New Awakenings

To all who are still reading:

Congratulations.

You are officially my biggest fans; indeed bigger then my now colossal beard that I have grown over my period of exile. My lover's quarrel with the United States of America took a particularly sour turn soon after I came back from my quest to obtain Jedi powers. No amount of waving my hand and saying "this isn't the international man of mystery you're looking for" deterred the brutes who black-bagged me. That robed bastard in the desert who told me that my new Jedi tricks wouldn't work on the weak minded was at least half right: I was weak minded to think that waving my hand around like an asshole would protect me from the bounty hunters hot on my trail. This is why I haven't been able to update you on my adventures for so long, my adventures involve being probed in the most sensitive of places in a secret American prison. Needless to say, there was no internet. The closest I ever got to that was having cigarette buts being put out on my neck, and let me tell you, that was a God-damned relief compared to everything else I was going through!That old "Jedi" hack even had the audacity to make me wait outside of his weird-ass hut for like, an hour. I think the senile bastard forgot about me, or fell asleep or something.

I would like to say that my escape involved blazing guns and daring acts of pure moxie, but I have gained much wisdom and maturity while imprisoned, and thus have no desire to hide the truth any longer. During my many, many days in incarceration, I, like other great and revolutionary minds before me, kept secret prison notebooks. I would publish them here, but they would in all reality be much to complicated for the common minds that tend to grace these public addresses. If the seven academic journals I have submitted my work to didn't accept such masterpieces as "Pynchon and the Dialectic Paradigm of Subsemantic Reality: a Quantum Approach", then I doubt that the unwashed masses would gain much by the specifics of my philosophizing. I will say, however, that I made a serious breakthrough which lead to my breakOUT. While writing a 32 page treatise on the nature of simulacra and power, the United States Federal Government captured my notes, was impressed by my argument, and suddenly realized that it didn't exist. By sheer force of philosophy, the shackles of my captor were broken, and I was allowed to escape without further molestation.

Like Zarathustra descending from the mountain, I realized that I was a changed man living in a world that was oh-so-painfully the same. My loyal minions (who had constructed no less than six statues of my personage in my absence) worshiped the free ground that I walked on, but alas! I require their praise no longer! I realize that I have acquired all of the Earthly wisdom that I can possibly extract from my exile. Now that the oppressive nexus of power that defined America's jealous wrath are thoroughly deconstructed, I imagine that America has calmed down a little bit. Lady Liberty, lift your lamp to your golden shores (if you know what I mean, wink nudge)!
Awwwww yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about.

Happy Birthday to You'RE UNDER ARREST!

ATTENTION:
BY READING THIS BLOG YOU ARE IN DIRECT VIOLATION OF THE UNITED STATES P.A.T.R.I.O.T. ACT, SECTION 12, CLAUSE 28, SUB-CLAUSE ZZA, SUPER DOUBLE SECRET ENCRYPTED SECTION OMEGA SEVEN, AND ARE HEREBY PROCLAIMED AN ENEMY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND A STUPID, SELFISH BASTARD WHO NEVER THINKS OF OTHERS, HURTS THE PEOPLE WHO CARE FOR HIM, HAS QUESTIONABLE HYGIENE, AND IS SELFISH IN BED.

YOU HEAR THAT NATHAN? I BET THAT ISN'T WHAT YOU WANTED ALL OF YOUR SO-CALLED SCOUNDRELS TO READ ON YOUR PRECIOUS BLOG. Did you honestly think that I wouldn't find this pathetic waste of server space? Did you forget that I literally have the power to find out everything from how many times you search for Final Fantasy XIII game play videos to the password to your so-called manifesto with one convenient subpoena to Google? It's not like I needed to do that anyway. Your defenses weren't exactly iron-clad with a password like "abc123". Don't worry about the whole world knowing your password, I took the liberty of changing it using one of my many expensive encryption computers. Good luck writing any of your crap now. International man of mystery? Give me a freedom loving break. At first I wondered why I would even waste my time tracking you down, but then I pictured the look on your stupid, ugly, unshaven face when I hijacked your "nefarious" little soapbox.

You think you're a bad-ass now, running out on me like that? You didn't even have the courage to break up with me to my face. You wrote me a damn letter on the internet. You're such a miserable dork. I've taken the liberty of reading through your drafts for your next posts. Dinosaurs and Jedi? What did I even see in you in the first place? We'll see your true colors when I'm done with you, you gutter licking prole.

Let's start with the basics. You're learning Arabic AND Karl Marx? You're clearly a terrorist. Enjoy not being able to ever fly on an airplane again. In fact, I think I'm going to dust off those black helicopters that I used to love so much when I was seeing George. I don't like that stupid Indiana Jones-wannabe hat. I think you would look better with a black sack over your head and electrodes attached to your genitals (assuming I can find electrodes small enough). Also, all of those unwashed halfwits who have been reading your meaningless tirades? They are clearly part of this "F.R.E.A.K.Y." terrorist organization, and can expect similar treatment. Also remember that one time a few years ago when you considered donating money to that orphanage for children with AIDS? Well, your obvious allegiance to them makes it clear that they are just another front for your terrorist organization. Now we're going to have to put them on the terrorist watch list too, and all of those poor kids are going to starve. Because of you. Why do you hate children, Nathan? Lonely, sick, desperate children? You are a monster.

Unlike you, I'm not entirely unreasonable. For some reason that I haven't yet worked out with my therapist, I'm willing to forgive you. I may only inflict mild torture on you, how about just a little water boarding? It's not even really torture anyway.

Come on.

Please.

I need you.

I miss you every day.

GOD DAMN IT, YOU FILTHY TERRORIST! I HOPE YOU ROT IN HADES WITH YOUR BELOVED KARL! HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A NATION SCORNED! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!

HATEFULLY,
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




... maybe I'll let you post more of your stupid crap on your blog. You know, just for laughs. It's not like I even care what you do. Except for the whole being tortured thing. I'm still pretty serious about that.

Fall From Grace

Sweet and beautiful lord baby Jesus, please forgive me for my unholy and unspeakable sin. I would sooner lie prostrate upon a bed of over-sized, fire-breathing doomants from the third moon of the planet Gryfolax while watching "You've Got Mail" for an eternity of righteous supplication than venture again into the sinful world of black magic. Curse my unforgivable hubris! The very thought that I, a mere mortal, dared to demand the power of the gods now fills me with existential suffering. Listen well, dear readers, and learn from my mistakes, for I have been afflicted with a most malignant malady: I am ceaselessly stalked by a horde of demonic cats! The cats are everywhere, my poor, sweet, innocent friends. They dwell on every street, in every alley, around every corner. They haunt me in my travels, at home, and even in my horrible dreams. ALAS! Even the sweet oblivion of sleep provides no defense!(As you can see from the pictures above, my devilish curse has at least made me a *handsome* devil, which I suppose is nice.)

My trek to obtain divine power was my fall from grace. The journey was filled with absolute terror. Not everything I witnessed is describable in human words, but I will attempt to illuminate this path of darkness for the sake of posterity. As you recall,
my unholy ritual required the mastery of Tunisian cooking, drumming, and dance. I excelled quickly; too quickly. Like Icarus, my wax wings of mortality brought me too close to the shining and unknowable face of Helios! If only I too had met my end in the merciful waters of the Mediterranean! Now, like Lucifer, I fall beneath the Earth into an eternity of torment. (CATS! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!)

My path began with cooking. Sadly, Tunisian cooking includes no cat meat, or my problem would have already been solved. Instead, it is as hot as the fires of damnation that lick my soul! How fitting that I would create such a spicy dish! I ordered my FREAKY henchmen to fetch me the most mystical "pasta", a key component to many Tunisian meals. After ample application of harisa, a vital catalyst for spicy Tunisian cooking magic, this portion of the ritual was finished with ease. What did not come easily, however, was the after-effect of the cooking ritual. To cement its magic, we were forced to dwell for many hours upon the altar of the porcelain god. Henchmen 5, 18, and 37 did not survive this process. CURSES! There are so many bodies in my wake! If only the clarion notes of poor Harold's lyre were here to comfort me now! (Slave wenches, working hard. Good for them.)

The next challenge, darbuka (drums), proved to be insult to injury. A diminutive and infinitely wise Tunisian darbuka master graced the elite members of our organization with our presence. Although his stature evoked master Yoda, his demeanor invoked master Pai Mei. I was able to follow his rhythms like the soulful beat-master that I am, but my comrades were not as blessed in the ways of drummery. The darbuka is a fickle instrument of mystical power. If we were to err even slightly, we may have accidentally invoked the wrong ritual with disastrous results. It is for this reason that I do not fault our drum master for chastising us for mistakes, but the plucking of Jonathan's eye was quite simply beyond the line, even for a hardened criminal mastermind such as myself. Needless to say, our morale and collective depth perception had been diminished by this encounter. It was at this point that I began to question my mad quest, but I had come too far and sacrificed too much to turn back now. I must confess that my lust for power continued to drive me forward as well, but nothing could prepare me for the final test: DANCING. (Not quite our master. Close, but not quite.)

Dancing. Oh merciful Lord, dancing. Why did the last ritual have to be dancing? This portion of my sick journey was almost as terrible as the curse that now haunts me. Our instructor was as beautiful as she was deadly; a dancing damsel of death! At first the ritual proceeded simply enough. My desire to become a cyborg has caused me to move like a robot, and as we all know, robots are excellent dancers. My unique and amazing skills brought such joy to our dancing mistress, that she literally fell on the ground laughing! My friends, I assure you, my hips did not lie. It was not long, however, until the ritual reached its apex. Our instructor had clearly cast a terrible spell upon our female companions and Dan that caused them to shake their hips with ferocious tenacity! I was surrounded by their unholy circle of dancing death, and for the first time since my youth, I felt true fear. Our instructor clearly sensed how close I was to obtaining demonic powers, and intentionally spoiled the crucial moments of the ritual with this act of betrayal. It is for this reason that now my only power is to be haunted by cats in every moment of existence.

(You were hoping for a picture, weren't you? Better luck next time.)

I am truly a criminal of the most foul degree. First I commit crimes against America by fleeing her golden shores, then I commit crimes against Humanity with the creation of my nefarious empire, and now I have committed a crime against God, the Almighty! Only now have I begun to question the error of my ways, yet sadly my repentance is not enough in the eyes of the law of Man and God alike. I must flee once more, now to the South of this country I have called home for the past few weeks. I hear that a wise and ancient religious sect known as the "Jedi" reside there. I shall seek their council immediately. If you do not receive another dispatch, then you will know that I have been justly slain on this journey. Know that I loved each and every one of you from the bottom of my cursed, blackened heart!On an unrelated side note, I have also seen Michel Foucault's ex-boyfriend no less than five times now. In case you were wondering, he has a huge gray and black beard, and always wears the same woven red and white hoodie. No joke. At least I am blessed in that regard.

Twists and Turns

I can hear their voices very clearly now: "Nathan, you ridiculous bastard," the voices say, "who do you think you are, smoking your pipe like that in some foreign cafe, writing as if you are some sort of tortured genius that has yet to be discovered by the world!" To these voices I reply, "you are very right to mock me, I am in no way tortured, and I do believe that the world already knows precisely how magnificent I am!"

As you may be able to tell by my town, my tryst with Tunisia is going splendidly. In spite of the loss of our young spritely ward Harold, my plot for restoring my nefarious empire is proceeding without delay. After posing as a tourist in a hotel at the beautiful sidi bou said, I befriended the owner who agreed to allow me to use his home as a temporary headquarters. Harold was our translator, so due to his untimely demise I can only assume that my host's constant yelling and pointing out of the door to his house is a cry of encouragement for me to go forth into the world and reclaim my former glory! I shall become so mighty that America will come begging on her knees for me to return!

My first major excursion brought me to the ancient city of Carthage, where I searched for forgotten secrets of unfathomable power, long lost to the dusty annals of antiquity. It was a perilous journey, but with the help of some new found comrades, not even the mystical and arcane traps of a once mighty civilization could stop me! After I translated the runes of the lost language my quaint companions insisted was "Arabic", I discovered that a local merchant was selling artifacts of great power. One in particular granted me the power of invisibility, all for the low price of 30 dinars! What fool would try to sell this relic as a keychain for such a measly price?! I have clearly refined my bartering skills enough to proceed to the Medina Souq in search of greater fortune. (Me, being invisible. Can you see me? Of course not!)

I must confess that the market provided me with an even greater challenge. The entire region is built like a massive labyrinth: truly fitting for a great Mediterranean city. At every corner, merchants instantly detected my greatness and implored me to grace their shops with my presence. I devoted my full attention to the magnificent architecture in search of ancient clues in the style of epic and timeless novels of Dan Brown. Although I was in full control of my surroundings at every moment, it was because of my intense symboligizing that, to the untrained eye, it would appear that I was hopelessly lost and unable to function. I assure you, however, that this was not the case. Although I was not able to find any object worthy of purchase on my first trip, I noticed a pattern that may change the course of my journey and indeed the course of all history!

There are three objects described in the lost books of the bible which I studied during my brief tenure as a boy-genius professor at Harvard. These objects are drums, food, and revealing dresses used in fertility dances. These symbols were clearly situated on a map of the Medina in the shape of a triangle. The word "Triangle" spelled backwards is "Elgnairt", which starts with the letter "E". From here on, my description becomes very technical and academic, so pay close attention: If you turn the letter "E" on its side, it kind of looks like the letter "M". Can you see where this is headed? The word "Magic" starts with the letter M! If I can harness the powers of Tunisian drumming, cooking and dance, I will be able to gain magical powers! It is all clearly spelled out in the symbologies! My power will become so great, that even the dark and mystical "Kyle Anne" will be put to shame. I will begin my new quest as soon as possible, and keep you updated on the results!It's okay if you can't see the symbols. I'm a professional.

Arrival at Last

I fear that you will have to continue to forgive me for my tardiness, my loyal supporters. The scoundrel who took us through the so-called "Kessel Run" was less reputable than I thought. His smuggling ship was a rusty bucket of bolts that snailed across the Atlantic over the course of a week. I was forced to establish my domicile in a rancid cargo container, where I had to do horrible, deprived, unspeakable things in order to survive. I shall spare the women, children, and beardless lads with weak constitutions the details of my trip, for it includes horrors too great to put to print. Needless to say, our young ward Harold did not survive the trip. Now that our linguistic expert is somewhere 500 miles off of the cost of the bahamas, our fledgling group of ne'er-do-wells is in dire straights, my friends. We have been forced to join forces with the scruffy smuggler Jonathan who took us here. He is running from agents of the East India Company, and was more than happy to join forces with us. We must trust him out of necessity, in spite of his responsibility for poor young Harold's death.

Meet the F.R.E.A.K.Y.s

Heroes of the Cause,

Please excuse my recent absence. My breakup with America has been even more tumultuous than I had previously imagined. As you may know, my status as an international man of mystery required the occasional dabbling in super-villainy and general nefariousness. My steamy and passionate love affair with Lady Liberty meant that I could get away with those kinds of things, (stealing Mt. Rushmore, obtaining gaudy facial scars, building volcano bases, etc...) but I'm afraid my immunity has expired. Secret task forces, assassins, and bounty hunters with jet packs are hunting me as I write these very words.

(Me and my nefarious lap-dog in my recently re-furnished volcano base)

I would have waited to inform America of my intentions after I eloped with Tunisia, but my 300 pound suitcase would have provoked some uneasy questions. Instead I have employed a hasty, yet elaborate plan to escape America's jealous wrath. Because I am behind over nine thousand proxies, I can safely divulge the details to you, my loyal followers.

I have trimmed my hair an entire inch and groomed my beard, thus eliminating my previous ever-so-slightly-scruffy look. As you can tell by the above picture, I am practically a changed man. I have also changed my name for the time being: if I run into anyone whom I expect to be an agent of my spurned nation, I shall pronounce my last name with an emphasis on the second syllable! Behold! I am invisible! I have also contacted two of my most trusted accomplices who I shall meet at various intervals of time and space in order to set up a Tunisian branch of F.R.E.A.K.Y. (Fredrickson's Royal Entourage of Awesome Kings of Yore).

Allow me to present Daniel Henry, alias Fangor the Magnificent. BIO: Dan was born a runt to unknown parents of the proud Michigan warrior class. His small stature prompted his biological parents to deposit him in the wilderness of Detroit, where he was expected to die in sacrifice to the gods of the mythical, long-absent auto industry. Despite his meager birth-weight, Dan was able to tap into his ancestral warrior spirit and survive long enough to catch the attention of giant mutated sewer rats, who raised him as their own.
SPECIALTIES: Survival, Hacking, Explosives, Hand-to-Hand Combat: Dan's experience raised by the ultimate despised survivors, sewer rats, has allowed him to master the most deadly of black ops. This, combined with his ferocious warrior spirit makes him an invaluable ally in our future adventures.

My second second-in-command is Cwu'tha'gian the Unformed, alias Kyle Anne Piasecki. BIO: It is difficult to sort the fact from legend when discussing the details of Cwu'tha'gian. It is said that the true visage of this eldritch terror is so horrific and unnatural to the human eye, that gazing upon her (it?) would instantly induce madness. It is also said that she will only assume a human form once every ten thousand years in order to seek the powers of her even more horrific overlords. My contacts inform me that she will be in Tunisia in search of the tomb of Abdul Alhazred, the Mad Arab. With his skull, she shall invoke the greatest spells of the Necronomicon, and usher in her malevolent masters who will consume humanity in their mindless and incomprehensible hunger.
SPECIALTIES: Dark Magic, Baking, Incomprehensible Terror. No explanation is required to understand that "Kyle" will be a powerful ally indeed. Pray to whatever gods in which you believe that my hubris for harnessing such an evil power shall not be the end of me.

This will be my final report from the homeland. In a matter of hours I shall be smuggled out of the country. Fortunately I've found a fellow scoundrel who claims he can take me through the Kessel Run in a few parsecs, (I don't really know what he means, maybe he's taking a shortcut or something?) but the journey shall still be perilous. Keep me in your thoughts, dear readers. Godspeed!

An Open Apology to the United States of America

Dearest America,
I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I must leave you.

It's been a rough relationship these past twenty years. We've had a lot of ups and downs. Remember when your public school system taught me how to read? Good times. Remember when your public school system tried to teach me that the Mexicans had it coming in the Mexican-American war? Not so good times.

Listen America, it's nothing personal. We're just going in different directions. We've both changed so much over our relationship. I still love you as a place to live, but I'm just not sure if I can love you as a country any more. That's why I think we should part ways for awhile. Nothing permanent mind you, I'd just like to... you know, get out there; try the waters a little.

I don't really know how to say this, but you know that hot friend that you had over sometimes: Tunisia? That one who would listen to you cry about your problems in the Arab world? Well, turns out that Tunisia has got a bit of an adventurous streak, and frankly I'd like to give that a try for awhile. It's just going to be some fling, but you and I have been together so long; I thought it was only fair that I told you about my new blossoming relationship. I need something fresh and exciting! How can you expect me to pursue my career as an international man of mystery sitting around the Midwest all day?

I'm sorry it had to be this way, America. Knowing you like I do, I know that you won't like this one bit. I know that you are going to chase me, going to try to bring me back, maybe even throw me to one of those seedier friends you always have lurking around whenever you decide that you don't like someone. I'm going to ask you this one time: please don't let your anger get the best of you. Even if you do try and hunt me down, you'll never be able to find me. I've always been mysterious and resourceful, isn't that why you fell in love with me in the first place? You know better than that. I promise to write to you from time to time, but you've just got to give me my space. Just for a little while.

Love,
Nathan

PS: Tunisia wants to know if that friendship treaty you signed back in the 70's is still cool. You should probably get back to them on that.