For the purpose and prefacation of the novelate work:
STOP. For that was how they always began. Stop. A warning. A limitation. It is midnight, the eve before the presidential election and this book is not to be read in order. Forwards or backwards, the order you might expect the order is no longer there. For this is a story of adventure. And adventures are not to be taken in linear fashion. So here you will be presented with a series of choices which will take you deep into the core of your very being. You will become what I want you to be. And what I want you to be can only be a reflection of what I, the author, the magistrate am.
Then, GOTO with numbers. I tell you where to go, where the logic flows. Paint by digits, stay within the lines, obey the traffic signals. Because someday you hope to find THE END. This is the only way.
So what am I? It is midnight the evening before the presidential election. I make too much money to live in the low income housing. I do not make enough money to afford health insurance. The candidates offer me tax cuts for capital gains, benefits for my children. I do not want to own a home. I do not want the children. They cannot offer me the thing I truly want which is to live in a dance studio that doubles as a circus on the weekends: somewhere I can make a true impact on the artistic and intellectual landscape of the world. No one offers me this. Why would anyone want that? I am a grey American. Neither blue or red. Creeping quietly up on the collective subconscious. In a few years I will emerge fully formed and you will be seeking me to play with you instead of the other way around. For now, I entice you with this rhyme, this prose, this entertainment. So that I can assuage the panicked urgings of my ego to become, produce, influence the minds of the colors in America. I shall capture and own you temporarily. You will identify with what I write because you in fact are the main character. The tales in this novel of gloom and doom are not the actions of theoretical made-up characters; they are the actions of you, the reader. Clearly you exist. Thus this novel, with you as the star, is not a work of fiction, but rather a work of frighteningly metaphysical truth. I pray, nay demand, that you accept it. For you are my reader and my character. And you cannot help but identify.
I have no right to write the things I write. I am a blip on the radar map of human seas. I know nothing. Not even myself. I have no fancy academic degrees in psychology or philosophy or banana farming. I have no right to make claims on your identity real or imagined. But I do it anyway. You will be excluded and forced into a box which no human being should be forced into. I will be offensive. Perhaps I will offend the pants off you. The thought intrigues me, as in many circles taking ones pants off is itself offensive. I hope it intrigues you as well. If so, we will get along tremendously. You must always remember this important fact: that I am less than you, ignorant, and have no power here. Yet I take the power anyway. Like a person who illegally downloads music while sitting in the café at Virgin records and doesn’t order anything. That is how I got where I am today – sitting here with no job, only time to type this absurd homily.
So choose. Choose my own adventure. Walk in the paths which I, your master and commander, have set for you. You cannot do other than walk.
Some choices will lead to your death. Some choices will lead to my death. Most of them will, I admit, lead to your death. You should be used to that by now. In addition to death, there will be several middle grounds of failure, success and absurdity. Be assured that no matter how dismal it seems, in each character there is a path to success. Those who do not see success are not lacking in actual skill, but rather in perspective. You may try with each character as many times as you wish.
The decisions you make will affect not only what you do, but who you are. This is unlike reality where identity is indecipherable in cause. Here in non-fiction fiction we can pretend that things are so black and white.
And the man who skips to the back to seek the ending before he has even begun is nothing but a charlatan. A follower of lies and the devil. And we will not tolerate it here. And in case you are still wondering, the back is quite literally not the ending. I know you want to know the end, so I purposefully hid it to keep you from being tempted. You may relax that urge. I have saved you from the evils of your own curiosity. So that the ending you receive will never be the ending you expect. Is not that one of our greatest gifts in life?
The first choice is the most significant. It will set the primary frame of reference for all the other choices. In life, we make this choice when we are in the womb. Now you have the chance to make a different one from the one you made so long ago in that alien world. You also may have the chance to make the same choice as you made when you were born. Not everyone however, will have that option as I am a poor substitute for the real world, in which the number of choices for identification you have is 10 to the power of 10 to the 29 (approximately). I will provide you with numbers of options such as five or six. Isn’t it exciting? Reducing world views down to a scant selection of five! I cannot think of something more adventurous. And yes, on top of being excited, I am as frightened as you are. Perhaps more. I fear the path as the creator who still does not know the ways it will go. In the end, I will control you; but the path will control me.
Suggestions for ways to choose:
Close your eyes and point. Make the choice that is closest to your more-real life. Make the choice that is most different to your more-real life. Make a completely independent decision from actions in your more-real life. Make the choice you would have made as a tiny baby if you had known you were in control and if you had known the facts of the earth. Create an elaborate computer-based random number generator with the digits one to seven; occasionally there will not be options six or seven and you will have to push the button for the generator two or three times to get a result. Do whatever the cool kids are doing. Do whatever the Republicans are doing. Drink tea, then look at the tea grounds left in the cup; make the option according to the cardinal direction in which most of the tea grounds remain, having previously assigned different numbers (at your will) to each direction. You may also do the prior exercise with coffee, or you could possibly come up with a way to do it with Oreo cookies. Or chocolate sandwich cookies, if you prefer not to be sued for trademark infringement. If you are not familiar with the terms of the choices being offered to you in this or any section it is highly recommended that you perform extensive research into the definitions and traditions of the options. I as the author have not done this; I am merely making broad assumptions about all subjects and I have not fact-checked any of my ideas. Not even on Wikipedia. So someone should really do it, and I think its best for that to be you. I’m way too busy writing this drivel. After doing your research, you could in fact then choose to throw all your research into the garbage and use one of the aforementioned methods.
The story finally begins:
It is the year 2008 and you live in the great and buzzing city of New York in the wonderful political boundaries of the United States of America. The country is full of promise. And hatred. Hatred and promise like a chocolate cookie sandwich that you recently learned is full of trans fats. The weather is spectacular. You are happy. And being happy you are willing and interested in making decisions. As a matter of fact, making decisions has become increasingly important to you of late. You are growing stronger and at this time you want to participate in life. The first step toward living is deciding. As you walk down Bedford avenue, you see a strange new building. Actually, it is more like a strange old building – some kind of re-claimed factory, a strangely fading brick construction wedged between newly built condominiums. This building has a certain beautiful character that you cannot explain. You decide to take a closer look. The building seems to be buzzing with activity today – every few seconds a person walks in or out, though you cannot immediately discern a unifying factor of the potential business of the clientele. Many of the people are young, dressed in the eclectic clothing that befits the area of Brooklyn, but others are older or wearing cardigan sweaters. Outside, covering up a fading mural on the brick façade, is a bright yellow hand-painted sign. This is the registration center.
You enter. There is a long line of people of all shapes, sizes, colors and creeds. The room has orange and brown berber carpeting. The Cold War Kids plays over a sound system with not enough treble. A cheery young brunette, standing readily next to the entrance, hands you a form.
“Just fill it out as you wait, and give it to the officials at the front,” she spouts peppily.
You look at the paper she gives you. It is written in several sections in every language you can imagine. It is infinitely long. This makes it rather difficult to hold. You tear off the top page and discard the rest on the floor.
A skinny twenty-something man with too much beard passes you a golf pencil. The pencil has “Camelot mini-golf” written on it in gold letters.
The remaining page on the form offers you a series of descriptions, with an open circle next to each. This seems suspicious; are you supposed to fill out this questionnaire here on the spot? Cautiously you examine the golf pencil. In even smaller letters next to the Camelot Mini Golf label, there is a miniscule number 2. You sigh in relief and begin to read over the list of items. There are five items left on this remaining portion of the document. You seem to have cut off the page between categories; the options don’t quite fit together. Or maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. It’s hard to tell the purpose of all of this. You are getting frustrated. The line isn’t moving. People are staring at you. They want you to make a selection. They can’t go on with their lives until you do. And since you can’t go on with your life either it seems, you fill in:
