Tiger'ish Tales Vol. 9: A Personal Pornography History In Which Logan Barely Gets Mentioned, But Tiger'ish Finally Gets A Name-Drop

I must admit that when I found Logan’s picture it confused me. It actually took me a moment to realize that it was his new jerk-off aid. The animal heads on human bodies, the cartoony drawing style; it all went so far away from anything I had considered sexual that I just stared at it in bewilderment. Eventually I noticed the penetration and I finally got it. Then, I was repulsed.

I had, to that point, considered myself well experienced in the realm of porn-exposure. I honestly felt, both with pornography and life in general, that I had seen more than most and couldn’t be taken by surprise. My naiveté was a combination of long being jaded by porn and by, quite simply, an inability to imagine what I was looking at.

My personal porn history goes back almost to birth. When you live in a small house with many older brothers and sisters, you lose your innocence very early. For some people that means the first-born doesn’t get to watch G.I. Joe until he’s five. But then, of course, the three-year-old sitting next to him has a two year head start. In my house, where the ages –at the time- went from 16 to four, it meant I consumed as many R-rated movies as I could.

My oldest sibling, a brother fully 25 years my senior, had a delightful habit of taping everything off of premium cable every single day. Banks of VCRs, programmed so that when VCR 1 ran out of the first six hours of Cinemax, VCR 2 would kick in. After work, he’d come home and put a fresh tape into VCR 1, etc. Repeat this for HBO and Showtime. He would then stop by on Fridays with paper grocery bags full of unlabeled tapes, with no clue what was on them or where anyone could find The Fox & The Hound or Bachelor Party. It was then the awesome job of Peter, Paul and I to view the tapes and label them. (Incidentally, those two films shared a tape.)

So from my earliest memories, I had already learned to get excited by the “The following film contains… NUDITY!” that preceded the movies. We became connoisseurs, we knew which flicks earned the R for a brief shot of buttock-thrust and which had tits-aplenty. I went into the first grade an experienced man. I was the know-it-all who told the rest of you things like, “A girl can’t get pregnant unless you pee in her pussy,” “Fucking is when you stick your thing in her pussy, screwing is when you stick it in her butthole,” and, because we went to a Lutheran school, “A cock is just a dick, but a prick is the tip of a pastor’s penis.” I believed it all, too.

The first clue that there might be more to sex than what I could see on Cinemax came in the Spring of my 1st grade year. Our school held a paper drive and my brother Peter had discovered the mother-lode. Someone felt it wise to donate four large boxes of hardcore porno mags. HUSTLER being the tamest of the bunch. Being reasonably smart, Peter stashed the boxes off to the side of the school and waited for the day to end. We three brothers carried the boxes home, where we knew no one else would be. The only time I was ever safe with Peter was when he had no choice but to include me in his crimes, lest I serve as a witness against him. These are the greatest moments of my childhood. His plan for these magazines was inspired.

Most boys would either dive into the boxes and each grab one and flip through it. Others, perhaps less experienced than we were, might cluster around one issue as a group, discussing and pondering the images and what they meant. Peter decided to sell tickets.

He took the boxes into his room and forbid Paul and I to see them. He promised we would get our chance, but we might as well make some money, too. He closed his doors and Paul and I started discussing how we could both get the magazines from him and not get him to tell on us. A moment later Peter came back out –to be fair to him, it really was only a moment- and he had three clippings cut from a magazine, one for each of us. He told us to go out into the neighborhood and round up every boy we were friends with. Each kid was to be shown a clipping (in each case, the clipping was a headless, bodiless pair of breasts) and told if he wished to see more he had to pay a dollar. We went out, gathered about a dozen kids, and Peter brought them into our house. He led them to our stairway, which was fully enclosed in a room all by itself -a doorway at the base of the stairs, a doorway at the top -and told us all to sit on the stairs like at a stadium, facing the blank wall. He turned out the lights and used this:

Not only did Peter create a porno theatre –complete with images bigger than any TV set could offer, but with top-grade porn. None of this, my-legs-are-crossed-with-my-hand-over-my-bush bullshit. We had clinical photos. Not only were the legs spread, so was the labia. I was seven years old and had more sexual experience than most men twice my age. To be honest, it frightened me. I had seen a woman’s pubic hair before and just kind of assumed that’s that. I knew there was a hole, but I didn’t realize it could resemble the Predator (which is what it totally looked like to me as I had just seen that movie on tape). It was only the joyous enthusiasm of the other gawkers that kept me from running away. Eventually the show ended and the older boys all had to get home for some reason, so Peter sent everyone away. Like so many things, the magazines quickly became familiar and therefore uninteresting. Peter eventually sold them off to various kids, always keeping a page or two for himself. I had become comfortable with the sight of a vagina, but was too young to be excited by it.

And so things went until my seventh grade year, when my friend Jimmy got a modem. The internet was still a niche interest and not remotely mainstream so that Jimmy’s parents probably didn’t even realize it could be used for porn. All they ever saw was colorful text on a blank screen while Jimmy hopped from bulletin-board-system to bulletin-board-system. Jimmy had discovered that if you posted “Show me some tit pics” someone would, every single time, send one. The image would take forever to load, and each moment waiting was an adrenaline rush of fear: what if his mom came in and the picture popped up? I, completely unfazed by bosoms, raised the stakes by suggesting the request “Show me the sickest porn you got.” It was by this method that I first saw bottle-penetration (meaning both bottles-in-orifices and genitals-in-bottles in one amazing collage). That alone was enough for Jimmy to refuse to ever ask that question again. He figured his mom could handle her 13-year-old seeing some tits, but not recyclable-rape.

It wasn’t too much later that we both got our first taste of hardcore porn on film. A mutual friend invited us to his house to see something. He had found his dad’s porno tape and had perfected the art of the VHS rewind: using the counter on the VCR to ensure that the tape, when ejected, was exactly where his father had left it. Jimmy and I felt fully prepared for the bounty we were about to receive –this friend had a big TV, and with my history and Jimmy’s recent exposure to bottle-porn, we both assumed we were prepared to witness what really ought to be no big deal: two people fucking, just like each of our parents must’ve done. “Play” was pressed and a little bit more of my innocence was lost.

The clip was simple enough: two people, a man and a woman, fucking doggy style. The camera slowly moved in, getting closer to the genitals and at one point the cameraman’s hand even reached out to move the gentleman’s arm from blocking the shot. My years of experience with graphic stills and Hollywood sex scenes didn’t prepare me for the violence of thrusts, grunts, sweat, cellulite, and bodily fluid. I fell prostrate before the 50-inch screen, mouth agape in horror.

Jimmy had a total nervous breakdown: Not three seconds into the video, he ran out of the room and began sprinting in a circle throughout the house yelling, “”Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” over and over. I don’t know how long we went on like this -seconds or minutes- but all of a sudden, the doorbell rang.

Ryan, our host, hissed, “Shut it off! I’ll get the door.” In my panic, my finger found the smallest button on the VCR: "Pause." As Ryan slowly opened the door, which was perpendicular to the TV screen so that the image wasn’t immediately visible to those outside, I stared at the frozen image of a giant 50-inch ejaculating cock and fell backwards onto the floor, sure I was having a heart attack.

The doorbell ringers were a couple Jehovah’s Witnesses, whom Ryan quickly dismissed. I got back to my knees and Ryan hit “Play” again. The ejaculating cock turned to face the camera, and the image smeared out of focus as the lens coated with semen. The screen faded to black and I thought I had passed out. The only reason I knew I hadn’t was that, through all of this, Jimmy was still running around yelling, “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”

By the time I got to college I was supremely confident that nothing more could shock me like that video did. While on a band trip in high school, someone had mistakenly unloaded the tour bus driver’s suitcase with ours. All the men in the band were getting our tuxedos on, wondering whose suitcase it might be as none of the girls had knocked at the door asking about it, when finally one brave soul, Amos, decided to open it. It was immediately obvious that it was the driver’s -a complete stranger beyond knowing that his sweater vest said "Bill"- but Amos peeked around in the pockets and pouches anyhow. He reached into one and pulled out a VHS tape with the labels torn off. Being horny high school boys, we all realized what this meant. When we were out at the Myrtle Beach Boardwalk playing a medley of themes from Jurassic Park this guy was using the VCR on the bus to beat off. It was immediately decided that we were taking his tape. We played the odds that he wouldn’t dare report his porno missing and even if he did, they couldn’t punish all of us. The bigger debate was in deciding who should smuggle it back to Milwaukee. Amos eventually took the tape across the hall and knocked on the ladies’ dressing room door. He asked for Sarah, who was known for her trusting nature. He asked her to put this tape in her stuff and give it back when we were back at school the next week. She did so without a moment’s thought.

Back at school everyone wanted to see the tape but didn’t want to take it. I took it on the grounds that I was the one of us with the best chance of not getting in trouble. I probably could've watched it in our living room, but not knowing exactly what would be on the tape, I took it up to my bedroom instead. I popped it into my VCR and spent the next five hours watching a video called Asian Animals, an anthology video comprised of clips from hundreds of porno flicks –each one featuring Asian women. Or blondes in kimonos, but you get the idea. Five hours is more than time enough to desensitize you to hard-core fucking. The dialogue, however, will always make you laugh.

So, going into college, I didn’t necessarily think that I had seen it all, but I did think nothing could phase me like that first giant vagina did. The space monkeys wasted no time in trying to out gross us all, the bathroom stall being the usual spot. I didn’t search for porn myself –I, oddly enough, didn’t want to deal with Logan getting into it, and so I was limited in my exposure to what images they printed and hung in the toilet stalls. I saw shit, vomit, bondage, fisting, cutting, the whole enchilada. Except, evidently, furry porn.

I had to assess the situation and decide: was this cartoon manimal porn an acceptable substitute to actual photos of himself with goats, or would I tell Logan to keep searching? Yes, it was animal-based, but clearly rooted in a realm of fantasy where, this image at least, couldn’t be recreated with a real animal. But then again, it was still zoological in nature.

Ultimately, as the cocks, tits, and twats were human-like (if covered in fur) I decided that I would allow it in the hopes to never address the issue again. I placed the picture back on his bed (yes, in my confusion I picked it up), and went about my day.

I avoided returning to our room for as long as possible, hoping he would not realize I had seen it and put it away. When I did return, Logan was back, and the picture was tacked to his bulletin board. Fuck.

I decided to play dumb, but Logan wouldn’t allow it. He asked me point blank if I had noticed it. I told him I had and he asked me if I thought it was really sexy.

Me: No.

Logan: Why not? Is it the animal stuff?

M: Dude, you gotta understand…yes, it’s the animal stuff, but has it occurred to you that you’ll never meet a girl with a dog’s head? If this is what gets you off, how are you ever going to be happy with a regular person?

L: When I look at the internet, it doesn’t seem like there is such a thing as a regular person. This is what excites me, and I guess, cause I didn’t draw it, it excites others, too.


He had and still has a point. The internet has destroyed a rite-of-passage for the American male: The Quest for Boobies. I’d spent countless hours over the course of my childhood years looking for boobs, pussy shots, etc. Watching hours of movies –hoping to simply see some breasts. Lugging a box equal to my body weight an entire city block because it had porno magazines in it. Waiting patiently as the modem played Russian Roulette with a friend’s mother. Perfecting the art of VHS manipulation out of a desperate urge to see sex. Losing years of my life in heart failure in fear that the Jehovah’s Witnesses would see that, indeed, we’d found someone, but it wasn’t Jesus. Smuggling a tape across the country on the expectation that it was porn. It used to be hard work to pursue pornography. As a result, more of the simple things held power; to see a girl’s cleavage as she bent down by her locker was thrilling. A hint of panty when her shirt rides up: breath-taking. The first time a girl actually lets you get to first base, second base, etc.: a lifelong memory.

Logan was an early example of what I fear is now all too common. Largely shielded from sexuality (with one majorly bizarre exception) he didn’t take baby steps. The progression from seeing pubic hair to seeing labia to seeing insertion simply didn’t exist. Pornography should be meted out like a good strip-tease, not fully clothed to gaping assholes in one single step. It is easier to see “2 Girls, 1 Cup” for most 12-year-olds than it is to sneak into an R-rated movie. It isn’t so much a sadness that kids are being corrupted, it is a sadness that they are missing out on the journey of discovery. If nothing is perceived as off-limits, what is there to rebel against? What is there to search out on the expectation that you aren't supposed to see it? If your first exposure to sex is shit-eating, won’t that inevitably become familiar. Where do you go from there?  And can you ever get aroused by simple sex, let alone a pair of tits?

But as I said, Logan’s assertion that, obviously, he wasn’t alone, was correct. I had decided to not fight this battle anyhow, so I said to him, “You know what? You’re right. I don’t get it, but who am I to judge? It seems legal enough, so have fun Logan. Just don’t have fun if I’m around."

To this he replied, “Oh yeah, don’t call me Logan anymore. I'm Tiger'ish now.”

Tiger'ish Tales Vol. 8: My Sticky Situation

The discovery that I was living with a goat-fucker caused me no small amount of distress.  It did, however, also give me hope.  Hope that I finally had an escape from Logan.  To be fair, I had come to look at him like a younger brother -or more accurately Lennie to my George, and kind of enjoyed that I managed to live with him.  But then again, Lennie never fucked those rabbits.  So with naïve hope I requested a meeting with my dormitory’s Residential Life Coordinator.

There are few people on a college campus as uniquely pathetic as the RLCs.  At my school each dorm (in a few instances dorm-pairs) housed 5 floors of students.  Each floor had two Resident Assistants, or students paid to be the “interface between students and the administration in manners of on-campus habitation”.  So each dorm’s RAs reported to an RLC, who was their interface with the Dean of Student Life and Housing.  These RLCs were career dorm rats:  not pursuing any higher degree, these mid-to-late 20-somethings chose to live in the dorms because they enjoyed it that much.  A shitty “apartment” on the ground-floor and a reserved parking space was their reward.  The only thing they EVER had to do was approve and coordinate room changes.

My freshman year RLC was Jennifer, a person whom I had never met nor even seen until the meeting I had scheduled by signing-up on the “Office Hours” paper tacked to her bulletin board.  (What office hours?  Where they hell else would you be between 1-4 PM TWTh? What Office?)  So at my appointed time I found myself sitting at her pathetic table for one next to her half-stove and mini-fridge.  I broke it to her gently, that my roommate has pictures of himself raping goats and that I don’t feel as if I can live with him anymore.

RLC: Why not?

Me: Because…I don’t feel safe?

RLC: Why not?

M:   Isn’t it illegal? 

RLC:  Are you a goat?

M: Did I mention my roommate is Logan?

RLC:  If you aren’t a goat I can’t help you.

M: So if he had raped a member of my species you could, but rape in general isn’t enough?

RLC: If you were a girl you’d get your own room tonight.  So…you got a cigarette?

M:  I don’t smoke.  Anyhow, you won’t switch me to one of the empty rooms?

RLC: No, you need to work this out.  Good luck.

I would find out the following fall that Jennifer’s contract wasn’t renewed due to the fact that for our dorm, for the entire year, she had not approved a single room change.

My fate sealed, I went back to my chamber of horrors and thought long and hard about what this actually meant for me.  After all, she kind of did have a valid point.  Logan had obviously been fucking goats long before we met and, for whatever reason, knew enough to keep it quiet.  In fact, if he had known how to use his scanner I might never have found out.  So, could I live with it?  If only for a semester?  I figured that I could, but that I shouldn’t have to tolerate it.  I put up with so much of Logan’s bizarre shit: the toes, the movies, the nudity in general, but here I drew the line. 

That evening, I sat Logan down for a little chat.

Me:  Logan, I put up with a lot of your shit, you know that?

Logan: Well so do I.  You’re no peach to live with, either.

M:  How so?

L: You always leave, you don’t have enough laundry money, you buy bad food…

M: You don’t do laundry!

L: No, but I need the money to go to the candy machine because you don’t have anything good to eat!

M: Look, I know you don’t see the harm in your goat-fucking, and I know that whatever the fuck you do back home is none of my business, but what happens here is.  I am going to warn you only once.  If I ever see any of those pictures ever again, or anything else related to people fucking animals I will destroy you.  Do you understand?

L: You wouldn’t understand.  You’d like it if you tried it.

M:  You don’t understand.  What you like about it is that it is simulating human body parts.  If some girl would let you fuck her you would give up the goat.  I don’t need to try it.

L: That’s not the best part.  I like making the goat happy.  He releases so I release.  You don’t even know what you’re talking about.

M:  I don’t?  Listen to this….

I then proceeded to tell Logan the following true but tragic tale:

I grew up in a neighborhood in Milwaukee that could be categorized as “urban”.  In my case that meant we didn’t rent from Blockbuster but from Sweatpants George.  Our backyard picnic table was chained and bolted to our fence because otherwise it would be stolen.  Nobody played at the baseball field under the bridge because of all the heroin needles.   It was a simple fact of life that you would get into “gang fights” even as a small child, and as such, each family kept a mean guard dog.  At my house that dog was Goliath.  Trained to protect rather than attack he toed the line perfectly between doing his job and getting taken away by animal control.

(Tangent to the tangent:  When Goliath died, my mother left the following note on the kitchen table, “Boys, Goliath died last night.  Don’t touch the trash bag by the garbage cans, but make sure the garbage men take it with the trash.  Mom.”)

When I was eight, the only thing in the entire world that I wanted was to be included in my older brothers’ activities.  I lived in a world where without their protection I would certainly get maimed and possibly killed and to suffer their abuse seemed fine by comparison.  The summer of my eighth year, my brothers, Peter and Paul (and thanks, Mom, for that…”You must be Mary!”  Fuck you and my M-first-lettered name.) started playing a version of whiffle ball that allowed them to stay in the relative safety or our back yard.  Of course, the game only allowed for two players, so I was out.  Luckily for me they needed a ball boy who could run out into the alley or the neighbors’ yards to retrieve the occasional stray ball.  Despite their being 13 and 11, I was obviously the man for the job. 

All too quickly the ball went astray.  I gamely hopped the 4 foot chain link fence into our neighbor’s back yard and went for the ball.  As soon as I grabbed it I was pounced upon by our neighbor’s dog Max.  Max was a large and stupid mutt.  Known for both his bite and his bark, I braced myself for the attack.  To my pleasant surprise, Max didn’t bite me, but simply wanted to wrestle!  He pinned me down and rocked for a bit, and then suddenly backed off.  I hopped the fence, delivered the ball and followed my brother Peter’s suggestion that I go over to the wild rhubarb plant that grew in the corner of our yard.  I took a leaf and wiped off what Peter identified as fresh bird crap that I must have fallen into when Max tackled me.

Pretty quickly my brothers found it more entertaining to hit foul balls into the neighbor’s yard than to actually attempt baseball, but I was too dumb to know it.  Max loved it.  Every time I came over….he came over me.  I’d hop back, toss the ball to the pitcher and head over to the rhubarb while shouting encouragements that the next hit will be better, I just know it.

The days wore on and their batting skills didn’t improve.  Sometimes, it almost even seemed as if the pitching brother was just tossing the ball over the fence when I wasn’t looking.  The unforeseen result of all this is that Max learned to want me and that his patience had its limits.  Before too long, if Max was inside his house and I entered his yard, he’d rip through the screen door to wrestle.  After that, if I was even outside in our yard Max jumped the fence to wrestle.  I couldn’t go outside without at least one wrestling match, and occasionally Max would jump over into our yard and pace in front of our door waiting for his favorite competitor.

Unbeknownst to Peter and Paul, Ken, Max’s owner noticed something was up.  He called us out to figure out why his dog was recently hopping the fence and waiting at our door.

Ken was a kind but simple man who’d moved up to Milwaukee from Missouri before any of us were born.  His blue-collar life and presumed illiteracy evoked condescension from Peter such that he assumed what worked for me would work for Ken.  Peter stepped outside and told Ken about the baseball and the wrestling, and how Max was such a nice doggy.  Ken then demanded that Paul and I step outside as well.  As soon as I did, Max began to have his way with me and Ken, of course, knew what was happening and pulled his dog off.  He was understandably upset.

“Peter, you’re old enough to know better so don’t pretend you ain’t.  What are you 14?  13?  Old enough to discover your own tally-whacker, I know it.  And you know what Max has been up to.  Don’t you know it’s ruined him?  If he’s jumping fences now for a piece of tail what’s to stop him from jumping for anything else?  What’s more, you’ve got to protect your brother, not whore him.  You make me nervous, boy.  And now he’s ruined.  He’s got your brother’s taint and it’s ruined him.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to break him of it and I certainly won’t ever be able to pair him with a bitch.”

As if on cue, Max decided that it wasn’t right for me to leave him with blue balls and leapt at me again.  Furiously pumping, Ken dove on him to pull him away and Max started to bite his owner.  Peter began to laugh.  Max finished while snapping at Ken and went back over the fence of his own accord.  Ken got up, blood dripping from his body and went over as well, muttering about his dog being ruined, and dragged Max by the collar into his house.  A few minutes later, he was back outside, dragging Max with a piece of rope and carrying a small rifle on his shoulder.  He got the dog into his truck and drove off.

We all knew what that meant and finally Peter seemed to suspect that, perhaps, he had let things go too far.  After some time, Ken returned in his truck with his rifle, but no Max.  He called us over to the fence and handed Peter the collar.  He said, “You ruined him and maybe that’ll make you think twice.”  He turned to me and said, “You’re too young to know what’s happened and I won’t tell you, but I will say this: If you let your brother make you a bitch, then you are a bitch.  Don’t trust him.”  He turned to Paul and said, “You’re the reason there are so many faggots in France.”  Shaking his head, he went inside his house.

I sincerely believe that Logan was an animal lover in addition to being an animal-fucker.  For example, he had so many pictures of horses hung up in our room.  Why not goats?  Because it wasn’t just about sex.  Farm boy that he was, he simply loved animals.  Anyhow, my story touched a nerve.  Maybe it was that sex between a dog and a human directly led to the dog’s death, maybe it was simply that I had been more candid with him than ever before.  Either way, he wanted to honor my wishes.  He vowed right then and there that I would never again be exposed to his goats again.  I sincerely thanked him and we had one of the more civil nights we would ever have.

Of course, with Logan, nothing happens so easily.  If you give up meat you have to find some other source of protein.   And with that, Logan began an odyssey through the annals of internet porn in a noble quest to find his goat-fucking substitute.  Rather than simply deciding to not jerk off if I might be around, he dove cock-first into the fucked up world of fetishes in a search for a new masturbatory muse.

I am happy to say that I was completely ignorant of this search and as such, can only imagine what horrors Logan exposed himself to.  I have no doubt that what he saw would make my stomach turn.  I only realized what he was doing when one day I returned to our empty room and saw sitting on his bed, next to a box of Kleenex, a picture printed off of his computer that more or less resembled this:

Logan had discovered the bizarre world of Furry Porn, and he did it for me.

Blog Update

Just wanted to let those who care know that I haven't forgotten about the blog.  My wife gave birth to our daughter 5 days ago, and the lead up to the birth, subsequent addition of a child, etc. has eaten most of my time.  We are home now and I expect to get the next chapter up no later than the week of March 7th.  I'm glad people seem to be enjoying what I've shared and hope you will feel that your patience will be rewarded.  Thanks.

Tiger'ish Tales Vol. 7: The Wool Gets Pulled From My Eyes

A while back, I shared the following story in the comments section for a post on Filmdrunk:

One day, a few months into the year, my then girlfriend-now-wife and I made the tactical error of returning to my room when we knew Logan would be there. As was habit for my dorm, whenever entering a dorm room, you make a lot of noise and take longer than you should, to give whomever time to stop doing whatever. We followed protocol and entered to find Logan kneeling before his computer, furiously stroking away. A normal person would stop -he didn’t, of course. My girlfriend just sat on my bed in stunned silence, I carefully said, “Um, dude?” and he replied “HAVE YOU TRIED THIS?” Right then, he finished in an amazing display of rope-tossing that only an 18-year-old who’d never before come could release. And release he did. All over his monitor. Which was off. It was only at this point that I noticed he was jerking off to a turned-off monitor, and probably to his own fish-eyed reflection. He turned to me, dick limply in hand, and said “Can I borrow a shirt?”

I share it again here for two reasons. First, it only makes sense to include it, even if it is a re-run for most readers (or all readers). Second, I’ve spent the better part of three weeks trying to find a better way to start off this post and can’t come up with one. I wish I could subtly or creatively lead-in to a discussion of Logan’s sexuality, but it is like discussing the font used to label a nuclear missle. As soon as people realize to what you are referring, they want you to get to the point. So strap yourself in, fuckers, this shit is about to get crazy.

To be perfectly honest I had assumed Logan had already discovered masturbation prior to that point; after all, how could he not? It was for this very reason that I faithfully shook my keys and stalled at our door. I certainly never thought he’d be having actual sex. Turns out he finally “discovered” himself one day when he went for one of his shit-rituals. (Shituals?) He was one of the first on our floor to find that someone had meticulously plastered each and every toilet stall -wall and interior door- with several pictures of men masturbating. These pictures were then meticulously laminated in packing tape making the task of peeling them up and off more trouble than it would be worth (especially since the custodial staff never did bother to actually remove them). Logan went about his shitual, but couldn’t help noticing the pictures and wonder about what was going on in them. Needless to say, he decided to try it for himself. I know all this because Logan told me. Logan told me because I demanded a reason for his “needing” one of my shirts. He said all this to get to the point that I knew he was trying to make –he wanted a cum-mop. Why stain something of his when I had plenty of stuff available. I –already used to this type of selfishness- couldn’t resist asking him why a shirt? Why not a sock, for example? His answer was simple and direct: He liked to wear my socks, but my shirts were too small for him. I handed him a box of Kleenex and my girlfriend and I left to go throw up.

After that initial voyage of personal discovery, I am happy to say that I never caught him again. I feel pretty safe in saying that he took my Kleenex suggestion to heart, though, as from that day onward he went through boxes pretty quickly. The question, however would persist –how is it that at 18 years of age, Logan hadn’t jerked off? If he had wet dreams, I was never made aware (thank god) and the possibility of his getting laid was exactly 0%. His enthusiasm when I did catch him, not to mention his amount of jizz, certainly suggested that he was coming for the first time, but doubt lingered.

All my questions would be answered when Logan returned from Christmas break. I happened to beat Logan back to campus and was unpacking when I heard a rustle outside our door. Assuming it was Logan –and figuring he had lost his keys again- I went over and opened the door. As I did, a broadsword fell from our doorway and landed at my feet. I looked up to see Logan’s fat ass rounding the corner, back towards the stairs. My roommate had returned. Of all the things to bring to school, let alone bring up and leave outside our door while returning for the rest, Logan chose a fucking broadsword. I picked it up and placed it on Logan’s bed, trying to determine if it was a replica, and if that really made a difference to my safety. Logan came back, his mother in tow, with the rest of his things. Pleasantries were exchanged:

Me: About the sword….

Logan: My daddy made it for me!

M: Yeah, I don’t know…campus policy…post-Columbine…

Mrs. Logan: I told him it was only for emergencies. I’m glad you’re here, I have  a gift for you, too.

M: Oh. You, uh, didn’t have to do that.

Mrs. Logan: I really did. Hope you like it.

She opens up one of Logan’s bags and pulls out what appears to be a Blockbuster video case. It is my copy of South Park that she “borrowed”.

Mrs. Logan: Logan didn’t get to see it, Canadians.

M: Yeah, it doesn’t really make sense if you haven’t seen the show.

Mrs. Logan: Well, open it up.

I open the case and inside is the plastic VHS housing, but all of the tape had been pulled out. The access door seemed to be cemented shut.

M: Uhh…

Mrs. Logan: I burned the tape in a cleansing fire. It burned green. You think about that the next time. Canadians.

Shortly thereafter, she took him out to dinner at Bob Evans, brought him back and left again.

Of course the big Christmas get for Logan was a brand spanking new flatbed scanner for his computer. I had no doubt that his parents went to their closest electronics retailer and asked what to buy for a guy who uses a computer. Logan knew enough by now to know what it was, but I couldn’t imagine anyone with less use for one. What was he going to scan? The same pictures of horses he already found online? His ass?

Of course his ass. It seemed inevitable. I realized that he always finds the most horrific way to abuse something and that only if I was lucky, would his fat ass break the damn thing and I wouldn’t have to be subjected to a screen-saver slideshow of Logan’s winking anus. It was going to be a long semester.

As it turns out, I was wrong on several counts. Logan got the scanner for Christmas because he asked for one. He asked for one because he very much did have things he needed to digitize, and none of them ended up being his ass. In retrospect, I really wish it had been.

Logan had some trouble getting the scanner up and running but he managed it. As soon as I saw the time had come for his art project to commence, I fled the room. I would have to live with the finished product but I wasn’t going to be a witness to the act, nor would I be willing to pull his bleeding ass out of the scanner if he broke the glass.

When I came back, Logan was very depressed. Despite his best attempts, the scanner wouldn’t work. He mentioned that he brought a photo album from home that he wanted to “computer” but that every time he tried, he just got blank images. Realizing that I had misjudged him, I took pity. I offered to take a look and when I did, the problem was clear. He had laid out several Polaroid photos, all to be scanned at once, and he had laid them all image up. The solution would be obvious. Or it would have been if my brain weren’t exploding at what these pictures were doing to my eyes.

Here it is folks, the point of no return, the “you’ll swear I’m making this up, but I only wish I were” moment.

Each and every picture, and he still had dozens more in the album, were of Logan fucking goats. Logan. Fucking. Goats. On his father’s goat farm. With Goats. Fucking. Logan. Fucking. Goats.

I was in a pretty bad car accident once that totaled two cars (not the one I was in, however) and the memory of the accident is both lightning-quick and endlessly detailed. It was somehow an eternity, and yet I know it was only a few seconds. Seeing these pictures was just like that.

In just a moment’s exposure, the blink of an eye, these pictures were instantly scanned to my brain. Just as instantly, dozens of questions arose: Who’s taking these pictures? Why fuck goats? WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR GRANDPA DOING IN THE BACKGROUND OF THAT ONE? IS HE NAKED? OHHHHH FUCK ME! How does that not hurt the goats? (In each picture, Logan was standing behind the goat, fucking it while holding the goat’s rear legs up and out, forcing the goat to support itself with only the front legs. Think of doing a company picnic wheelbarrow race and you’ll get the idea.) Why? Why? Why?

The realizations came flooding in as well: That’s why he never discovered whacking off –he didn’t need to! That’s why he had so much cum –there are no goats at college!

For the first time in a long time, I felt I couldn’t just tolerate Logan’s actions. This was a black and white situation and I finally had something that would possibly get me out of this living arrangement. The problem, however, was if Logan knew I was trying to use this as an excuse to move, he would go ape-shit on my life in the meantime. I couldn’t hide my disgust and confusion, it was too late for that the moment he opened up his scanner, but I had to play along. I had to let him talk to me about his beastiality.

Me: Dude, that’s totally illegal!

Logan: No it isn’t. We own the goats.

M: Either way, that is just wrong!

L: Why? I like it, they like it.

M: Because of lack of consent. You might as well be fucking a kid.

L: Kids are no fun, they’re too little.

M: What?

(pause)

L: You thought I meant children? No, I meant kid –a baby goat.

M: So what? They can’t enjoy it. Look at it!

L: They do enjoy it, or else they wouldn’t release.

M: Huh?

L: They wouldn’t release their semen if they didn’t like it.

M: You are fucking MALE goats? In the ass? What the fuck?

L: Look, if you try to jibber a doe, the bucks get upset.

M: Why fuck them at all?

L: Because if we don’t get the bucks to release, they will get aggressive and sire with the does off-season. We can’t just rub their wieners because they get scared thinking we are trying to wether them.

M:What?

L:Cut off their oysters. Granddaddy figured out that if you enter them from behind they end up releasing and that keeps them calm. If we are going to do it anyway, there’s no reason we can’t release too. It spills out with the muck, no harm done. 

M: You know what dude, what-the-fuck-ever.

L: You’d like it if you tried it.

M: Why the fuck do you want to scan these?

L: I tried releasing to the other ones, and they just aren’t the same. Mine are better and I think others will agree.

M: What others?

L: On Ultra Donkey.

M: I don’t want to know do I?

L: If I can’t release with the bucks I at least like to look at the pictures while I release in here. I want to share… you know how to get photos on to the internet, right?

M: No I do not. Anyways, why do you need all these pictures? You posed for a full album’s worth just to post them on some porn site?

L: I’ve had the album for years, doesn’t your family keep pictures?

After that, I didn't really think much about the broadsword one way or the other.

Tiger'ish Tales Vol. 6: Fight Club Spoilers Ahead! Or Not.

Probably as a result of being the youngest of seven children, I learned that with Logan you can either learn to tolerate his quirks, enjoy them, or get the fuck out. For the most part I got the fuck out, but I was certainly around enough to pass from abject horror to morbid fascination. I found myself particularly spellbound by his monthly habit of removing some toenails. What first creeped me out eventually grew familiar, and I must admit, fascinating. Once a month or so, Logan would pull out a handful of rubber bands and select a few toes on each foot. He then would wrap and re-wrap rubber bands around the selected piggies, forming tourniquets. He would then put them up and let them turn black as they lost blood. When suitably deadened, he would pull out a tweezers, jam one prong under a toe nail, pinch the nail and then pull it back and eventually off. He would repeat this with each black toe until they were all completely nail-free. He then, and thank god he remembered his order of operations, would put gauze bandages on the toes and finally use a pair of scissors to cut off the rubber bands. Even with these precautions the gauze would quickly darken, which prompted him to put on his “blood stockings” –a thick pair of black tube socks. This ritual ended with him putting the removed nails in his desk drawer. Yup, he kept ‘em.

As I said, I had become fascinated with this ritual and, given his pre-med mentality, kind of gave him the benefit of the doubt that he had a legitimate reason –perhaps he feared they had become in-grown, or otherwise infected. Of course I asked him about this. His response: “Well, it’s a lotta work to get them to my mouth and I don’t want them to go to waste.”

I had my suspicions about what that meant, and they were confirmed the day after I finally asked about this procedure, when I watched Logan pull one out of his drawer and casually pop it into his mouth, like a god-damned sunflower seed.

It was just these types of experiences that I learned to accept. Ultimately, he wasn’t doing anything to me, so rather than fight him, I instead became like Jane Goodall among the chimps. I tried to engage Logan, asking him about his life, his interests, values, etc. I selected pop culture from the civilized world and shared it with him in an attempt to understand him. I never did understand him (how can you when he gets angry that the movie Leprechaun failed to present Leprechauns accurately) but I did learn to live with him.

He never left our room. As an alternative to fucking with my stuff, I began leaving things out for him. I would leave food out –knowing that he would eat it and therefore not rummage through my closet, despite the fact that I never kept food in there anyways. I would leave videos near his tiny little TV/VCR because then he wouldn’t dig through my drawers to watch something while he still listened to his Bicentennial Man DVD on his computer.

Like all the lesser apes, just when you think you’ve got them figured out, they remind you that they are wild animals and can’t be tamed. For me that lesson occurred with Thanksgiving break. Simply put, Logan would be going back to the goat farm –his first time back after what was undoubtedly his first time away-and I had neglected to leave him things to discover. I had classes a full day after Logan was scheduled to be gone and as I left for the first of them I wished him a Happy Thanksgiving, as I didn’t expect to see him again before he left. He was busy trying to decide which of his “friendlies” –his horse pictures, to bring with him to the farm.

My classes ended, and I returned to the room anticipating what would be my first significant time in my dorm without Logan. My first clue that there would be trouble was that Logan had written on our message board:

I LOST MY KEYS. DON’T LOCK THE DOOR.

I quickly did the math and estimated that his message served as an invitation to anyone with basic literacy skills (approximately 43% of my wing-mates) to enter our room and do as they wished. So it was with inevitable resignation that I opened the door to see the room was trashed. For a solid minute I just stood there and surveyed the damage: my bed upturned my closet ran-sacked, my drawers overturned, etc. Then I realized it was only my stuff. No one would come in and target me without also attacking him. Maybe they’d attack him and spare me, but not the other way around. I glanced back out into the hall and noticed that almost every door had the tell-tale checkout form attached to it. This was done by the last person leaving each room to let the resident assistant know that he was free to leave as well. I re-surveyed the damage and concluded that Logan did it. At first I didn’t know why he did it, but as I put things back to normal I began to notice some things were missing. My M&M’s were gone, the fridge was left open, and a couple of my VHS tapes were also gone. Because I had always left things out for him, he learned to need them. Because I had never shown him where they were kept, he had to search for them. I found myself fascinated by the fact that I understood it and didn’t blame him. He was actually converting me to his flock –at least at this relatively early point in our time together.

Given the Logan-logic of what he did, I paid attention to the movies he took. Both had been titles I had never shown him, and I believe he had never seen. Both were very popular among the rest of the men on our floor, but again, Logan never left our room to socialize so I don’t think he even knew that. Most interestingly, both were stolen from the local Blockbuster.

I haven’t been inside a Blockbuster since 2003, so I don’t know if this is still the case, but back in the day Blockbuster had insane rental policies where new releases –which could be defined by any movie released in the last 5 years- were more expensive, could only be kept for a day, and were guaranteed in stock. What that meant for my friend who worked at Blockbuster was that the in-and-out goings of these titles were hard to really keep track of and he would, by the backpack full, cherry pick tapes out of the return bin before they could be scanned as back in stock. Ever get billed for a tape you swore you returned to Blockbuster? Yeah, you did return it, but you did it on my friend’s shift. Blockbuster hassles you, ultimately the stock is so great that it doesn’t really matter and my friend goes down the dorm halls like the morning milkman dropping off the day’s selections, sharing the spoils.

The films in question: The South Park movie and the ever popular Fight Club.

I guessed that maybe Logan was drawn to them because of their Blockbuster hard-cases, or that they were simply the first he found. I never got him to explain, either. Some mysteries just stay mysteries.

Eventually I too left for home and thought that my time dealing with Logan was finished, if only for a short while, but it was not to be. On the Friday after Thanksgiving, my mother got a phone call. It was Logan’s mom, who was upset that I was exposing her son to filthy movies. My mother quickly handed me the phone to fight my own battles and I tackled them head on. Mrs. Logan’s first grievance was that these movies were both R-rated. I retorted that so was one of Logan’s favorites, Chill Factor (which, by the way is the sole directorial effort from a guy who’s actually named Hugh Johnson). She ignored that observation and barreled through to say that Logan wasn’t 21 yet and therefore shouldn’t be seeing “adult” movies. I asked her if he had actually watched them yet and she told me that they had watched Fight Club. With his grandparents. On Thanksgiving. At this point she was almost to tears so I informed her that 17-year-olds get in legally to R-rated movies, that Logan had been exposed to far worse in college already and that in the future they should read the back of the fucking box before they put the movie in, and, finally, that he stole the god damn tapes from me anyhow. She then threatened to report me to the Dean of Housing which I begged her to do. I had given up trying to switch rooms and frankly, there had already been so many false complaints against Logan that the Housing office was ignoring anything pertaining to him as a prank. I hoped that if she did complain –which she didn’t- that the Housing office would get a glimpse of what I was dealing with and help me out.

I looked forward, as much as I could, to my reunion with Logan because now I would pick his brain about Fight Club. I would see how he reacted to the most popular film among his peers, see if he noticed the references to the film they had been making (LOGAN HAS BITCH TITS), etc. He didn’t really make any of the connections I had hoped. He came back to our room late on that Sunday and handed me back the Fight Club tape. We talked for a bit but he seemed to have not gotten that he was Starbucks and they were Project Mayhem. I switched gears, and asked what everyone gets asked after the first time they see Fight Club: Did he see the twist coming?

“What twist?” He wanted to know.

“About Tyler Durden. That He and Jack, or whatever, Ed Norton’s character, that they’re the same person.”

“Who else would they be?” He plainly asked.

“The whole movie you think they are two different people and then you find out that Tyler Durden is him! That’s why he couldn’t sleep, why he felt left out of Project Mayhem, the whole thing. Why do you think Brad Pitt fucking disappeared when Jack shot himself in the head?” I was getting worked up about this.

“It was pretty clear from the beginning that they were familiars. Everybody has others that take over from time to time. I found the whole thing pretty boring.”

He always found a way to leave me speechless.

I asked him if he had brought back South Park. He told me that he had left it behind because his mother wanted to watch it. BECAUSE SHE HAD NEVER SEEN A CARTOON BEFORE. Again, speechless.

Switching gears, I asked if he managed to track down his keys. He told me that, yeah, he did. They were in his pocket the whole time. I asked why didn’t he check there in the first place, that he was begging for trouble by leaving the note on our door. He said he wouldn’t have left the note, but he knew he wasn’t able to lock the door without his keys and didn’t want me to get confused by his leaving a note inside the room I wouldn’t be able to get into because he hadn’t locked the door and when I came to unlock the door I would actually be locking myself out.

Whatever.

“So, when did you find them in your pocket?”

“Well, I dropped the door pen after I wrote the note and felt them when I bent over to pick it up.”

Of course he did.

Tiger'ish Tales Vol 5: To Sleep The Sleep Of The Dammed

As much as Logan would’ve liked it to be true, we simply didn’t live in a bubble. A world existed beyond our room, and Logan would have to venture out into it. I feel sorry for those with whom he had classes. It was a fairly typical experience to come back to our room, check our voice mail and hear, “Hey, uh, Logan…This is Mike from Intro to Anatomy…uhm….you, uh, ….missed our lab appointment today, so, uh, …yeah. Also, uhm,…so, where’s our fetal pig?”

Simply put, Logan was lucky to have me as his roommate. I can honestly say that no one on campus and certainly not in our dorm wing would have tolerated him as well as I did. Our school policy on roommate switches was that I –the grieved- was responsible for finding someone who was willing to move in with Logan. Additionally, I had to have a written agreement from my new roommate accepting me into their room and a document signed by Logan’s would-be roomie spelling out why I could no longer live with him and felt moving was the only option. Logan stymied any chance I had of taking that route within hours of being at school. First of all, he stuck out like a guy who always wore a unicorn necklace that hung down to his waist, because HE ALWAYS WORE A UNICORN NECKLACE THAT HUNG DOWN TO HIS WAIST! Secondly, our wing-mates (wing-men?) were almost uniformly the dumb jock/ frat boy stereotype.

A few words on with whom we co-existed: If I were to pick an anthem for our wing, it would be the Limp Bizkit cover of the Mission: Impossible theme. That was always blasting, and far too many of these fine young men thought it was the height of musical achievement. Also, these guys had discovered the cult-hit that had flopped at the box-office not quite one year prior, FIGHT CLUB. Completely missing the point of the movie, these generally privileged upper-middle class Midwestern white boys identified very heavily with Tyler Durden and his message. The inevitable fight clubs began, only to be shut down by the administration, citing it as a violation of the school policy prohibiting “General Tomfoolery.” Well, what choice is left for these disenfranchised youths but to proceed to their own version of Project Mayhem? And, in fairness, to them, who more embodies the belief that he is, in fact “special,” that he is, in fact, a “beautiful and unique snowflake” and not “the same decaying organic matter as everything else” than Logan? Project Mayhem had its target, and I would be collateral damage.

Aside to the aside: The town in which our University exists had one tattoo parlor, Porch Front Tattoos. Anyone who went there –on my floor it was usually to get the barbed-wire bicep- of course became known as “Porch Monkeys.” Of course, Porch Monkeys took the name with pride, never realizing its etymology. One Monkey took Project Mayhem really to heart and, in thinking of the wonderful synergy between Porch Monkey and Fight Club had “Space Monkey” tattooed on his neck. For the rest of his college days, he was to be known as “Sponkey.”

Anyhow, the Space Monkeys mission to upset Logan-as-representative-of-the-establishment (and really, Logan couldn’t be less representative…they were the ones downing White Castle Crave Cases nightly) began gently enough. Our dry-erase board regularly was tagged with “Logan has bitch tits!” When Logan started putting up equestrian art on the outside of our door, the horses always ended up with giant cocks drawn somewhere on their bodies. Which, for reasons that would become all too clear, didn’t bother Logan at all. Having the only room that was opposite a bare wall and not another dorm room, our door was blocked with all of the lounge furniture. A few times a gallon-sized zip-lock baggie was filled with shaving cream, slid partially under our door and then stomped upon. They gave that up when they realized that it was only hitting the bare floor and my bed, so Logan wasn’t affected.

The one thing they did that was truly clever, that still boggles my mind and makes me shudder to think of how potentially dangerous it was, was inspired by Logan’s own insufferable bathroom habits. Each room had a small sink and mirror, but that meant everyone had to use the communal showers, toilets, and urinals. Logan being Logan, had his own way of doing things. The shower set-up was a bank of five shower heads along a wall, with dividers in between, but with one drain in the middle stall that all the water ran into. In other words, each day a choice had to be made: do you take the end showers, which had only cold water, but relatively clean conditions, or do you go in towards the center, where the water was hot, but you were guaranteed to deal with the shower water of the other men? This water was always dirty, usually pissy, oftentimes mixed with cum, and if someone was drunk, shit and/or vomit. I was a cold-shower man. Logan, was a bath man. Which is to say, he would take the next available stall, and sit/lay bare-assed on the ground and bathe. Why? Because he preferred baths, plain and simple. But, as the stall dividers and curtains went from about six feet off the ground to maybe two feet off the ground, and because Logan wasn’t one to close the curtain anyhow, everyone got the show.

Similarly, Logan would leave the stall door open on the toilet, and one could tell what his purpose was by how he was sitting. If he was facing forward, looking out towards the sinks and mirrors, he was taking a piss. If he was sitting backwards, pants off, straddling the bowl and holding onto the pipes, dude was taking a dump. Even if shitting, however, he was turned to watch himself in the mirror. I asked him once why he didn’t stand at the urinal to take a leak and he told me, “Why do something standing when it can be done sitting down?” He’s got a point there. I do think a bigger factor really was that there were no mirrors by the urinals. Dude liked to watch himself on the toilet. But again, this meant everyone else had to watch him, too.

So, onto the one prank that made sense to me. It was a Sunday morning, and the combination of Logan’s general early-bird noises, as well as the constant Bizkit through the walls, had developed in me a high capacity to sleep through noise. Even if a noise was loud enough to kind of wake me, I would ignore it for as long as possible, usually get used to it, and fall back asleep. I was also pretty hung-over, so it didn’t occur to me the gravity of the situation when I finally did open my eyes. As usual, Logan had been up for a while and I had decided the need to pee was greater than the need to sleep and woke up to see my shower sandal float gently past my bed on a pool of water that was easily two inches deep. I just kind of stared for a moment, slowly realizing that something was very wrong and that I probably had to deal with it.

It would turn out that the Monkeys had purchased some garden hoses and duct tape. They taped the hoses to the faucets in the bathroom, then taped the other ends to the bottom of our door. They then taped the bottom of our door to the floor to create a surprisingly effective seal. They jammed pennies between our door and doorframe, locking us in for good measure, then started up the water and waited.

I would end up calling the physical plant services for help, only to be told that they were busy dealing with a mysterious ceiling leak in the room below ours. Evidently, it never occurred to them to check on what might be happening on the floor above. Anyhow, I called our Resident Assistant, he stopped the water, un-jammed our door and things slowly drained out onto the women living below. All four of us with water damage got some cash from our room-cost reimbursed, and we were all relieved that nothing really came of it. No electrocution, no drowning, just some wet stuff and a small cash payout.

Now, I know what you, the reader, really want to know. What was Logan’s reaction to all this? Again, I remind you that he always woke up before me. After I woke up and saw my sandal float by, I turned my head toward where I knew Logan would be, his computer. Right as I did I saw his already all-too-familiar bare ass winking at me through the slats in his chair, and then I saw his hand, calm as can be, reach down holding one of those cheap cups colleges like to give out with the event-du-jour printed on it (Ok-SOBER-fest 2000 in this case), his hand dip the cup into our flood waters, fill it a bit, and bring it up to his lips for a nice, refreshing drink.

Tiger'ish Tales Vol 4: All The Pretty Horses

It didn't take long to begin noticing that Logan's biggest problem wasn't an embarrassing family. First of all, he had all the cliche bad roommate traits. He'd wake-up hours before me, make lots of noise -country music at 6 in the morning. Spill sink water onto me while I slept and he popped zits -wiping them on the mirror- eat my food, leave his wet laundry on my bed, etc. Horrible shit, but not unheard of.

I should have known from the moment he went from not speaking around family to being perfectly chatty when they left that he was crazy. I would eventually find out that he was truly the little prince of his clan. He had an older brother who had died and Logan was the replacement child. He was sheltered and spoiled because his brother died by accident. I never learned what exactly happened. I did learn that they even named him after his brother. His brother was also named Logan. FUCK ME. Mostly isolated from the larger world, Logan lived on the goat farm as a precious jewel that was to be protected both physically and mentally. He wasn't kept from the greater world, but everything was filtered through his parents editing.

Now, before you feel sorry for the fucker -remember that he wasn't being abused he was being treated like a god. The problem came when they -actually rather surprisingly- left him to his own devices as a college boy. I liken it to the Amish sending their young men out to be tested. Problem is, he in no way was ready for socializing with the real world.

When they bought his computer, it came with a DVD player, which was very rare at the time. So he picked out two movies that he played CONSTANTLY -even if it was only the sound in the background. What two flicks would an average 18 year old in 2000 pick? Not these:


It would be bad enough if the movies weren't awful, but god damn it, Robin Williams as a robot and fucking Cuba Gooding Jr. buddying up with Skeet Ulrich? Eventually he would get X-MEN and run that into the ground, taking notes on his future.

Worse though, then the movies, was that the PC offered him his first foray into the internet, where nothing is off limits, everything is the best ever and he could get validation for his every strange belief. His MP3 of choice? The Hamster Dance. Over and over. His initial obsession? Horses. He would print out hundreds of horse pictures and hang them up all over our room. In asking about this, I got the first visit from Tiger'ish:

ME: So what's with the horses?
L:They are my friends.
M: I just saw you get that off the internet. It's fucking Mr. Ed.
L: We like each other.
M: (already somewhat used to creepy statements like that) So are horses your favorite animals?
L: No. They are just friendlies. My favorite are unicorns.
M: You know they're not real, right?
L: Just because you haven't seen one doesn't mean they are not real. You've never seen a dragon, but you believe in them.
M: Fuckin' A. dude.

He went on to show me the pictures and tell me about the horses personalities, names, etc. Even when it was Mr. Ed or a Budweiser ad, they were friendlies with names, etc.

Years later I saw GRIZZLY MAN and a chill went down my spine. This Timothy Treadwell fucker reminded me so much of Logan. They both can be in society, but have constructed such an elaborate fantasy world that you just know someone's getting hurt. It is in seeing this movie that people can get the clearest idea of who Logan thought he was in relation to animals. The only real difference is that Treadwell was benevolent, trying to protect (he felt) the animals, whereas Logan never lost sight that they too, were here for his pleasure and his pleasure alone. Here's the trailer: