what she’d said about her dad
I didn’t fully understand it; I just knew it was bad.

You told me your dark secret
I had one of my own
As I child I’d been abused
Now one helped; I was alone

As a result of my abuse
As a teen I thought I might be gay
But I didn’t really think so
Things turned out another way.

I was crazy about women
Madly in love with girls
But your story changed the conversation
We were in a whole new world.

Four years earlier I’d written an essay for my blog
Called “Reflections: On Coming Through”
Its epigraph came from Dylan
“This one goes out to someone watching out there tonight.
She knows who she is.”

I wanted something like that with you
I wanted you to be my twin
As it happens, I’m a Gemini.
I was ready to put a little skin

In the game
And see what might take place.

I didn’t know where things were going
I just knew I wanted to run the race
To come in first, to break the tape
To be the champion, set the pace.

I turned on back to Elodie
Tried to think of something to say.

I wanted to say, “Baby, let’s get married”
But there was very little chance
So I put the thought to bed
And kept it in my pants.

After dinner we talked like before
Very, very close
After dinner we had wine
Like every night before.

I got a little drunk
So I counted up the score
I thought I was down on the card
By just a point or two.

It was kind of hard to tell.
Everything was just brand new.

I was head over heels for my baby
And when she said she’d leave her guy
My heart went through the ceiling
And flew on way up high.

Friday came without announcement
We walked on back to Pret
After that we went to a park
It was real nice, I bet.

We’d fallen into a pattern
I was not I
She was not she

We were a we.

There was a little bridge in the park
And she walked up to the top
She said, “Baby, this is my bridge”
I said, “Baby, you’re the boss.”

Then she started crying
Just sitting in the sun
I got a little worried
I said, “Babe, what’s up, hon?”

She said, “I’m so confused
I don’t know what to do
I love my fiancé
And I love you too.”

I said, “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

Then I said, “Look, honey, here’s the deal
I live a million miles away
I want to be with you forever
That’s all I’m gonna say.”

“But darling I live in Japan and you are here
Maybe go back to your fiancé
And see how things go, my dear.”

She said, “Well, yeah, I’ll think about it.
I’ll stay in a hotel tonight.”

I said, “Where?”

She said, “London.”

I said, “That sounds about right.”

And then she said a line
I’ve never forgotten to this day:

“Baby, don’t sit so close to me.”

I said, “Just how far away?”

She said, “Just about an inch.”

I said, “Babes, that’s not too far.”

She said, “Well, that’s all I can handle.
I need you where you are.”

Then she fell into my arms.

The ambulances were blaring
Like a city under attack
I was getting pretty tired
And I half carried her back.

We walked back to the campus
She said she had to talk to Claire Martin
One of the tutors on the course.

I went down to the bookstore
There was a dude there, of course.

I browsed around and played Dylan on my phone,
“Red River Shore”
We sat there all alone.

He did a moment chart
Which I thought was pretty funny.

Melanie Reinhart was sitting nearby
I went and sat beside her
I’m not really sure why.

I picked up a book on musical astrology
It was about famous musicians’ charts
I thought it looked pretty cool.

She said, “Don’t buy that one, baby.
Don’t be a silly fool.”

So I bought another book
And then we both stood up.

Melanie had to move out
So we went up to her room
She had a couple heavy suitcases
So dragged them out of there soon

Then I went to say goodbye to Elodie
And we walked into the chapel
I told her I wanted to know her
When she was an old woman.

She said I was sweet
This made me smile.

I said, “Baby, you can’t be beat.”

And we sat there for a while.

Then we kissed goodbye
And I stepped out of the gate
I had to get some lunch
I was running rather late.

As I walked to my hotel
I was feeling pretty weird
I only had a little stubble
But I had to itch my beard.

At the restaurant I got bouillabaisse
And a lovely beer as well.
I texted Elodie Jason Molina’s “Leave the City.”

And she cried.

I said, “Baby, what the hell
Are we gonna do about our relationship?
Who are we gonna be?”

She said, “Baby, I have no idea
We’ll just have to wait and see.”

I said, “Yeah, I guess that’s right
There’s nothing we can do
I’ll see you when I see you, baby
I love you. I do.”

She said, “I love you too.”

I sent a couple more songs
And I’m happy to report
That after the conference
We still got along.

After lunch I was super tired
So I went to get some sleep
I knew once my head hit the pillow
I would sleep real deep.

I woke up the next morning
Around four-thirty or so
My wife had to catch a bus
England isn’t the safest, you know.

So we stood there on the corner
And she climbed onto the bus
In a different kind of way
I didn’t know what we’d do about us.

Then I hugged her quickly
And we said our goodbyes
I took the short walk home
Under the English sky.

I jumped into the shower
I was glad I was alone
I had a cab coming at eight
Pretty soon I’d be going home.

I packed up my things
I didn’t know what the day might bring
In the cab the driver played the radio
I could barely hear a thing.

There was a story about the poor
And how there was very little housing
But I couldn’t really dwell on it
That was somebody else’s deal.

I had to get to the airport
To make my final appeal.

On the plane I played Pink Floyd’s
“Two Suns in the Sunset”
And then I cried a bit.

I thought about my son, of course
I swallowed
Took the hit.

I read Anthony Powell on my Kindle
And he kind of messed me up.
So I asked for peanuts and some wine
In a little paper cup.

I had the wine and then another.
And I started to relax.
I understood then for sure
That I’d have to pay a heavy tax.

I knew my marriage was over
And my career probably as well
It was only a matter of time
Time will always tell.

I landed in Osaka
Got a room across the street
It was too far to Kyoto
Sometimes nearness can’t be beat.

I texted Elodie from the hotel, of course
It was just around nine her time
She said she was working in the park
On someone else’s dime.

I said, “Baby, that sounds awesome.
I wish I was there with you.”

She said, “Me too, baby,
But there’s nothing we can do.”

For the next few weeks
We texted, and called most every day
Then she had a dream and talked to her therapist
And she mostly went away.

The dream took place in the woods
There was a fire of some kind
She said that I was there with her
I began to fall behind.

She said “My therapist says I can’t talk to you.”
I said “Baby don’t say it’s true”
She said “Yeah, I don’t yet know”
I said “Babe it’s up to you.”

After that we sent some letters
And some texts just to chat
I wrote her in March 2019
And that was pretty much that.

I was the last one to write
That was about seven years ago
I figured the door was still open
So I emailed her three weeks ago.

And whether or not she’s read it,
So far it hasn’t been a no.

Email doesn’t have read receipts,
So I don’t know if she saw it.
I’m betting that she did.
So I’ll just have to wait a bit.

She’ll answer or she won’t.
It’s pretty much all the same to me.
Our relationship was years ago.
It’s all history, you see.

But I know I’ll always love her.
That’ll always be a fact.
And I still think sometimes
About going back.

Going back to London
Trying to find her one fine day.
And if I actually found her,
I don’t know what I would say.

I guess I’d say, “Hey, baby,
Do you wanna get some pancakes,
Some coffee,
And hang out?”

She’d say yes or she’d say no.
At least I would find out.

Then I’d go back to Kyoto,
Or maybe Thailand just for kicks.
Maybe move on down to Thailand,
Hit the beach, seek some bliss.

Thinking about Elodie
Has brought up old memories,
And I really need to chill.

Smoke some weed and drink some rum
Or I’m gonna get a little ill.

And sure, I’m ill
I’ve been lovesick for Elodie
Since the first day I ran saw her
In a seminar room on Monday.

I spent about a week with her
And I’ll never forget a thing
That we said or did together
I still want her to wear my ring.

I know that’s kinda doubtful,
But a guy can dream a dream,
And God knows that I have to,
After all the things I’ve seen.

Elodie, baby, give me a call.
Honey, baby, don’t forget me.

I’ll never forget you at all.

Dedication:

For Elodie, my baby. I cannot describe how much I love you, baby. I miss you so much. Baby.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Did My Grandfather Tom Thomas Kill a Man in Japan in 1941?

Note: This essay is based on a story my grandfather told me when I was thirteen years old, my surviving memories of that story thirty-eight years later, and the limited historical context I have so far been able to establish. Throughout, I have tried to distinguish between what I know, what I remember, what I merely suspect, and what may simply have become family legend.

That distinction matters. Earlier today I acquired Tom’s complete Naval records, which have filled in a number of gaps in the chronology.

In addition, when I called my mother she said that she thought the biology of TomThomas that I wrote in 1988 was still in a box somewhere. The original cassette tapes are almost certainly gone.

If the biography does surface, we will know more and I will update this piece.

Epigraphs:

“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”
—L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between

It’s been a long time, mama, since I heard you call my name
Ah, been a long time since I heard you call my name
I got to see my Colorado girl again
—Townes Van Zandt, “Colorado Girl”

I. Introduction

My grandfather Tom Thomas once told me that he killed a man in Japan just before World War II.

I was thirteen years old when he told me this. I believed him. Thirty-eight years later, I am no longer entirely sure. I have been wanting to write this story for many years. The story has remained lodged somewhere between family history, childhood memory, and legend: an extraordinary story told to a boy by his grandfather and preserved, imperfectly, across nearly four decades.

Today I would like to know what actually happened.

II. The Family Autobiography

In the spring of 1988, when I was in eighth grade at St. George’s School outside Spokane, Washington, my social studies teacher, Laura Pierce, assigned us a family autobiography project.

Laura was a nice woman and a good social studies teacher. I was friends with her son Ben, who was a year or two older than I was. The Pierces lived in a modest suburban home about twelve minutes north of St. George’s. My parents, my brothers, and I lived a little farther north in Wayside, Washington, which in those days was far out in the country.

When my brothers and I were younger, we sometimes went to the Pierces’ neighborhood for Halloween. This was in the early to mid 1980s, and it was the era of panic about tainted candy on Halloween. My feeling today is that this panic was largely, if not entirely, overblown. Nevertheless, we checked our candy haul for razors carefully. We never found any.

Wayside was not much good for trick-or-treating unless you were prepared to hike half a mile between houses. The Pierces had neighbors.

These are some memories of my time. I mention them here because I am trying to establish what I know, what I remember, and what I merely think I remember.

I believe Laura assigned the autobiography project sometime around March 1988. I cannot today establish this date with any degree of certainty. The project took some time, and we finished eighth grade in early June. Four years later, twenty-eight of us graduated from St. George’s together, so I guess my eighth-grade class would have been roughly the same size.

For my project, I chose to interview my paternal grandfather, Tom Thomas. I sent him a list of questions, and he kindly sent back about half a dozen tapes. On the tapes he talked about his whole life, with a focus on his time in World War II. Tom was a career Navy man who also served in the Korean War. I believe he served valiantly, and he told me that he shot in the leg on one of the islands off of Guam; I believe in 1944. He leg healed and he went on to a successful real estate career in Healdsberg CA, just outside of Napa Valley. I believe that he did quite well for himself, and by the time I was little he was already retired. Gin was a lifelong housewife. I was born in 1974, so my first memories of him and his wife Virginia (Gin) would have been around 1977.

My parents Ross and Claudia and my younger brother Mike visited Tom and Gin almost every summer until the late 1980s. We called them Moo Grandpa and Moo Nana because they owned cows. My mother’s parents Bill and Barbara were Regular Grandpa and Regular Nana as they lived in the city of Santa Clara.

We would usually start just three or four days with Tom and Gin, and often a week or two with Bill and Barbara. At this remove, I am not exactly sure why this was, however it may have been the fact that Tom was not, at least of the time, the nicest man. Tom died in 2001 and Gin in 1996, so RIP to two real ones. There is no avoiding the fact, however, that Tom had a bit of a mean streak.

Looking back today, I fully understand why this was. He grew up in rural Colorado in the early part of the 20th century. He was born in 1916 to a homesteader family, and he told me for the biography that his own father was a drinker and had a mean streak too. I believed this and still do. Tom and Gin liked to drink too, and I remember every evening at 5 PM sharp that would make martinis in what I then saw as a pretty swank cocktail set.

Tom would have maybe two martinis before dinner as I recall, while Gin would usually have just one. He probably had a few more drinks with dinner. I don’t ever remember him drinking beer or wine, so my guess is he stuck with martinis. I myself have inherited a taste for alcohol, and today I would describe myself as a managed drinker. I have also had periods of my life where I drank more, however that is a subject for another day.

In addition to having a bit of a mean streak, Tom could also be very generous. My parents bought a house in the country somewhere north of Spokane, WA in I believe 1980 or 1981 and it turned out to be a bit of a con job as the house had no water. This was a problem because everyone needs water, and also because my parents had zero money at the time. My dad was just starting his teacher career at St. George’s School in Spokane, one of the two most prestigious private school in the city. Prestigious though it may have been, it did not pay well/ Spokane only had about a quarter of million people at that time. It probably has more today, but I am note sure as I have not been back for 25 years. I never really cared for Spokane, however I do have fond memories overall of growing up there.

In any case, my folks needed to get out of the house with no water pronto and Tom kindly paid the entire down payment on a new house, in Wayside. Wayside was also north of Spokane, however it was much closer to school, just about a 17 minute drive. I can state this with certainly because we made the drive every school day for the 13 years I attended St. George’s.

III. The Yokohama Incident

As mentioned above, Tom Thomas served in the United States Navy for about 20 years. At one point in the late 1930s, he said, he was a military policeman. At this juncture I am not going to convert rather vague memories into historical fact just to make the story cohere. What follows is the story as I remember Tom telling it to me.

He told me that he was stationed in Japan sometime in the very 1930’s and perhaps into the early 1940’s. As I will go into in more detail below, when I ran this story by my good friend Sergio Mandiola a few weeks ago he said a US Navy man would absolutely not have been stationed in Japan in 1941 at all. I in addition he said that it was also quite unlikely to have happened in 1940. He went on to say that if indeed such a took place, it may have occurred in 1938 or 1939 when US Japan relations were still at least on reasonably good terms.

My present recollection places him in Yokohama, although I do not want to claim more precision than the available evidence permits. For many years I have remembered the incident as occurring in 1941—more specifically around October 1941.

This date may be wrong. It is almost certainly is.

The location may be wrong, although I am confident that Tom did tell me that he stationed in Yokohama at some point.

In any case, Tom told me was that he was off duty one night and drinking in a bar with some of his fellow servicemen somewhere in Yokohama. A Japanese man came into the establishment extremely drunk and began causing trouble.

Tom intervened, and the man left the bar, only to come back several hours later with a knife. By this point, Tom said, it was very late, and we can assume that everybody had been drinking. As Tom exited the bar, the man came at him with the knife and Tom defended himself. Tom was not a tall man, however he was quite well built. Things went his way, and he tossed the man off a small cliff his death.

Again, I want to be careful here. I don’t remember whether Tom said that his position as a military policeman formally obligated him to intervene, whether he simply felt some responsibility for maintaining order, or whether he was a young sailor who decided that somebody needed to throw a drunk out of a bar and that somebody was going to be him.

I want to make this distinction clear because thirty-eight years is a long time and memory has a habit of polishing its own edges.

I do not merely remember Tom inferring that the man died. I remember my he telling me that he did.

IV. Aftermath

According to Tom, this was not the end of the matter.

He told me that the killing caused some degree of difficulty between the United States and Japan. This is understandable, as the two countries were, at the time, on anything but good terms. My recollection is that he said the whole thing became a minor diplomatic incident.

I also remember Tom telling me that he was imprisoned afterward, and my recollection was that he spent several months in a Navy prison or brig in Japan.

That is one of the details I now strongly suspect to be wrong.

Perhaps Tom said he was imprisoned somewhere else. Perhaps thirteen-year-old me misunderstood. Perhaps I have unconsciously moved the prison back to Japan in order to make the story narratively tidy.

And this is where my friend Mandiola enters the story.

V. Mandiola Objects

As mentioned above, when I told Mandiola the story some he told me “dude no way.”

He didn’t buy the date.

Mandiola is one of the smartest people I know and knows more history than anyone I have ever met. When I told him that my recollection placed Tom in Yokohama in October 1941, his reaction was immediate.

No way in hell.

Mandiola did not necessarily doubt that some version of the incident could have happened. His objection was to my chronology and to some of the surrounding circumstances. He thought an earlier date—perhaps 1938 or 1939—was considerably more plausible.

I agreed.

After all, it would be foolish of me to regard a date remembered from a recording in 1988 as incontrovertible evidence. But I also don’t want to correct the record before I have investigated it fully. For now, therefore, I am leaving 1941 on the board.

VI. Why the Date Matters

The relationship between the United States and Japan changed significantly during the years immediately preceding the Pacific War.

Japan seized Manchuria in 1931 and established the puppet state of Manchukuo the following year. Full-scale war between Japan and China erupted in 1937. The United States and other Western powers increasingly objected to Japanese expansion in China, and Washington gradually moved from diplomatic opposition toward economic pressure.

The confrontation intensified considerably in 1940 and 1941.

Japan joined Germany and Italy in the Tripartite Pact in September 1940. The United States began to restrict exports of strategically important materials to Japan while increasing support for China. Japanese expansion into French Indochina further worsened relations. In July 1941, after Japan moved into southern French Indochina, the Roosevelt administration froze Japanese assets in the United States. In practice, the resulting restrictions threatened Japan’s access to the imported oil upon which both its economy and military depended. Japan consequently faced a severe strategic problem.

However it would be misleading to reduce the road to Pearl Harbor to a simple story in which the United States surrounded an innocent Japan and cut off its oil, leaving Japan no alternative but war. The economic pressure did not emerge from nowhere. It developed in response to years of Japanese military expansion in Asia. Japanese leaders nevertheless increasingly perceived themselves as being strategically contained and economically strangled.

Negotiations between Washington and Tokyo continued through 1941 even as both sides prepared for the possibility of war.

Then, on December 7, 1941, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor.

This is why the date in my grandfather’s story matters so much.

1938 is not 1941. Neither is 1939.

An altercation involving an American serviceman and a Japanese civilian would have existed within a substantially different political environment depending on in which year it occurred. so the question becomes:

Was Tom Thomas actually in Japan when he said this happened?

This ought to be knowable.

VII. Opening the Case

Mandiola suggested that if I really wanted to investigate the story, I should look for American records from the time.

He mentioned the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. Having looked into the matter further, I suspect the National Archives and military records will be more useful.

This is where the story stops being merely a family anecdote and becomes an investigation. First, I would to get my hands on Tom’s Navy service record.

I want to know when he enlisted, where he was stationed, his rank in the Navy, the ships or shore posts to which he was assigned, and—most importantly—where he was during the years immediately before Pearl Harbor.

If Tom was sitting in San Diego throughout 1938, 1939, 1940, and 1941, we then have a problem.

If, on the other hand, he appears in naval records connected to Japan or Yokohama during this period, we have something considerably more interesting.

Then there is the alleged imprisonment.

If in fact Tom killed a Japanese civilian, was arrested or detained, and spent some time in military confinement, I would expect at least the possibility of a documentary trail. There may be disciplinary records. There may be court-martial material. There may be official correspondence of some kind. And with luck I may be able to track it down.

And then there are the Japanese records.

I have a distinct recollection that Tom told me the incident made the Japanese papers. I am less certain of this memory than I am of the killing itself. However if a Japanese newspaper did report the death of a Japanese man following an altercation with an American sailor, this would, at a minimum, have been news.

It is even possible that the still exists to be diplomatic correspondence if Tom is right that the affair caused some degree of friction between the two countries.

Or there could be no records of any kind.

This would tell us something too.

VIII. Memory Is Not an Archive

Here are the facts that I want to establish:

i) What actually happened in Japan nearly ninety years ago?

ii) How accurate is Tom’s version of events?

iii) In turn, how accurate are my own recollections of what he told in 1988?

Memory does not operate like a filing cabinet. We lose things. We combine them. We unconsciously embellish chronology. Details that once carried periods eventually acquire question marks.

Sometimes families do this collectively. An event becomes an anecdote. An anecdote becomes a story. The story gets told often enough that eventually nobody remembers which pieces belonged to the event and which pieces belonged to the telling.

Maybe Tom killed a man. Maybe he fought a man who survived and the story grew in telling over the years. Maybe the basic event happened but I have misremembered some of the facts. Maybe my grandfather was bullshitting his grandson with a magnificent sailor’s yarn.

At thirteen, none of these possibilities occurred to me. My grandfather told me something. I wrote it down.

At fifty-two, I simply want more evidence.

IX. Why Now?

This raises the question: Why am I doing this now?

I originally went to graduate school to study history. In January 1999, I enrolled at Northern Arizona University (NAU) intending to complete a master’s degree in Asian history within two years.

I almost made it.

I wrote approximately twenty-five pages of the first chapter of my thesis, which I still have in print form, and accumulated perhaps another hundred pages of notes in various stages of usefulness. For somewhat complex reasons that I have discussed elsewhere, I never finished the thesis.

I left NAU in August of 2001.

Within two months, I was back in my wife’s hometown of Kumamoto, Japan, teaching English to preschoolers. Not long afterward I joined Ritsumeikan Uji Senior High School in South Kyoto. I have now worked there for twenty-four years.

Teaching is a good profession. It has been my profession for a very long time however, and I am past ready to do something else.

I have written blogs with varying degrees of regularity since 2008, and now write almost daily for my current blog the Kyoto Kibbitzer. I think I am a good writer. At a minimum, I have considerable range. And I am trying, with more seriousness than before, to professionalize my writing.

Writing is, unfortunately, a challenging way to make a living.

J.K. Rowling and Dan Brown have made fortunes from it. Although I consider myself a better writer than both of these people, I have zero expectation of reaching anything remotely resembling their fame or fortune.

I would settle for quite a bit less.

If I can patch together a modest living through writing, online tutoring, and perhaps another job or two here and there, I can imagine selling my house and moving somewhere cheaper. Perhaps downtown Kyoto. Perhaps Osaka.

Increasingly, however, I find myself thinking about Thailand.

Bangkok is too large, crowded, and noisy for me. Pattaya, on the other hand, attracts me, and I am hoping to visit there soon if my financial circumstances cooperate. If I do manage to get there this summer, I will assess its suitability as a place to live.

All of this may seem some ways away from a Japanese bar in the years just prior to World War II.

To me it isn’t.

I am trying to decide what kind of writer I want to be during the next part of my life. I write about music. I write fiction. I am working on my memoirs. I write about education, sex, dreams, politics, bars, cities, relationships, and whatever else happens to interest me on a particular day.

I would also like to return to history, at to least modest extent.

And if I am serious about becoming a little of an historian again, then I owe this story more than the version I have been carrying around since I was thirteen.

I owe Tom more than that too.

X. The Open Case

I am going to try to find out what happened in 1941, or whenever it happened, if anything happened at all.

This mother I asked my mother if she still has the family biography. She said she thought in was a box somewhere, and she would try to find it soon.

Then, when I have the time, I will send an email to the National Archives.

If I can establish Tom’s military assignments, I can establish whether his story is even plausible. If I can establish this, I can begin narrowing down the dates. If I can pin point the date and location with reasonably accuracy, I may be able to consult Japanese newspaper archives from the time. If Tom really was imprisoned in Japan, which I now regard as unlikely, there may also a disciplinary record somewhere.

And perhaps, somewhere deep in an archive in Japan or the United States, there is another man’s name.

This possibility changes the story.

For nearly forty years the man Tom said he killed that night in Yokohama has existed in my mind only a legend

If he existed, he was more than that.

He had a name. He probably had a family. He had a life that began long before he allegedly walked into a bar drunk one night and encountered a young American sailor named Tom Thomas.

I would like to know who he was.

Maybe the records will vindicate my grandfather’s story.

Maybe they won’t.

My suspicion is that the truth will be more interesting. That perhaps somewhere beneath eighty-five years of history, forty years of storytelling, and thirty-eight years of my own imperfect memory, there is an actual event that gradually became the story I know of today.

But that’s only my suspicion.

For now, all I have is a deceased grandfather, an eighth-grade autobiography for 1988 that I hope to acquire soon, and an imperfect memory. And in any case, I have one hell of a family story.

That is enough to begin with.

Nearly ninety years after whatever happened happened, I am now determined to get to the bottom of it.

Stay tuned.

Dedication:

For my grandfather, Tom Thomas. Although we had our ups and downs over the years, I still love you very much grandpa.