Danimaniacs . . . (Alternate title: A Jerk in Progress)

(That "Jerk" part refers to me)

01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph length.)

All right.
Let’s us two get down to brass tacks.
Let’s us two ride the gauntlet together, eh?
. . .

Fuck.

I am – for what may well be the next time—at a loss for words.
I want you all to know I was coerced—
Nay! Pressured!
Nay! Extorted, entreated, and tricked into even taking up this mad quest.

What mad quest?
Shut up, stupid.
Why, the maddest quest of them all.
That most undefeatable of windmills:

Trying to encapsulate into mere words how awesome is Dan McLaughlin.

. . .

I know, right?
I need a drink.

. . .

*returns five minutes later with a glass of milk . . . laced with arsenic.*
*sips*

Aahh.

Jus’ like ma usedta make.

But now no more stalling.
Here we goooooo . . .

Dan is annoying.

Okay. Bad st—off to a bad start.

Nah. He’s not really.
I just think he is.
Bastard.

Okay, really now.

Dan’s great.
You’re fuckin’ great.

Hard to break it down more than that, especially for a simple white boy like me. We can’t break it down at all. Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to do so.

Let’s start with the obvious qualities and then move on to the more abstract.
You’re smart.
In a tactical, pragmatic sense, but also in a contemplative, almost spiritual sense as well.
You’re physically capable.
Not that that is a mark of a good friend, or a good person, but the fact that you’re capable and humble about it, unlike some people I know who might be feeble but boastful, means a lot.
I guess that gets at one thing I love about you: Your sense of . . . hmm . . . dignity, let’s say? You’re hardly ever boastful or ostentatious. But you’re not timid, either.
I remember one occasion; we were walking with some girls in the rain. Normally I would shamble out some question, “W-would any of you like m-my coat?”
(This is the wrong thing to do with women, I’ve noticed. You must force chivalry upon them.)
And so you did.
You simply took off your over-shirt and draped it across a girl’s shoulders and then went on about your business. You didn’t make a show of it, but you acted swiftly and competently. And that makes up one half of you: Capable and competent, but never presumptuous or conspicuous.

The other half is joyously loony and theatrical, but in a more self-aware, self-deprecating way. You’re amiable and chatty and sometimes downright nuts. At times you verge on being whimsical.
We’re all good in our own way at random, nonsense humor, but you’re the only one I know who can keep it up indefinitely with a straight face.
You have a spirit of adventure second to none.

Now, you fuse these two halves together like the lost pieces of a mystical golden amulet and voila, you get Dan: An individual with a very unique outlook on life, who’s almost always fun to be around (so long as you don’t piss him off—he kicks hard.)
Someone who’s always there for his friends and eternally forgiving when they’re clueless enough clods to not be there for him. (Thanks again, by the way.)

*addressing the group*

Dan here is the only guy who kept reading my blog. You realize that?
. . .
Actually, in that case, there is no group to address.

*turns back to Dan*

So, you got this guy who’s equal parts realist and romanticist; lover and fighter, authority and rebel. He never let’s ya down, he’s never harsh or mean to you. That’s another thing here, sidenote. Unlike nearly everybody else I know, Dan is never mean to me. Tony is very big on this nonsense called “tough love,” and dishes it out liberally. Andrew is careless with his words. Caitlin is unconcerned with the effects of hers. Brendan is downright cruel sometimes.
But you’ve always been nice to me Dan.

Anyway, ya got this guy, and you’re thinkin’ to yerself, what could possible make him better?
And I tell you.
He likes comic books!

Yes indeed. You like everything from The Watchmen to . . . *shudders* Ultimate Spiderman, and I love you for that. I love comic books. I think I love them more than anyone else I know. But guys like me, Tony, and definitely Pawel, are snobbish and discriminatory. You appreciate the value in all comic books. I think that’s a fine quality.

Yes. And it is perhaps because of your unique fusion that you’re capable of taking reasonable (usually) but nonetheless emotional stances on topics from pop culture to genocide.
The more intellectual part of you sometimes hides the visceral under a steely façade, but I know it’s still there. I know you can’t detach yourself completely. I think that might be one of your greatest strengths. Semi-detachment.

So what’s bad?
Well, you do seem overly harsh on some issues sometimes (almost to the point of scaring me.)
And arguing with you is like ramming an ice cube up my ass and running around in circles. If the object of debating was to turn your opponent into a gibbering mess then you’d win every debate match ever.
You coulda successfully defended Charlie Manson or convicted Rosa Parks, I think.

So you’re like a simple chemical compound, say, mixing hydrogen and oxygen. Separate, to fine elements. Together, much greater than the sum of its parts, with properties that still manage to stun and amaze.
And, of course, bring life.

So, as I’m verging on the precipice of sappy, I’ll cut off here.
I love ya, buddy, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.

02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you

The Terminator. Oddly enough, I can see you as both Michael Biehn’s heroic character from the first film, or as Robert Patrick’s inhuman murderer from the second.
Desperado. Just watched this one today, and I was reminded of you for some reason. Maybe it’s your Latin flair for the dramatic.
Harry Potter. More the books than the movies, but you’ve certainly cast a spell on me, nonetheless. (It’s hard to be both gay and lame all at once, but I find I pull it off quite nicely.)
Batman Begins. ‘Nuff said.
The Nero Wolfe mysteries from A&E. You’re very much like Archie Goodwin.
Goldeneye. I see you as the Trevelyan type.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (every one of them, but mostly the new, animated feature.)
Jurassic Park
Independence Day (I hope one day aliens invade, just so you can give that Bill Pullman presidential speech before you fly off to kick their asses. Also because I’m tired of the White House.)

Songs?
Well, anything classical rendered by electric instruments.
TSO, baby!

Also:

Captain America, by Jimmy Buffett
Don’t Mess Around with Slim, by Jim Croce
The Mob Song, from Beauty and the Beast
Northbound Train and, even more so, By the Sword/Sons of Dixie from The Civil War: The Musical
Any song performed by a Muppet

I think of you when I hear any bombastic, trumpeting show tune. Also, the James Bond theme.

Mike Doughty song:

Super Bon Bon.


03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be:

Okay, okay. I can do this one, I think.
It’s summer time.
Night.
Hot, humid, electric.
Late.
Almost dawn.
One finds oneself strung out from a night of sugar and shenanigans, wild-eyed and not the least bit sleepy.
What shall we do?
Find someone, pick a fight with them, and pretend we’re super heroes, of course.

You’re 3:45 AM on July 5th. The air is still tangy with the smell of gunpowder and ozone. It’s madness to be awake and cavorting at this hour, but it’s a welcome sort of madness. A madness that makes one feel complete. Whole. Home.

Let’s rock.

(Hurry the fuck up and get home, huh, soldier boy?)



04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)

Brave is kinda a bland word, ain’t it? So I’ll skip that one for now.
Determined and capable also come to mind.
But, let’s see now, surely we can do better.
Loyal? For I have never known you to turn your back on a friend, though you have been harshly betrayed many a time.
Astute? Unflinching?
Intelligent?
Bah! This is getting us nowhere.
I’ma go with decent. Yes. I know it’s bland, but it pretty much sums you up. You are one of the few completely decent human beings I have ever known. In every sense, you are above moral reproach.
Essept for what you did with that underage hooker. Gave me nightmares for a week.
. . .
No! Wait, that was me.
Sorry.
Haha
Good times.



05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.

Well, I gotta say, the parking lot brawl in front of Cinemark ranks highly among my most memorable moments, period. I wish we had dragged it out a bit more, though. I think if we had been watching an action movie instead of a comedy the fight woulda been more all-out.
Yes. If I had to pick, I’d choose that one and one other.
All the time we spent exploring St. Hyacinth during The Clearing rehearsals. From the basements to the roof, swiping keys, stealin’ pencils, blinding each other with the spotlight . . .
*heaves a heavy sigh*
Man, I miss you, buddy.

06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.

Tiger shark.
Lemur.
Heron.

(Tell me that that combination makes any sense at all.)

Dog:

Doberman Pinscher. Slightly militaristic, fierce in a fight, but, like all dogs, cuddly.

07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.

I suppose I sometimes wonder (not always, sometimes) just how serious your plans for ascension in the government actually are. I realize some of it’s pure conjecture. Hypothetical musings on what you’d do if –
But if anyone I know has the chops necessary to become El Presidente, it’s definitely you.

What else I wonder, you ax?
I wonder if your bi.
Sometimes, you look at me, and . . . your lip quivers . . . and I can tell.
Or, remember that game we played in the backseat of someone’s car once? When we ended up grabbing each others’ sacks? “Nervous” you called it.
Was I sworn to secrecy on that?
Hey, I won’t lie.
I see you sometimes and I think about it. Y’know. Hot man on man action.

08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.

Dark blue.
Robin’s egg blue.
Khaki/olive.
Cream.
Gold. (The kind with two guys. Oh, shit. It’s pretty obvious what this one means, huh?)
Mustard. (Has one.)
Rust. (Offered me one once.)

09. I will describe my ideal day with you.

I’m striding briskly down a tiled hallway that looks as though it’s been chiseled though solid rock.
It has.
I’m in a bunker, concealed within a mountain in the northern Appalachians.
Before me, a pair of brushed steel doors slide open with a hiss a second before I reach them.
I enter a massive room with a vaulted ceiling. All around are holographic maps, digital displays, conference tables, and weapon racks.
You stand, palms flat on one such table, leaning your weight on your outstretched arms, surveying a radar screen. You look up as I enter, and your grim expression momentarily lightens, then returns.
You straighten up and give me a nod.
“What’s the report?”
“News from the satellites, Mr. President. It appears the alien armada has returned. They disappeared behind the moon, but have slingshot back around and are headed right for here.”
You roll your sleeves back down and button the cuffs, then sling a heavy green commander’s jacket over your broad shoulders. The epaulets and medals glitter in the light from the halogen bulbs overhead, and match the gleam in your eye.
“Prepare my fighter jet,” you say to an aide, and hen turn back to me.
“Suit up, Sundance, we’re goin’ for a ride.”

Your shuttle jet has a sophisticated cloaking mechanism that makes the aliens believe it’s one of their own. The mother ship lets us in without a fuss, and in so doing seal their fate.
Out of the hatch leap you, me, and an able crew of the meanest Marines available. Also, Sam.
“Troops,” you say to them, “Make me proud. Take out communications and weaponry, and rendezvous back here at o’ eight-hundred.
“Sam—,” but Sam is already gone. Off in the distance we hear a riotous explosion followed by the deadly buzzing of laser fire and Sam’s maniacal laughter.
You look at me.
‘Rich, you an’ I got a date with destiny,” you say grimly.
“I’ll bring the roofies!” I reply.

The alien overlord takes up a space about eight feet by five. He glares at us with his seven eyes and clicks his mandibles furiously.
Raising his battle saber, he charges.
Never one to back down, you charge, too.
I, meanwhile, am momentarily distracted by one of his harem. She’s six feet tall, slim and curvy, with long flowing tendrils. I gaze into as many of her sea-green eyes as possible. And what a rack! Check that, two racks!

“Rich!” you call after being hurled across the room by a fist the size of a basketball, “Lil’ help here?”
“My hands are full at the moment,” I say, and I speak the truth.

I manage to tear myself away—no small feat, considering two of her four arms have powerful suction cups (for which I was most desirous to find new uses)—and come racing across the room. I throw myself onto Overlord Dralkraxx’s vast and spike-ed back and begin punching him in the back of his bulbous head.
He howls and shakes me off violently. I go flying across the room and land on a pile of gelatinous eggs.
Disgusting, yes, but they did break my fall.

You’ve stolen one of Dralkraxx’s huge daggers, which you hold in two hands like a war sword. Now you and the Overlord slash and hack at each other, Pynomian alloy clanging a tuneless song in the cavernous throne room.
You dodge a thrust and move in close, too close for his saber to be of any use. You grapple with the giant for a few tense moments, teeth gritted and eyes wild. He catches you with a right hook—using both right fists, the brute—and you roll across the floor and collide with the far wall.
He slithers toward you, leaving a trail of noxious slime.
His two mouths twist into a freakish and horrifying insectoid grin.
“You have come so far only to fail now,” he chuckles, making a sound like a bag of wombats being ground into paste in a rusty cement mixer. “You humans are a foolish race. Your bravado only puts you into greater peril. With your death, the Earth will be mine.”
Lying on the floor, propped up on your elbows, you stare unflinchingly into the monster’s face. You drag your knuckles across your lips, wiping away some blood, and your bruised but handsome visage lights up in a savage grin.
“We are characterized by our bravado, you alien scum, but I tell you now it is rarely used foolishly.”
Then you hold up the punch line to your little joke, a detonator. While you were struggling with him, you slipped something into his jeweled belt.
Dralkraxx whips his gaze down in horror to the blinking grenade on his hip. He reaches for it—too late!
“The Earth will never be yours!” you say.
You ram your thumb down on the button. We’re both deafened by a distinctly wet-sounding blast and for a moment the whole room is whited out in the glare of the explosion. We’re both hurled backward, you not so far, as you’re against the wall, anyway.
Then the entrails of the fallen villain hit us like a warm, stinking rain.
I wipe crud out of my eyes and look around for you.
You’re getting shakily to your feet at the far side of the room, also covered in blood and gore and slime.
You see me and give me a dashing wink, then a thumbs up.
We meet over the bubbling pile that was once the most feared warlord in the twelve galaxies.
“Rest in pieces, Dralky,” I quip.
“Beat me to it,” you say.
And, supporting each other like two old warriors, we stumble out of the throne room and back to your ship.

Behind us, as we head back to Earth, the mother ship and then the rest of the fleet explode in a neon blaze. Sam bursts out laughing, pleased with his handiwork.

Back on our home soil, we’re standing on a balcony overlooking the Bush monument (a marble rendering of the Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil monkeys, all with Dubya’s grinning face.
You’re behind a podium, before a crowd 2 million strong. I’m standing to your right, slightly behind.
You cover the mic with one hand and tap me on the shoulder with the other.
The first lady is wearing a tight violet dress and I have to forcibly I tear my eyes away from her purple mountains majesty.
You give me another smile. Given the cuts an bruises on your somehow still regal face, it must hurt like hell, but you don’t show it. Your eyes are weary but content.
“This is my favorite part of the job,” say quietly.
“Better than blowing up alien warlords or romping through Charlotte’s (the F.L) fruited plain?”
“Yes, I like it even more than that.” Your grey eyes survey the multitude. “There’s nothing like giving my country-men and -women some good news.”
Your hand slips off the mic and you begin your speech in your famous stentorian roar.
“My fellow Americans,” you yell over the silent crowd, “victory!”
The cheers are deafening. Fists clutching American flags (thirteen stripes, 73 stars) beat the air. Pennants wave, whistles tear through the clamor, as a mighty bellow of love and triumph rips from the throats of two million citizens. Even Pawel, in his (as he requested) dimly lit cell, hears the cheer and pauses in his furious scribbling of his seventh guide to revolution to smile.
As the jets scream by overhead, painting the dusky sky with red, white, and blue stripes, I close my eyes and think about the future. Thanks to our President, we have one.

. . .

Or, something of that nature.




10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.

Michael Biehn, a lil’ bit.
Watch Tombstone and ya might get it.
If not him, Joaquin de Almeida.
Watch 24 and ya might get it.
But, beyond those two: Sean Bean. Definitely.