A very brief discourse on semantics
By Scott Parkinson

I was sitting in a near Zen-like state and staring glassy-eyed at the glowing face of God, who was informing me that I would be cool too if I lived and hung out with three large-breasted women (I didn't want to burst God's bubble, so I didn't let on that this much I already knew), when someone in Rational Thought was jarred out of his cathode-ray-stupor by a strange howling coming from somewhere else in my body. The guys, always an alert lot, made sure that the body hadn't sprung a leak and was dripping our vitals all over the new Lazy Boy Stratalounger (The King of all reclining furniture), because we hadn't finished paying for that sucker yet.

When the all-clear came through that we weren't close to imminent doom, the boys in Rational Thought took to finding out where the howling was coming from. They grabbed their flashlights, put on their galoshes, picked up their hard hats and left the cozy confines of my brain's small reason center.

Once they were out of the Muzac and Tan environment of our conscious mind, the Boys got confirmation of their worst fears. The howling was not coming from the body, the motor centers, or the sensory apparatus, but instead, it was coming from the sub-conscious. A deep, soul-ripping wail was rising up from the tunnel that led down into the darkest corner of my being. After a quick gut-check, the Boys turned on their flashlights and headed for the noise.

After many twists and turns (my sub-conscious is not a very straight place), a few retreats (and apologies) from things that did not like to have the spotlights of Rational Thought shined on their soiled doings (but then who really does), they found themselves in the cluttered and dilapidated Labeling and Storage Center of my mind. Stacked everywhere were images from past experiences that were waiting to be identified, interpreted, labeled and then stored for future reference and need. Our first girlfriend was there waiting to be stored, she had "BITCH" stamped onto her forehead and my 12 year old heart still beating in her hands. My last few dogs were chasing around a chicken I had once...well, never mind, let's just say they were there.

In fact, as the Boys looked around, they realized that there was way too much stuff laying about. Images were choking all of the passages leading in, piles upon piles of ideas and thoughts were reaching high into the air. It looked as if nothing had been labeled or stored for quite some time, and this is when the Boys got an idea of where the noise was coming from and what might be causing it-Lenny, the nervous and over-worked official in charge of this area, must have hit upon something (again) that he couldn't understand.

With the efficiency of practiced familiarity, the Boys spread out through the piles and files, looking for what must only be the collapsed and sobbing figure of poor Lenny. It was only a matter of minutes before they had found him and gathered about his pathetic form.

"Why...why...why..." in a high-pitched shriek was all that was coming out of Lenny as he rocked himself back and forth, naked and in fetal position, staring blankly at the images of the first place I lived after leaving home.
The Boys from Rational Thought began to get a little nervous. They knew there was a very good chance that this meltdown was somehow their fault and that they probably let something slip by them that was irrational, but that they hadn't labeled as such to help poor Lenny out. If this was true, and they were pretty sure it was, then they would have to fill out all the paperwork and get out the mops to clean up all the mess that this had made-not to mention, they would have to track down all the errant thoughts, ideas, and images that had been pulled into deeper and seedier pits of the sub-conscious and then convince the denizens that they needed them back. All in all, it was going to be a lot hassle and trouble, and this was Sweeps Week on God.

"Why what, Lenny?"

"Why, why, why...why do you call it an apartment, it is so close together with all the others? I just don't understand!!"

The Boys stopped cold on that one. "Huh?"

"Why do you call it an apartment," Lenny was coming around and as the glazed look left his eyes an angry one took its place. "It's not apart from anything. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Where do I put something like that? Are you Serious? Is that a joke? Are you just trying to be mean to me? What, what, what...the fuck am I going to do? I don't need to be played with down here, its tough enough without you guys messing with me-this 'ain't fuckin' easy!!!!!"

The Boys looked at the images of our first apartment, thought about what Lenny was saying, and began to realize that this was one they let slip by-but they weren't going to take blame if they could still pass it off onto Lenny. "Hey, Lenny, old boy, that's just what they call it out there. I mean, sure, it is jammed together with a bunch of other units, but what do you want to call them?"

Lenny, old, tired, stressed-out, occasionally frightened by what he saw, was not stupid and he realized what the Boys from Rational Thought were trying to pull. He could see the look in their eyes and knew that this one, finally, was not his fault. "Compartment."

"Huh?" The Boys asked.

"You could have called it a compartment rather than an apartment. You're supposed to be the logic boys. You're supposed to be the bright ones. Don't you question what comes into this head anyway? I mean, Christ, you guys spend hours reading the TV Guide and speculating on its contents, but you don't question the label you've accepted for you living quarters?" Lenny was fully recovered and on a roll.

"The Bible? What's the Bible got to do with this?"

"Stop calling it the Bible! You want to go over that issue again?" The Boys all nodded "no" and put their heads down. "Alright then, why don't you guys pay a little more attention up there and just don't take everything that comes rolling down the pike-especially if it comes from television. Now get your mops and get this place cleaned up. I have a lot of back work to do, thanks to you."

With that the Boys resigned themselves to their failure and set about to try to put the sub-conscious back in some semblance of order. They were just about to start whining about the fact that, this being Sweeps Week, they were going to miss a lot of tight sweater and tank top shots on Friends, when they spied and old image of my third grade teacher, Mrs. Shields, caught in a pudding swamp wearing only a slip. With a happy whistle the Boys ran forward to help, and in so doing, completely forgot what it was that brought them down there to begin with.

Scott Parkinson is a free-lance writer who calls Seattle home, at least for the next month or so.

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