Saint Olav, patron saint of Norway, set out to convert that country to Christianity— or else die trying. He bade his countrymen choose between two things: one was that they should all take up Christianity, the other was that they should hold battle with him.
Saint Olav walked among us one thousand years ago to the day, and it is his memory that inspires me.
STATEMENT FROM THE STATE DEPARTMENT
All is well.
Please remain calm.
U.S. Armed Forces only occupy (insert foreign country here) in order to preserve American interests, and let it be known here and now that we aren’t interested in nothing that ain’t American.
The State Department is interested in the United States of America and, what’s more, the State Department is interested in the State of the Union in the United States of America. That’s why we’re called the State Department.
(Insert foreign country here) be damned, the State Department has repeatedly stated and restated that the State of the Union in the United States of America is unified by units uniting in unison and unity with statements of stately station and status. No statue of statuesque stature can state that the State Department does not unify the State of the Union in the United States of America to this day. Moreover, we in the State Department have come to believe that the State of the Union in the United States of America is just fine right now and we don’t want anybody fucking it up.
Please remain calm.
All is well.
It need not be stated, restated, instated, and certainly not reinstated by the State Department that the State of the Union in the United States of America is just fine thank you. The subject is making us uncomfortable. We want you to leave now.
Please depart State Department.
That is all.
To catch even a fleeting glimpse of life, on paper, is no easy task. Last year I awoke one morning and opened my eyes upon a world completely covered by butterflies. It’d rained hard the night before and the deluge apparently caused a million or so chrysallis to hatch all at once, covering bushes, trees, grass, sidewalks, streets, the front porch of my house, along with virtually all the airspace to a height of eight or ten feet, fluttering straight up and down like little confetti-folder puppets on invisible strings. These weren’t the big orange & black Monarchs that migrate thousands of miles annually to Michoacan; rather, these were the white species with brilliant, electric blue bodies & antenna native here to Jalisco. Look almost like a tropical variety of cabbage butterfly.
Every time this guy tries to fuck his wife she tells him the same thing.
“No, I’ve got a headache…”
So one day he says to her, “C’mon honey, let’s go to the zoo.”
“O.K.” she replies, and off they go. When they get to the zoo he takes her right straight to the gorilla cage, and then he starts pointing and laughing, making fun of the gorilla.
“Show him some leg, honey,” he tells his wife, so she hikes up her skirt and shows the gorilla her leg.
“Uh-uh-uh, ah-ah-ah,” says the wide-eyed gorilla.
“Now lift up your skirt and show him your panties,” the man says, and so his wife does.
“UH-UH-UH, AH-AH-AH,” the gorilla roars, banging hard on his chest.
“Now take off your panties and show him your pussy,” the man whispers, and his wife does.
Suddenly the gorilla bends the bars of the cage apart, jumps through the hole, and starts chasing after the wife.
“Help! Help!” she’s screaming, “Help me, honey! Help!”
“No,” the man smiles, “Just tell him you have a headache…”
Yes, there’s much more to Gordo I’m afraid, much more of him – considerably more than meets the eye – and it seems true, as some say, that you have to really meet Gordo, see Gordo, actually feel the mighty tug of his gravity upon you, truly come within the sphere of his orbit to really appreciate the entity Gordo in his entirety.
Gordo takes his food as he takes his air, with every breath; merely cohabitating (or in any guise coexisting) within several nautical miles of Gordo precedes depredation and want, a recipe for starvation. Verily, he is a one-man Biblical plague.
Maneuvering around Gordo in a tight spot (and every spot’s tight around Gordo) is always a small feat in and of itself too, de facto. You can always have mas gordo, and that’s another part of the problem as there’s always mucho mas gordo to go around; Gordo, in stride, always seems to have that much more to somehow encompass and eclipse. The play is astrophysical, and it seems to go both ways; Gordo guides the solar systems of the universe today, and is guided by them tomorrow. Amazing phenomenon, differing from the solar and lunar cycles only in Gordo’s constant, repetitive frequency and eagerness, and because the moon does not smell incredibly bad (a cringing tale in and of itself).
Alas, contrary to laws of God and nature, Gordo somehow manages to keep expanding, to keep growing, eating, gnawing, ingesting, encompassing, gastronomically acquiring; getting bigger. Rounder… 0
Mas Gordo.
There’s always more gordo to go around when you’re around Gordo of course, (which must be nice for Gordo, if you think about it); he’s always bubbling over in some obtuse direction. Extended exposure to Gordo becomes a question of personal safety; ducking and running quickly favored over politesse. Gordo can be dangerous. It should be noted that Gordo occupies not merely the normal three dimensions, those of length, height and width, but (at the time of writing) was known to occupy at least four, possibly five separate dimensions; there’s a rapidly advancing science in regard to Gordo’s orbit. He’s single-handedly rewriting the astronomy books. In rigorous scientific experiments, conducted in the most authentic laboratory conditions around the dinner table, objects closest to him were seen to be moving toward him, drawn INTO and disappeared INTO Gordo, sucked into that foul, odiferous Vacuum; then, amazingly, in chronologic order and with the cameras still running, the largest baked chickens and seasoned steaks and roasts began inching their way toward him, like steel shavings to a magnet, a tractor beam of spontaneous digestion; yes, stay out of his way, children.
It is not wise to try to eat with Gordo.
It is not wise to try to eat after Gordo, either.
Anything fried or buttered, baked or broiled, caked or pied, sauced or spiced, doesn’t matter; all vanished. Fresh or frozen, stewed or sautéed, boiled or braised, wild or caught (my God watch out for the children!!!) ALL disappears into the VOID. If he manages to fill that cavernous supernova of a mouthful (two grasping fistfuls of dead animal in conspiracy) he spins off like a greased, galactic top, his belly always just THAT – ummmph! – THAT close to kissing the tarmac eeeerrrrrRR!!! and sending him spinning off down the surface of the planet like a screeching tire…
To see Gordo eat is to FEAR GORDO, and the town of course understands this, implicitly; to risk under-production in the presence of Gordo is to risk famine…
Nobody has ever been able to eat before Gordo, either…
Still, Gordo remains a popular figure in the town, something of a mascot.
On the fútbol field I once witnessed Gordo “excecute” (for want of a better word) two (albeit completely-accidental) consecutive cartwheels, two marvelous, fully-extended adipose gyrations circumnavigating nearly half the fútbol field and chewing up his horror-struck fellow fútbol players like a blubbery lawnmower. Yeah, Gordo’s a finely tuned assassin alright, make no mistake about that…
Barely dove from beneath the descending megamass of curtains myself…
Great way to finish the game, though. We won, of course, purely by attrition, and although the sacrifice involved several of our own players (Flaco literally crushed into premature retirement) we always felt like we’d come out on top, regardless.
Figuratively speaking. (At least we weren’t in any way under or beneath him, thank God…)
The abdomen of Gordo, after the game, kindled a nearly proverbial fear amongst the entire town. Anorexia set in. Gordo keeps that town going in many ways, keeps them fit, and so mucho mas, mocho mas, no end to windfall from the fruit trees, really fresh, home-made Mexican food and anything else which comes within some ten feet of his shadow.
An eclipse in itself…
Mucho mas, amigo. Gracias…
The man we call Gordo is capable of growing every minute in every direction. Expanding. This is not a joking matter if you happen to be anywhere near or even in sight of him… When he eats (and he eats often!) the earth trembles and the skies darken, and oh-my-God when he drinks, he drinks to engulf the seas, perhaps the entire earth in the bargain. He rolls, he spurts, he puddles… He turns into… The Blob.
A science-fiction movie prop.
The expanding amigo…
Getting Food With Gordo
It’s hard to eat around Gordo. Not advisable. To eat around Gordo is to eat with Gordo, and everybody knows God-help-us, Por-favor-Jésus to eat with him is to risk being eaten by him…
Eating with Gordo is to know fear.
Watch Out When Gordo Goes To The Bathroom: A terrible chapter unto itself…
Getting Chicks With Gordo: Never happened, never will.
Crashing Gordo’s Car: Which he basically crashed himself, I mean, because as soon as he actually wiggled his way into it the structural integrity was shot, flawed from the gate. Wasn’t a pretty sight, listing to port like a friggin wounded sea bass. All of which brings us, in a very oblong and round-about way, to the next chapter.
Riding On The Roof Of Gordo’s Car: Lord Help Us. Before I tell you the story of how I made Gordo (and Angél) quit drinking I must first try to explain how drunk we were. (Which won’t be easy.)
What I neeeeeeeeeeeeed – is satisfaction, and there’s no satisfaction like ice-cold beer.
But on the day in question we started with piña coladas, the perfect breakfast, moved to rum + cokes around noon, finally killed the Bacardi, switched to beer, and never looked back… I remember riding around on the hood of Gordo’s car staring up at the sun through the clouds, hypnotized. We’re getting close to my house, I could tell by the trees, and suddenly my house is here – the car’s still moving, of course, but it’s time for me to get OFF.
Well, Gordo’s a good driver and, more to the point, he’s a good drunk driver because I came up with only a few scratches, but I’m just getting started.
I wanna ride the fucker now!
I grew up around horses and if it bucked you off you were supposed to get right back up in the saddle. (I’ve lived my life like that, by the way, and it’s never led me astray.) But that was it for Angél: He quit drinking for two months after that one. Jumping up and down on the hood, demanding acceleration, swiftness, velocity, gas, momentum – top speed – shook him up pretty good…
The season’s just changing here, starting to get cool, and as I was walking into town tonight a bunch of butterflies loomed up and passed all around me. One’s wing actually brushed my cheek.
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