Lives of the Cannibals: In Search Of

I am most often described by those who know me as venerable, though I am not particularly old. Sagacious, Solomonic and wise are other frequently used descriptors. Once, a lady who lived above me in a beleaguered section of Oakland, California, and whose business it was to know these things, said that I was a judge of some kind in a previous life. This did not surprise me. I have felt myself, from a very young age, standing just above and a bit to the side, perceiving you in your true form, despite your efforts to conceal the raw nature of your soul. I am regularly called upon to settle disputes of all kinds, ranging from the picayune to the momentous, by those who know me and understand the depth of my comprehension, and by anonymous passers-by as well, who are overcome with sudden knowledge of the rarefied workings of my mind. I would make a fine Senator, Supreme, or delegate to the UN, but I would find the duties gravely limiting–to court the benighted electorate, to interpret a relic, to navigate the shoals of global bureaucracy. None of these interests me. Better to remain aloof, I say, a generalist. Better to be a wizard for the benefit of Everyman.

I am sexually adored by all who lay eyes on me, and frequently by those who do not. The blind make clumsy passes, tossing away their canes and leashes so that their hands may be free to caress. The developmentally disabled and emotionally disturbed suffer spasmodic fits of desire when in my presence. Autistics are especially enamored of my voice, to which they pay unrelenting attention. Gay men queue at my front door, hoping to interest me in their society, and straight men forsake their wives and children in hope of brief union. Lesbians reconfigure their sexual identities when I pass them on the street, rending their clothes and falling to their knees. In fact, women of all ages and descriptions are powerless to withstand my appeal. I have been assaulted by crones, who employ their walkers to cage me, and by prepubescent schoolgirls, whose ceaseless screams of delight fill the streets after 3 pm.

Animals travel great distances to walk at my side. Dogs lunge and tear at those who would approach without permission. Cats submit their kill for approval, exposing their bellies as evidence of their submission. Birds nest below my window to raise their young in close proximity to my benevolence. Wolves cross mountain ranges to stand sentinel at my door, baying in harmonic fifths to mark my comings and goings. Insects, too, pay me their fealty: Ants construct their colonies at the foot of my stoop, and bees renounce the biological imperative of the hive to fly in formation in my wake.

There is a physical genius about me that captivates professional athletes, whose accomplishments become laughable when considered beside the potentials of my own muscle and sinew. I am known for my grace as well as my ferocity, for the force collected in the clutch of my fist, and for the kinetic beauty of my leaping form. Every major professional sport has petitioned me–not to participate, for that would obliterate parity, but for my talismanic presence, as an object of aspiration, an instance of superiority. Olympic teams from no fewer than 16 countries have requested my peak-performance expertise. Lance Armstrong credits me with every one of his Tour de France triumphs.

I have been offered fellowships at scores of major universities in the United States and Western Europe. Deans and Provosts clamber for my advice on organizational psychology, as applied in academic settings. Professors of English beg me to elucidate the subtleties of Beckett and Gaddis; Professors of Astrophysics humbly request my thoughts on the perturbations of orbiting bodies in distant solar systems. Hawking threatened to throw himself from his chair in a fit of pique at the shining light of my intellect.

I am a master thespian, flawlessly embodying the dramatic roles I undertake. Directors, shame-faced and desperate, request critiques of their conceptual frameworks, and feverishly take notes when I humor them with my insight. Actors weep for the sheer transformative power of pathos in my performances. Aesthetes are driven to suicide. Uta Hagen herself once dissolved into tears in the face of my one-man interpretation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

I am regularly accosted by mothers who would have their babies touched with grace from my lips. The maimed and deformed claw at one another in their seething masses, to enjoy the restorative powers of my healing hands. Holy men prostrate themselves on my doorstep, to resurrect their flagging faith.

I am 37 years-old, 5’9, with brown, wavy hair, almond-shaped eyes and an aquiline nose. My complexion is clear. My weight fluctuates between 165 and 170 pounds. I work out four times a week at Crunch, on the stationary bicycle, with free weights, and on the elliptical machine. My pectoral muscles are massive and mobile. My abdomen is corrugated.



SWF, 19 – 25 years-old, brunette or blonde, who enjoys films, walks in the park, chinese food, and margaritas. Education unimportant. Appearance primary. The surgically enhanced are encouraged to apply. Respond to box #3678. Your pic gets mine.



[a bloody tip of the scalp to Joe Frank]