Game of Sons: Episodes I-III

Caution: The following is a true story.

February 24, 2014

Weird thing happened this weekend. My girlfriend and I were, uh, making love. Right after we finished our business, if you know what I mean, the strangest thing happened. The ceiling above us crashed into a hole, and down came a man in riot gear sliding down on some sort of bungee rope. We thought it was a poltergeist for a second.

Actual photo of my roof (still needs a-fixing)

There was a helicopter noise during all this, and thrashing winds. My disrobed chick and myself hid under the covers as dude repelled down toward us. There was this big blueish hue light, too. He put his megaphone to his face and said,

Father, I am your son. You just conceived me, hahahaha!

At this point I realized there was really no need for that megaphone and that he did look like me a bit.

He continued, I came here via time machine. I am here because you're an unloving prick and selfish. And you raised me with your constant joking attitude and irreverent ways. So I have come here to warn you to start taking things seriously and raise me up proper.

Me and what was now his mother, I guess? We were paralyzed in fear.

And now my body will fade, he said. Because you will raise a decent son and hence this will have never happened except in your memory, and I will disappear.

...Why am I still here?


So I told my future son, Dude, I'm set in my ways. And busting up my roof and scaring your mom like this was a really shitty thing to do. It's pretty apparent you have my blood in you, fool.

My son looked aghast.

Artistic depiction of event(s)

So I say, Okay, here's an idea. It's all genetics, man. Why don't we both travel back to the moment where I was conceived and confront my dad about raising me up as a jester and a calloused instigator.

Fair enough, said my son as he reached for my hand. We embraced as we used the dangling rope to propel forward to the time-traveling helicopter. From there we flew into a purple wormhole in the sky.


Update:

February 26, 2014


My weekend story (Continued...)

So I'm there in the time-machine helicopter with my son from the future. We exit the wormhole after a long ride, where we calculate precisely the moment I was conceived. I'm there to meet my maker. For the first time in his life, anyway. My son, who looks kinda like Loki from Avengers points down to the roof of the apartment my parents are staying at.

A picture of my son I took with my new Nexus phone

So we're hovering in the chopper and hanging out the side with our long hair flailing in the wind. My boy says to me, Let's go!

I put my hand on my son's shoulder and say, No, I've got to do this alone, hijo. My son hands me a can of sprayable plastic explosives that work like silly string and a detonator. I spray a circle on the roof around my body as advised.

Kaboomblammofrrrrrrrttttsshhhh/wood-dropping-to-the-floor sounds fill the room where my parents have just finished making love. Both my would-be parents look at me stunned as I fireman down the rope in SWAT gear. I lift up the plastic on my helmet. I"m still hanging from the end of the rope like one of those aerial exercise circus gigs. I finger point to both of them sternly.

You just created me! I shout. Look what you've done! This is what you've done. You've created a pathologically unserious, middle of the road son. I can't form bounds with people to the extent MY son needs to time travel to get through to me. My life is terrible. I watched Miller's Crossing two days in a row all alone and pretended I understood it more. Do you think that's normal behavior?

They couldn't really get the reference but they could tell my words had weight and significance. They were both speechless.


Confronting my parents after my conception (recreation)

My dad finally spoke. He said, Listen, my future son. You have my eyes. I understand, but what's your plight here really? I'm just the product of my father, and he his. And why aren't you blaming your mother? This dame here is cold as hell. Listen, my boy, it's easy to point a finger, but you never win a race while walking backward and blaming everything that passes you up.

I just looked sad, and realized he was kinda right. I could travel the sad endless channels of the past forever with a plane full of dads or I could take control of my own life, open my own heart, and not let every single injustice break me.

By the way, son. You fucked the shit up outta my wall. Now, I'm not going to charge you, but you better at least tell me a stock to invest in.

I tugged on the cord suspending me to signal I was ready to leave. As I slowly levitated, ready to leave the scene I softly spoke the word Apple.

My father smiled.


Update:

February 27, 2014

Game of Sons: Episode III (The Finale)

I told my future son, Hey kid, just taxi us back home to my time. I gave him a deep hug before we left 1983.

We were back in present day and parted ways. It was a bitter cold February 2014 in the year of our Lord. My boy tried to tell me something alien-intelligence hacking human life via a time-travel loophole and creating robotic terror like something out of an Arthur C. Clarke novel. I quickly shut him up and consoled him, I'm his dad after all.

I said, Trust me, son. There's no need for a sequel
to this sequence of events.

I was back home with my loving future babymother playing the piano, poorly, as it's a skill I do not possess. I caressed her plump, one-day pregnant stomach and looked up at her beaming eyes. Those small, pupil portals were wormholes in and of themselves, to future generations. It had been so long I almost forgot how red they were. I swear saw my son in the glint of her eye.



image9000.jpg
My beautiful wife, Mal

I continued playing the piano poorly like a dog trying to play a ballad to impress a lobotomized Yoko Ono, but it didn't matter. Concerns of the ego were no longer a matter of mine. It had been a transformative experience to burst into my own conception scene like the Koolaid Man.

My life was spent until then compensating my woes with jokes, thinking a good attitude would re-tune my mood and provide some sort of karmic justice.

Why whine and complain when you could make someone smile and hope that sets a precedent, I always thought. But it never sets a precedent. It sets you up as the fallguy for your own expectations.

That was my weekend. Honesty and truth and not lying by omission and all that shit is what I learned. So in the spirit of that, I will admit some of this story was exaggerated.

Vulnerably yours,
Dragline, 2014

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