Wait for it.

There’s a lot of forced-sensation being placed on literary suspense these days. Much of that faux suspense comes in the form of the injected phrase “… wait for it…”.

This method is often used when a person puts too much emphasis on information that could otherwise be delivered regularly at the end of a sentence. I came across a post about some person leaving their job at Ubisoft where, within the first paragraph, at the end of the 3rd sentence, the author uses the “wait for it” method.

Back in 2005, I remember my boss asking me where I’d see myself in 10 years. I answered without hesitation: I want to be a software architect on a big-ass AAA project! The dream came to life a few years later, when I started working on Assassin’s Creed Syndicate as – wait for it – software architect.

Why am I waiting? Who the fuck cares if this person got a software architect job when there was zero emotional investment in their career choice? Here’s how I see modern usage of “wait for it” and why it’s so fucking bland:

I learned what 3+3 equals today. Wanna know what it is? 3+3=… wait for it…

6

OMFG you literary mastermind of our generation. Please tell me another grand-master fuck head.

You know when “wait for it” is a proper choice in building suspense? Never. That’s right. I never want to be told to “wait for it” when you’re on the cusp of giving me information I potentially want to hear. If you want to tell a really good story or anecdote, build your own suspense by adding some drama or inserting some emotions or thoughts. Maybe try using a Red Herring or a twist ending.

Fuck…. wait for it… you.

Hello, Brotho.

Since the death of my father, my brother Joe and I have broken our pseudo-silence and have become closer again. This is after a few years of him going through his “I’m pissed at absolutely everyone in the world because I don’t know how else to cope” mode. The tragedy is it took the reality-shaking death of our father a few months ago to get him to snap out of his internal struggles in order to realize there is, in fact, finality to everything.

Since our father’s death we’ve been emailing each other 3 -10 times a month. It’s been therapeutic to say the least. My brother. Whom I helped take care of since I was old enough to understand how to hold a spoon and feed him. Joe. The only person who I can say anything to and have the ability to read precisely what he’s saying to me just by looking at his face. His raw body language.

I am a body reader.

You know when a certain holiday rolls around and you’re reminded about a favorite food or dish you can’t wait to have again? The yearning. The anticipation. Continuing a close relationship with my brother, at this point, is kind of like that. Familiar. Good. Heartwarming. Filling.

Since my brother and I have been talking, my girlfriend and I recently talked about me streaming video games for him so he and I could interact in a more personal way. Something that we used to share when we lived together. I’d play video games and commentate. He’d watch and laugh.

So far he’s liking it. The therapy continues.

In some ways I feel like one of those people who do nice things for other people, not because they’re benevolent, but because they want that tiny rush they get from getting someone’s appraisal. Slightly selfish with a side of selflessness. I also feel like my brother doesn’t have a lot of time left. He’s getting old as he’s approaching 40. That’s like “65” in Cerebral Palsy years. His health is also deteriorating as he spends most of his life sedentary, lying on the floor. He rarely gets out. I know he’s also in a lot of pain. He’s usually hopped up on pain killers when he’s not sleeping.

It makes me sad sometimes. But then I think that only bitches would be sad for my brother. Only a bitch would look at his life and feel sorry for him. I love my brother. I don’t want to lose him – but I will. I know it.

So I play video games, turn on my camera facing toward me, hit “Begin Stream”, and hope I put a smile on his face.

Jailcell Guffaw

The ability to tell jokes should never come under arrest. One should be able to joke about anything they wish, regardless of who might get offended. They way I see it is this:

A comedian is kind of like a musician. The audience is like a stringed musical instrument. Some sounds come out louder and more clear when the strings have some tension.

To abandon the tension in all of the strings, for fear that someone will get offended, the result would be a poor-sounding song. The comedy would be lost. The art would die.

This is why comedy has to constantly push boundaries – to keep tension in those strings. To keep the art alive. To discover new sounds. And most importantly, to make sure those sounds exist for future generations.

“Dad! Wake up!”

Sometimes I stop and think to myself “What if I had shouted at my father when he was dying on his hospital bed? What if I said ‘Hey! Dad! This is your last chance to wake up and get better! WAKE UP!'”. I know that, at the time of his death, and even the night before his death, I knew the absolute truth: My dad’s body is fucked up beyond recovery. Cancer. Multiple infections. He’s done for. The only task that remains is mercy. So he shall have it and become one with death.

Not even all of the stupid fucking “spiritual” or “energy” stones, my sister brought to his hospital room, could save him. Oh, how I wanted to throw those stupid stones out of his window every time I saw them. I wanted to shake sense into her and her mother. Oh, how I wanted to scream. Of all the wasteful things we do when a loved one is dying. I bet hard that medical advancements would prevail and that my father needed rest, not visitors. The social repercussions is that my brother Pete and I have been branded as “those whom didn’t care”. They don’t understand. It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes I feel guilt, in that I should’ve spent more time with my father in the hospital, but then I keep returning to my remembrance of how messed up he was; how incomprehensible and sporadically responsive or cognitive he was. Such a sad state to see someone who used to represent strength and wit, to become so frail and bewildered.

I don’t feel guilty anymore – just occasionally sad and haunted by what I’ve seen.

Pun [Un]intended

You made a witty relation with a word or phrase. It would have been funny if you didn’t have to climb upon your high horse and tell us “By the way, what I just said was an intelligent pun. There may or may not have been intent, considering my immense intellect didn’t have time to give inflection on the pun in question.” I think what pisses me off the most is when people say “No pun intended” and then smirk as if there could have been a pun at play, but they decided to blow their whistle and let their captive audience know, instead, there was no fun intended.

The reasons puns are so much fun is the intended response. We aim to please those who don’t solely rely on fart jokes, and yet take pleasure from deducing double-entendres from our word-play. The moment someone says “no pun intended” it takes out all of the fun. Even ironically, the phrase is lackadaisical and short-sighted. Do me a favor and take 2 seconds to deviate from this popular meme. The moment your audience gets the pun and you didn’t say “HURR, NO PUN INTENDED”, the reaction you get will be stronger and more sincere.

Ex-Static

I used to sit in the dark with headphones on. I would play “December” by Static-X over and over. The calm, dark, swaying intro would lull me into a sense of sub-conscience. I would think about life, death, the unknown.

“I still feel the cold – of long past days
I knew my worth – put in my place
It’s no surprise – I realized – some time before”

Sometimes I would catch the track before it went to the outro and restart my CD player to loop it all over again. Over, again, I go on my journey into the darkness in my mind thinking about loved ones and my life; what I want, what people want from me, my brother Joe, if I would stay in Salt Lake City or move away to a big city.

“December
Sun shines through haze
I put my thoughts – toward future days”

I wear what I love on my sleeves. Sometimes I’m practically waving a flag sewn with threads of my passions. Most people know I’m a Static-X fan. When the first album came out I picked it up with my friend Breno and drove to my house. We must’ve listened to the hit songs at least a dozen times in the driveway. Breno seemed to like it. But I was in love. This music was hot, heavy, and gritty as hell. It had attitude, style, and flair.

I’ve followed the band for years but never went to a show. That’s the odd thing about me. I’ll listen to a band’s music until each note is etched into my brain but I don’t care to go follow bands around their concerts. Perhaps it’s the crowds that dissuade me. But the funny thing about Static-X is that among my circle of friends I never found anyone who really loved them as I do. So I guess I just enjoyed them in my little corner. My dark room. My psychological ship.

Yesterday Lisa mentioned to me that Wayne Static has died last Saturday. At first I thought she was joking (as she sometimes does, darkly). But once I noticed she was serious I ran to my computer and fired up Google.

[ W a y n e S t a t i c ]

First result: “Wayne Static passes away at 48.”

I was hurt. Angry. Confused. The man I had been following on Twitter and Facebook all these years, the man who was a vegan and enjoyed 4-wheeling in the outdoors with his wife, dies in his sleep the night before a trip to a big tour. It feels like losing a close friend. A man who spoke to my soul through cheap headphones or blown out car speakers.

Here I am, 14 years later since his first album came out, listening to “December” over and over again. This time I have not gone on any voyages. Wayne has. Now he is gone and his lyrics haunt me.

“It’s no surprise, I close my eyes, and close the door.
Feeling so old. Years pass like days
Vastly changing. So many ways.
My eyes perceive – yes I believe… in nothing more”