HAUNTED THINGS AND EX-FLINGS: Of Scenester Exes, Interior Decorating, and Pissing in the Bathtub

NOTE -- This post may seem a bit out-of-sorts, but, heh, cut me some slack. I've got Mono. I'm kinda out-of-sorts, myself. And thanks, Steph, for calling me a hot librarian. Not feeling too hot, but, well, I'll be back, hotter than ever. Promise.

- JASON

"Here you are, with a handful of holes, a thumb up your ass, and a big grin to pass the time of day with. "

- SYKES, (EDMOND O'BRIEN)
From Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch [1969]

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- There's nothing in the world like someone calling simply to say hi. I rarely get phone calls like that.

No, I get the I just had a nightmare about Sharky phone calls from exes at 4:30 in the morning.

The ex in question, for some reason, remembered Sharky, remembered the story behind it. In her dream, Sharky had come alive, transmuted into some evil demon, had slit my throat as I slept.

Er. Yeah.

There's a reason I'm no longer involved with this woman.

Her unhealthy obsession with death and demons turned out to be a little bit more intense than her skull tats and love of Joy Division had led me to believe.

After reassuring her that everything was okay here in Oxford Fucking Ohio, she hung up without so much as a goodbye. It's been four years.

I don't know how she got my phone number. Hers, of course, is now blocked. C'est la vie.

There are exes I still think about, and there are exes I wish I could forget.

* * * *

Sharky (right) is an heirloom, a knife that has been in my family for generations.

According to legend, the bayonet blade was used in combat during the First World War. It came into my family's possession shortly after being removed from some Prussian soldier's corpse.

In the 1940s, relatives of mine, somewhere out in the Great Basin badlands, commissioned a Native American craftsman to fashion a new, ornate handle. Where once there was nothing but military-issue wood, the old American Indian created a new handle out of pieces of glass and scrap metal salvaged from the desert.

The name Sharky appeared on the leather sheath sometime long before I was born; it's been known by that name ever since.

* * * *

Every woman I've ever been involved with seems to believe that the damned thing is somehow cursed. The fact that the blade has been a constant on my nightstand since I was a teenager, an ever-present fixture in my bedroom, probably doesn't help things much.

Makes for a great conversation piece.

And it goes well with the ever-present copy of Whitman's Leaves of Grass.

* * * *

There are times I think some of my personal effects cause more relationship problems than I do.

There's at least three decks of tarot cards floating around my living room, in plain sight, at any given time. There's the pseudo-Voudun saint candles (right) near the front door, the gris-gris hanging from the wall, and an ornate Ethiopian crucifix above the bed.

I've got a Seventeenth Century soapstone pipe fragment in my change jar, for chrissakes.

You know... the one next to the cassette copy of Ice-T's Original Gangster, beside the uncut pieces of turquoise, on top of the copy of The Book of Abramelin...

What bachelor pad would be complete without a Fifteenth Century grimoire, a colonial-era souvenir from an archaeological dig in Virginia, or a copy of one of the greatest rap albums of all time?

And who needs those silly posters of Playboy Playmates, anyway? I learned a long time ago that live, three-dimensional women make better playmates. Posters don't talk, think, or taste good.

Yup. Just a normal, single guy. With normal, single guy stuff.

Right?

Right???

* * * *

There are women who find this sort of decorating eccentricity attractive, at least at first. And then they realize that, well, it's not an act. I'm really a strange dude.

I've been involved with women who, for some reason, felt the need, early on, to compare my lifestyle to that of guys like Hunter S. Thompson, even Jack friggin' Nicholson. Those are the nice comparisons.

In the end, illusions of who I am, their image of me, often fall well short of the reality. While I may fit a particular lifestyle, as an eccentric lover, women who are attracted to me simply because of that soon realize that, well, I'm just being myself. And that's a scary thing for lifestyle-conscious women.

I could give a flying fuck about what parents might think about a guitar amp three feet from the bed, how embarrassing it could be to some folks that I read comic books in the john. Yes, I recycle pickle jars into drinking glasses and, no, I don't care what so-and-so said about it in her magazine column.

And I really don't give a shit if the seat's up or down; if you're a woman and you're using my john, I'm stepping over you and pissing in my goddamned bathtub.

The only image I have has been created by others. And I don't play that game. Not my bag.

There's a reason I've sworn off Scenester Women. I just don't do trendy. I do not change with whatever scene may be popular, or counterculture, or indie. I just live my life how I want to live it. And I own some very weird things because, well, I just naturally a weird guy, from a long line of weird people.

If you want to date Dr. Gonzo, well, go ahead. Feel free to fuck his ashes.

* * * *

After the phone call, I couldn't sleep.

Pfft. Crazy goth chicks. Nowhere near as worthless as Emo Girls, but almost as creepy as Born-Again Virgins.

I reached over the nightstand, flipped on the lamp. There, beside the piles of books, sat ol' Sharky. I picked up the knife, withdrew the nightmare-inspiring blade from its sheath.

And I laughed.

Jesus Christ. It's just a knife.

I don't even believe the Dead Prussian story my great - grandmother used to tell. Makes for great pillow-talk, but Grammy also claimed The Rougarou would come get me if I were a bad little boy. I didn't believe that, either.

And who the hell calls an ex at 4:30 in the morning? After four fucking years? Last I heard, she was married with a kid, living out in Oregon...

Now that's fucking creepy.

I wonder how many other exes still have nightmares about this damned thing?

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