The messiah is my sister

Back here, one mo ‘gain, y’all. Too weird to love, too mean to die.

Just stepped in the door from a top quality production called Nicky Goes Goth, starring your friend and mine Mr. Patrick Alparone. It’s playing in the basement of this pizza place in Berkeley, and all you uncultivated provincial swine need to put down your Cheetohs and your Tivo remote and go see it. Not because it’s your civic duty to support the arts, or because I know a dude in it, but because it’s damn good. Underground theatre is cool, and it don’t get any more underground than this, kids. Unless the basement has a basement. Go out there, buy a Red Tail and a slice of pepperoni and sausage and watch the god damn play.

Let me tell you kids something, something that may amaze you:

I’m a poor liar.

‘But Tadow’, you say, ‘you’re full of shit and lie to people all the time. You’re remorseless and untrustworthy, and you make fun of the elderly.’ Certainly, my deceptive ineptitude is not for lack of trying. Some of my lies are accepted universally, if only because, by sheer volume, some are statistically guaranteed to slip through the cracks. However, by and large I am forced to be honest simply because I am too inept to disguise the truth. This is not an endearing quality. This is not a lovable quirk. It’s a prison, a torment, a burden, and a barrier. Good liars are generally very well liked, the central reason being that very few people give a shit about the truth. Your grandmother doesn’t want to hear that the sweater she made you is tacky as hell and makes cringe with shame whenever you’re near a mirror. Your girlfriend doesn’t want to hear she’s a shitty cook. Ellen Degeneres doesn’t wanna hear she’s not funny. At all. Behind all this deception lies that big ugly monolith of truth that makes 99% of the human race desperately avert its gaze: Most humans are mediocre and stupid and unattractive.

This is a truth that never completely leaves my consciousness, and it shows. I can’t assuage someone’s fears that they fall in to this category if, in fact, they do. They see through me like a ziploc bag, and balk that within lies that dark and crushing judgment, eternal and inescapable. Add to this the fact that I perpetually ooze an aura of insincerity, for some unknown reason, and you’ll know why most people hate me like chubby kids hate stairs.

All this being said, it’s a damn good thing Patrick can act well. It’s good not because he can entertain and involve and enlighten, but because I can tell him with a straight and honest face that I enjoyed his show. If he sucked, he’d probably tell everyone I was a dick, because he’d see through my false compliments right quick.

I don’t know all that many talented people, but he’s one of them.

Go see the fucking show.


The house hunt continues. I need a fucking apartment in San Francisco. It must be two or more bedrooms. It must not be expensive. FIND ME ONE.

Think of it this way: Better place = better life = better stories = better posts = more fun for you to read when you’re wasting your time.

It’s all for you, kids. Go on, spoil yourself, you deserve it. Find me that apartment. Bring a little literary light into your life. You know you want to.


I work in a church.

Those of you who know me understand why this is funny.


There is much to be done, and the days grow short. Already the cold seeps in a little earlier, winter scratches at the window, begging entrance.

That nightly promise, like a guilty prayer, is on my lips again. I’ll start tomorrow, I say.




3 Responses to “The messiah is my sister”

  1. It’s Alparone

  2. Fixed it, my bad

  3. ha. I appreciate the mention. I wouldn’t have found it but every Friday I scour blogs for spelling errors.

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