February 5 - スミマセン (Japanese Word Origins vol. 5)

This is the fifth in a five-part series exploring the origins of Japanese phrases.

スミマセン (sumimasen) - "Excuse me, I'm sorry."

Yusuke and his mother Mariko were different in just about every way possible, most of their differences stemming from their religious outlooks. Mariko was a devout Buddhist, Yusuke was an atheist, devoting all of his energies toward that most secular of professions, law. Where Mariko was patient and calm, Yusuke was quick to become angry and defensive.

They clashed all the time, though clash is not quite the right word. When she felt it was necessary, Mariko would gently point out an error in Yusuke's thinking or actions and the impetuous young man would lash out at her. "Oh, you don't like that? Surprise, surprise. Well, you know what? Sue me if you don't like it! Sue me, ma!"

Each time this happened--and it happened a lot--Mariko would patiently try to remind her son of the virtues of kindness and serenity by reciting a series of Buddhist koans that were especially suited to the situation at hand. However, years of smoking had taken their toll on Mariko and in her advanced years she wasn't able to produce the whole koan without becoming completely exhausted. Therefore, she took to simply saying, "Zen" in response to his constant invitations for her to sue him.

The whole routine quickly took on a broken record quality (at least in Yusuke's eyes) and soon Yusuke was responding for her with her own words before she got a chance to bore him with yet another reminder of the virtues of tranquility. Any time he thought she might be anything less than 100% satisfied with something he'd said or done, he would fly into a defensive rage that always ended with him all but screaming, "Sue me, ma," and then quickly adding, "Zen!"

In time, the severe Z sound shifted to the softer, gentler S, and the phrase's meaning also changed. Now, rather than being a mean-spirited jab at sarcasm, it is a genuinely heartfelt appeal for forgiveness used by people around Japan every day.

Feburary 4 - しょうがない (Japanese Word Origins vol. 4)

This is the fourth in a five-part series exploring the origins of Japanese phrases.

しょうがない (shouganai) - It can't be helped

The French have Jerry Lewis.
The Germans have David Hasselhoff.
The Japanese have Richard Chamberlain.
Although his star has faded in the United States, the King of the Miniseries still enjoys and always has enjoyed an almost otherworldly popularity in Japan. There are internet fansites devoted to Mr. Chamberlain, of course, as well as fanzines and lookalike contests. Stand-up comedians regularly crash variety shows dressed like Richard Chamberlain and there have been no less than seven biopics about his life. Richard Chamberlain is like the Coca Cola Classic of Japanese celebrity worship. Other stars may come and go, but Richard Chamberlain is a constant.
It all started with Shogun, the miniseries adaptation of James Clavell's best selling novel about an English sailor who integrates into Japanese feudal culture in the 1600s. When it was first broadcast in Japan in 1981, it was Must See TV before there was a name for such a thing; however, rather than showing a new part every night for a week like what was done in the United States, its broadcast was stretched out longer in Japan. Every Sunday for five weeks a new episode would air.
Missing it was out of the question. In fact, during the time when it was aired, any suggestions for dinner, movies, nights out on the town, or any other plans for a Sunday were met with a simple reply: A shake of the head and the phrase, "Shogun night." As if to say, Sorry. My hands are tied. It's Shogun night and I have to watch it. It's beyond my control.
Over time, the words blended together into one (shogunnai) and its use extended to any situation for which there is no solution and it can't be helped.

For example:

Hiro: So, you're saying the meeting time can't be changed?
Maki (shrugging and resigned): Sorry. Shogunnai.

February 3 - 久しぶり (Japanese Word Origins vol. 3)

This is the third in a five-part series exploring the origins of Japanese phrases.


久しぶり (hisashiburi) - "Long time, no see."

Naoki always had a reputation for being a bit of a womanizer. Love them and leave them was his motto and forget about him calling you back because it wasn't going to happen.
Dude was notorious--and also something of a hero for younger single men in his area. Problem was, Naoki lived in a small town. Well, maybe not a small town, but definitely not big enough for him to be doing what he was doing and expect to get away with it. Inevitably, from time to time he would run into one of his conquests out on the town. Sometimes harsh words would be doled out from the woman to Naoki.
The young guys who looked up to Naoki often saw this go down and they got a big kick out of it. "Man," they'd say, for they fancied themselves men. "Look how pissed off she is! That's awesome."
"Yeah, man. Naoki totally saw her booty back in the day and then he was like, 'see ya.'"
"Yeah, but then, like way later they just ran into each other all unexpectedly and shit and he's like, 'whoah, didn't expect to see you here.'"
"Dude, he saw her booty."
"Totally."
In time, he saw her booty blurred into one word. Nobody is really sure how and when the grammar mistake of substituting she for her came about, but the resulting phrase is still with us in Japan today: Hisashiburi is what you say to someone you see again for the first time in a long time--regardless of whether or not you slept with that person the last time you were together.

February 2 - 気違い (Japanese Word Origins vol. 2)

This is the second in a five-part series exploring the origins of common Japanese phrases.

気違い (kichigai) - "Crazy, mentally unsound, a bit off."

Nobody had a problem with Tomoyuki when he first moved into the Fujiwara neighborhood on the outskirts of Yokohama. A single man in his late 20s, Tomoyuki impressed everyone as a devoted worker (with Mitsubishi Motors) and a conscientious neighbor. He always kept his yard impeccably manicured and was always quick to lend a hand whenever anyone in the area needed help.
One Saturday afternoon, Tomoyuki was working outside when a baseball cleared his fence and plopped into his backyard. Moments later, he saw three grade school boys peering cautiously over the fence top. When they saw him see them they dropped out of sight. Tomoyuki picked up the ball.
"Wow," he said. "What an amazing thing. This ball just fell right out of the sky. It must be magical! I'll have to add this to my collection."
Tomoyuki smiled as he listened to the boys arguing over which of them would go through the gate and approach him. Finally, one of the boys entered his yard.
"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, sir, but I believe our ball has landed in your yard. Begging your forgiveness, I humbly appeal to you to allow me to take it back."
Tomoyuki laughed at the boy's exaggerated politeness and told him not to worry about it. Then he offered the boys some pomegranate juice he'd just squeezed. After some hemming and hawing, the boys decided that the offer of such an exotic drink overruled their parents' orders never to go into the homes of strangers. Besides, Tomoyuki wasn't really a stranger. Everybody knew who he was. They just didn't know him that well was all.
The boys entered his home and were immediately enchanted by all the amazing stuff he had: Crazy futuristic furniture unlike any they'd ever seen, tiki torches flanking a bamboo bar, black velvet paintings of some guy--a singer?--in a sparkly white suit, thick carpet that you could feel between your toes, all sorts of lunchboxes, action figures, dolls, and other stuff emblazoned with people's faces. It was like the guy had his own museum, only they couldn't figure out what it was a museum for. They only knew that it was all really, really cool.
After finishing the juice and playing with some of the toys (with Tomoyuki's permission, of course), the boys thanked him much less formally and returned to their game of baseball, excited about all the crazy stuff they'd seen.
Later on that evening, however, their parents were not so excited. They recognized what the boys were going on and on about. It was kitsch, and one thing the adults of Fujiwara didn't like was kitsch. It was dangerous and frowned upon--a sign of deeper issues the parents didn't want to go into with their sons. The boys were told never to return to Tomoyuki's home again.
In fact, that was about the last time anyone ever called him Tomoyuki. From then on, he was just known as the kitschy guy and most people stayed away from him because they thought him unsound and maybe even a little bit crazy--just because he liked the kitsch.
Eventually, he moved to Tokyo, but the term kitschy guy persisted and morphed into one word, kichigai. Today it is used by Japanese people everywhere to refer to anyone or anything they think is kind of crazy.

February 1 - (大丈夫) Japanese Word Origins vol. 1)

This is the first in a five-part series exploring the origins of common Japanese phrases.

大丈夫 (daijoubu) - "That's OK. Don't worry about it."

Oh, poor Joseph Boo. During his 84 years on the planet (the majority of which he spent in Japan), he was a lot of things and almost all of them were bad: underachiever, complainer, card cheat, petty thief, liar, goldbricker, and pervert.
But most of all, Joseph Boo was an alarmist.
It's a strange thing to best be remembered as being an alarmist, but that was Mr. Boo for you. The slightest hint of a cloud? Oh my God, a typhoon is coming!
A minor scrape on the knee? It will have to be amputated!
A cough? Tuberculosis!
Understandably, this strained the patience of those who spent any amount of time with him, because you always had to watch what you said and go so far out of your way to make sure Joseph Boo didn't feel anything to be alarmed about that it was next to impossible to carry on a normal conversation. Besides, it never worked anyway. He would always find something to get worked up over and it got so bad that those who knew him the best--not his friends, mind you, because he didn't have any of those--kind of wished he would just die.
They didn't mean it, of course. Not really. But wishing that Joe Boo would die became a sort of defense mechanism/running joke: Whenever anything that might cause anyone the slightest bit of worry came up, one person in the conversation would pretend to be Joe Boo and freak out, and then the other person would say something along the lines of, "Oh, it's not so bad. Why don't you just go die, Joseph Boo!" Which, let's be honest, was a mouthful, so it gradually got shortened to just Die, Jo Boo without any of the other stuff. And then, to further disassociate it from their acquaintance, the spelling was changed to dai jo bu, and it came to be used as a catch all phrase to assure the other person in the conversation that whatever had just happened was no big deal and not to worry about it.

For example:

Taka: Oh no, I just spilled your tea all over the table.
Yuko: Dai jo bu. I can make some more.

January 31 - The Runner

He was having the run of a lifetime, gunning it through the streets of New York City. Much faster than a jog, just less than a sprint, and not out of breath at all. He felt invincible, like he could keep this pace all day.
Some streets were crowded, and when they were he juked his way through them like a halfback caught in the backfield trying to make his way back to daylight. Weaving through pedestrians, leaping over dogs, hopping sideways between couples, jumping up and into walls to pinball himself past groups of teenagers like Jackie Chan running a marathon.
A red light.
Don't walk?
Don't worry. This wasn't walking, this was running. He jumped from the sidewalk onto the street and dodged his way though traffic, running alongside cars, running past cars, juking in and out of them. If it was even possible, he was faster on the streets than on the sidewalks. Turbocharged, unstoppable. His eyes locked onto a target in the distance and his body devoured the distance in between.
That flashing hotel sign way up there?
Mine.
The doubledecker tour bus three blocks ahead?
Mine.
That old style taxi cab?
Mine.
Way up ahead of him, a garage door opened and a black BMW pulled out onto the street. As it pulled away, the garage door started closing automatically.
Mine.
He jumped a line of garbage cans, clearing them effortlessly as if they were inches tall. A car pulled out in front of him and he took it like an Olympian hurdler. The garage door continued its descent as he turned on the afterburners and broke into a full on sprint as the door got closer and closer to being closed.
He timed his dive perfectly, landing just before the door and rolling under it Indiana Jones style just as it closed.
Made it!
He lay in the dark garage exhilerated and laughing, the sweat just now beginning to drip from his face. He took in gulps of air, sat up, propped himself on his elbows, and looked around himself, the smile slowly fading from his face.
Why did I do that?
There were no windows in the garage, but he could feel the presence of another car. He reached out in front of himself and found the garage door. Tried to open it, but there was no way. It was electronic.
Well.
Crap.
By then he had his breath, and his eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. He could make out a few shapes: the walls, the other car, the door.
He assessed the situation:
Locked in a stranger's garage, unsure if there was anybody else inside the house. Also, miles from his apartment. Options:
1) Wait until whoever it was who'd left comes back and then slip out when the door opens.
2) Knock on the door to the house and explain the situation as best you can.
3) Sneak into the house and scurry out the front door without anyone noticing.
There didn't seem to be any other options, but he stood around in the garage anyway, wracking his brain to come up with something better.
He saw a glowing light over by the door to the house.
Of course, the inside garage door opener button.
He approached it, careful not to run into anything and make a racket in the dark garage. He could just open the door and leave, but once the door lurched open it would make all kinds of noise and he would really have to hightail it out of there before somebody came out to see what was going on.
He stretched out a bit to get himself loose for his sprint. Then he reached out for the button with one hand while trying to do a runner's take your mark stance, but he had to keep adjusting himself so he could get closer to the button.
At last he was there, his fingers pursed on the button.
OK, here we go.
He pressed it and the door began to open loudly and slowly. Since it was going up so slowly, he couldn't just burst out running, so he hopped in place like a moron while the door took its sweet time opening up. Finally, it was high enough for him to duck under and leave, but then stopped himself and decided to shut it again.
He ran back inside and hit the button, stopping the door. Then he pressed it again and it started back down. He ran for it but misjudged his footing and went careening into the car that was parked in the garage, setting off its alarm.
Oh, fuck!
He waved his arms at the car for a split second to try to make it quiet down and that was just enough time for the garage door to close all the way, stranding him inside with car alarm shrieking and echoing all around the enclosed garage.
He panicked, crashing into the garage door trying to break it down, but it wasn't budging. He pressed the garage door button again. Nothing. His shoulder hurt like crazy and the car alarm continued to shriek.
After a couple of the longest minutes of his life it stopped. Moments later, he heard a voice through an intercom speaking a language he couldn't understand. It sounded like Russian or something from Eastern Europe.
He froze and didn't make a sound.
The voice came back again and let out a stream of language.
Finally, he offered a tentative hello
More of the voice, more insistent.
He winced from the sound of the voice. "Sorry? I don't understand."
The door opened, the lights came on and there was a large man with a handgun. He clenched his eyes shut and raised his hands.
"Please, don't shoot!"
The man yelled at him and he apologized incoherently. He winced in anticipation of the bullet that was surely just moments away from taking him out, but the only thing the man hit him with was more angry language. The runner just continued wincing and apologizing.
"OK, you shut up. Who are you?"
He tried to explain, but it was impossible. He blabbered on about his run and how excited he was and how he'd seen the garage door opening and how something had taken control of him and he stupidly, stupidly, stupidly decided to squeeze in under the door before it closed and how he just wanted to leave and on and on and on. There was too much of a language gap and even if there hadn't been, the circumstances that led him to this moment were too absurd to try to recount in one conversation. Eventually, the man lost patience.
"You wait here," he said slamming the door.
Moments later he returned with a tall skinny teenage boy in a warm-up suit. They spoke in the doorway as the big man motioned to the runner. The boy nodded.
"He wants to know who are you and what are you doing here." He spoke with an accent.
"Oh, you speak English. Thank God." He was practically in tears. "Look, there's been a big mistake. I'm just a runner. I'm nobody. You don't know me. I don't know you. My name is Terry. I was out running and I saw your garage door closing and I don't know what came over me but I dove under the door and that's how I got here."
The boy looked dubious but he translated it to the man with the gun and they spoke briefly.
"Give us your identification."
"I don't have any on me. I was just out for a run. I don't have--"
"Understand. One moment." The boy conferred with the man. "Who did send you?"
"Send? No. Nobody. I was just running and--"
"Anatoly don't send you?"
"Ana--? No. No, I--really, I don't even know where I am. I was just running and I saw the door closing and--"
"Yes, you tell us already. One moment." The boy talked with the man again.
"Where do you live?"
"Where--?"
"Where do you live. We take you home now."
"Oh, that's. Oh. No. That's. Wow. No. Don't. No, it's OK. I ran here. I can run home. It's--no, you don't have to worry about that."
"It is no offer. It is--how you say--we insist."
"No, really. I'm fine. There's no need."
"It is obligation."
"Oh, no. You don't--"
"Not our obligation, your obligation. This is--how you say--insurance policy. We are expecting special package today. But you are here instead. This is very unexpected. You say you are unrelated to what do we do, and you seem sincere. However, it is best to be sure. Therefore, we take you home. If there is problem with package we know where to find you to help straighten this out."
Terry didn't want to guess at what the contents of their package were, but the guns, the accents, the alarms, and the cars didn't reassure him. However, under the circumstances, he didn't feel like he was in a position to argue. He accepted their offer of a ride home.
For days and weeks afterwards, he kept a close watch on the papers and the daily news for anything involving the Russian mob, but he never heard anything, nor did he ever receive any visits from black BMWs, teenagers in track suits, or barrel chested men with guns.
He did, however, switch from running to squash, but he told everyone it was because the weather was getting colder.
Meanwhile, across town, later on in the afternoon of the day of Terry's run, the teenage boy in the warm-up suit and his family received the package of family heirlooms that his cousin Anatoly had carried personally all the way from Lithuania. The boy always tried to tell his uncle not to be so quick to flash the gun, but his uncle insisted that American was a dangerous place that was full of crazy people.

January 30 - Sup

I was walking through Hibiya Station after pick-up last night and a black guy gave me the 'sup' nod. You know the one I'm talking about, right? The one where you nod your head backwards once like, sup (what's up - sup).
Whatever. A black guy thought I was cool! I think it was probably because of the way I was dressed. I was coming from pick-up, soI was wearing an oversized hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans, plus I had my bag strap across my chest and over my shoulder and I was listening to my iPod. He was listening to his iPod too, and maybe that's another reason why he threw me the sup.
I wonder what he was listening to. I had on some Fishbone, which wouldn't have been my first choice if he'd stopped to ask me what I was listening to. But still, if he'd had a chance to scroll through my iPod I don't think he would've taken back his sup. My iPod has a pretty good mix of stuff I think he would like, and rap is well represented. Sure, most of it is old skool Run DMC and stuff like that from when I was growing up, but I also have new stuff like Mos Def and Blackalicious.
Of course I also have a lot of opera. Maybe even more opera than rap. God, how bad would that have sucked for him to scroll through my iPod and there's barely any rap and like tons of opera? I would probably blush and feel stupid and apologize, but I'll bet he'd be pretty cool about it. He might even like opera too. Maybe he would say something like, "Nah, man. That's cool. Some of that opera shit deep." And then maybe we would do one of those fist punch things like they always do in the movies.
God I wish I had more black friends.

January 29 - The Platform

Alan could see that the mother wasn't paying enough attention to her young daughter who was standing way too close to the edge of the subway platform. The little girl, probably about four or five years old, was playing some sort of jumping game, skipping from tile to tile on the platform while her mother attended to her other child in the stroller.
The platform area became windy and loud. The train was coming. The little girl continued to jump and play.
Alan stepped closer to the little girl as the train came into view and the mom tried to comfort her crying baby.
The train bore down on them and blaired its horn to warn the girl away from the edge, but instead it distracted her and she lost her balance. She teetered over the edge and everything happened in slow motion. Alan ran over, desperately blurted out a nonsensical barrage of syllables, and threw out his hand.
The girl grabbed it as she fell and he swung her out of the way of the train and back onto the platform as the train went screaming by.
Relevant fact #1 - The girl and her mother were native speakers of Unbuntu, a language indigenous to the Unbunta tribe of northern Botswana.
Relevant fact #2 - While Alan had never been to Africa, much less Botswana, he had conducted some research on Unbuntu several years ago while studying linguistics in graduate school.
Relevant fact #3 - The utterance that he had blurted out just before she grabbed his hand was not gibberish. It was Unbuntu for clutch my wrist.
After the dust had settled, Alan theorized that over the years he had retained a sort of subliminal knowledge of Unbuntu that he had been able to spontaneously draw upon in a moment of intense need. Although he couldn't carry on a proper conversation in Unbuntu with the woman, at the moment that it was needed he was able to produce the language.
Now a PhD student, he procured a grant to do more research.
The hypothesis he sought to prove was that in moments of acute emotional intensity, the brain is able to activate and use latent linguistic knowledge that the person might not even be actively aware that he/she has.
The study proved controversial for a lot of reasons. For one, he was dealing with subconscious learning, the results of which were notoriously difficult to verify. But more damningly, in order to authentically test his hypothesis, he had to put his research subjects in truly dangerous situations. To the linguistics department of his university--and also to the local police and fire departments--this was not, as he later said, an ethically grey area. It was pitch black. When the gas leak he created in the chemistry lab to test his hypothesis that his research subject would be able to call for help in Hakanese (she couldn't) resulted in trips to the hospital for seven students and more than $12,000 in damage to the lab, the game was up. He was summarily dismissed from the program and had to beg and plead for them not to press criminal charges.
Surprisingly, Alan had managed to collect a large pool of data prior to his dismissal; however, in the end, his findings were inconclusive at best. Most of his peers agreed that it was pure coincidence that the nonsense he blurted out on the train platform meant something in an actual language. With more than 6,000 known languages in the world and countless regional dialects, screaming incoherently like a scared little girl is bound to mean something in one of them.

January 28 - The Trip Home

I'd been dumped by my long distance girlfriend the previous weekend, and I had gone into the capital city both to take care of some business and also to be with some friends who might understand what I was going through.
I was a Peace Corps Volunteer at the time, living in a primarily Muslim town in Central Asia. The people there were nice, but it was a place where most marriages were still arranged, and so I didn't expect that most people would understand what it felt like to get dumped. Lucky bastards.
I'm not going to waste any time telling you how I felt. Think back to the most painful break-up you've ever been on the business end of, and then put yourself in an environment where there are no bars, no possibilities of rebounds, and very little that will take your mind off of how rotten and hopeless you feel, and that's about where I was.
My host family tried to help. They told me that maybe she would change her mind, but I knew she wouldn't. It didn't help that letters she'd mailed before the break-up were still arriving. They used words like "miss" and "love" and all may as well have come from another century. But I read them anyway because that's what you do when you feel like hell.
The trip to the capital did me good, though. I saw friends and got to talk about it because for some reason that's what I wanted to do. Talk about it. Wallow in it. It helped, but not really. At least I got the words out of my system.
At the end of the weekend I had to go back to my town, back to my job. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, your morale really goes through cycles. When things are good, it's just like the commercials make it out to be. You in an exotic environment surrounded by locals and you're happy to be around each other. But when it's bad, it's really bad. You don't see any point to your being there. You believe--you know--that none of what you're doing is going to make any lick of difference in the long run. You feel isolated and cut off, and you can't for the life of you think of any good reason why you should stay in your position. At one point you were new and interesting to the local population, but you'd long since lost your novelty. Now you were just kind of there.
That's where I was in my morale cycle as I got on the bus and started heading back to my town. Under the best of circumstances, a bus trip in Central Asia is tolerable. These were not the best of circumstances. It was overbooked, so I had to stand. It was hot and dusty. An hour into the trip, we still hadn't made it out of the capital because the driver kept making unscheduled stops to pick up stuff for friends and acquaintences. The exhaust was blowing in through the open windows. It was loud. I hated everyone.
There was a flat tire, and it took more than an hour to change it. Nobody else gave a shit. None of the stuff that was annoying the hell out of me bothered them, and that just made me hate them more.
Back on the bus. At this point we should have been almost halfway there, but we were barely 15 minutes into the trip. The shocks were shot to hell and we bounced all over the place. The exhaust was stifling. I felt hungover even though I hadn't had anything to drink the night before.
A man behind tapped me on my hand, and I hate it when people touch me. What did he want me to do, move up? There was no place to go. I ignored him.
He tapped me again and I turned around and glared.
He had a picture in his hand that he seemed to want me to see.
I looked at it. Group of guys standing in front of some building. Great. I nodded and handed it back to him.
He wouldn't take it. Instead he motioned for me to look at it again. Jesus Christ, this guy. OK, fine. I looked at it again and this time I saw what he wanted me to see.
I was in the picture.
It had been taken a few months back when a few other Volunteers and I were taken on a tour of a local teacher training school. They'd proudly shown us their classrooms and prepared a lavish lunch for us. At the end of the afternoon we posed for a picture and here it was: myself, a few other Volunteers from my area, some local teachers and teachers in training, and the man who had handed me the picture.
I was so taken aback by being in the picture that I temporarily forgot how much I hated everybody. I looked at it again and managed a smile at the absurdity of the coincidence. After another look, I handed it back to the man, but he wouldn't take it. He wanted me to keep it, and after a few more offers I did, and I thanked him, and we talked for a little bit.
And that was it. He had just wanted to give me the picture. He didn't want to ask me for a favor or practice his English with me or do anything else. After our brief conversation ended, he returned to chatting with his friend who was sitting next to him.
And the rest of the bus ride was cake. The temperature cooled down and enough people got off the bus for me to get a seat. The late afternoon view of the Kopet Dag Mountains, though not breathtaking, was genuinely pretty. People in the seats around me drifted off to sleep.
When I got back, my host family had just sat down to dinner and I joined them. After dinner we watched TV, and even though the programming in that part of the world isn't anything special, that night I didn't mind it.
I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that I was completely cool with the breakup from that point on because I wasn't. It hurt for a long time and the pain disappeared very gradually and reluctantly. But that evening, at least for a little while, things were OK.

January 27 - Inner Monologue of a Junior Member of the Obama Administration While Playing Basketball With the President

Holy freaking shit.
I am about to play basketball with the President of the United States.
This is huge. Don't panic, but this is huge: I am about to play pick-up hoops with the freaking President of the United Goddamn States of America!
Oh my God, he’s guarding me! Freaking Obama is guarding me. I’m probably going to score on the president!
OK, that came out kind of gay, but you know what I mean.
And don’t get me wrong, either. I’m not saying I’m all that, I’m just saying Obama’s defense is kind of weak. Whoah, better not say that one out loud! That’s the kind of comment that can throw us off our agenda, especially if talk radio hears about it. "People in his own administration say the president is weak on defense." Yeah, that wouldn’t be too cool, even though everyone would totally know I was talking about basketball.
Fucking talk radio.
Should I trash talk him? Better not, at least not at first. See how it goes. Let him or Rahm start it.
Or not. On the court it’s different, right? Out here he’s not the president. Out here we’re all ballers, right? Yeah, I should throw down with some trash talking. Nothing too harsh. Dude, your game needs a serious stimulus package. Yeah, that’d be OK, right? Maybe dude is too informal, though. Or maybe, Job creation? Sir, I think you need to concentrate on shot creation because that's some serious bricks you're throwing up there. Or what about, Health care overhaul? Dude, please. Why don't you focus on defense overhaul? No wait, I’ve got it! I block his shot, get all up in his face and be all, NO, YOU CAN’T! Dude, that would freaking rock! Maybe I could even call him bitch.
Probably not, though.
OK, he’s got the rock. He’s driving the lane. He’s going for a lay-up. Should I stuff him? Can I do that? Should I foul the hell out of him early on so he plays scared for the rest of the game?
No, you don’t want to spook him, especially with the State of the Union coming up this evening. Let him get his confidence up. Not that he doesn’t seem confident, but still.
He flubbed it. It’s bouncing around on the rim. Do I box out? Yeah. Hell yeah. He doesn’t want people who are just going to let him score and get all the rebounds. He’ll see right through that, he’s not stupid.
Dude, I just boxed out on the president.
I need an open pass, but there's nobody. Nobody but Axlerod. Look at him over there, waving his arms around like he’s freaking drowning or something. Yeah, I see you dude.
And I have to pass it to him. It’s obvious he’s the only one open and if I don’t, he’s going to be all lame about it. OK, OK. Here, dude. Enough with the waving. Just try not to cough it up like you always do.
Christ, look at him dribble. Protect the ball, man! Jesus! Is he always going to be a part of these games? I know he’s senior staff and all, but for God’s sake, look at him.
I shake loose of Obama. Hit me! Hit me, for Chrissake!
Axelrod takes a look at the hoop. Thinks about it.
Here comes the brick.
No, wait! Holy shit, he passed it for once! Out to that Secret Service guy.
OK, OK. He’s dribbling. No open looks. Wait, wait. No! No! He just passed it back to Axlerod. Fuck! He’s going to put up a brick just like he always does--when he doesn’t get it stuffed back in his face and his stupid ass mustache.
Oh wait, my bad. He passed it to me.
OK, this is it. Story to tell your grandchildren time. Taking the president to the hoop.
Head fake.
No bites.
Another head fake.
No bites.
Stutter step, spin move, up, off the glass, COUNT IT!
“Nice shot.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”

January 26 - seven

If John and Deb had ever thought about it--which they hadn't--they would have thought it was kind of creepy but ultimately ridiculous.
The story was that there was a videotape with a label that said seven and nobody knew where it was from. But if you watched it, immediately afterwards your phone would ring and then there would be this voice on the other end that said, "Seven days," and then the line would go dead. If you tried to call the number back it wouldn't work, and there was no way to trace the origin of the call. Or so the story went.
And so you would forget about it after a while and go about your business, and then exactly seven days later, you and whoever else had watched the video would die.
Obviously this was always something that had happened to your college rommate's brother's ex-girlfriend's co-worker and some guy who blah, blah, blah: urban myths whose already tenuous credibility was diluted by the fact that nobody could produce proof that anyone who'd died had ever watched such a videotape, nor had anyone ever actually seen the videotape itself.
Even still, the story persisted and was trotted out by high school kids on the rare occasion that there was an unexplained death in the area.
John and Deb had certainly heard the story. Everybody had. And so when they were spending the weekend in a cabin in the woods, and John found a videotape labelled seven tucked in among the cabin's collection, it caught his attention.
"Hey Deb, did you see this?"
Deb took the videotape from John. "Ooh, seven." She laughed. "Wow, that's funny. I can't believe you remember that. Good one."
"I found it here in their collection."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, I was just poking around to see what they had and I found it."
"No way, they actually have a video that's called seven?"
"Yeah."
Deb curled up on the couch. "Do you think we should watch it?"
John felt a tingle of excitement. "I am kind of curious. I mean, it's probably just a joke, like, somebody put the label on a porno or something just to mess with people."
"Yeah, you're right, but still. I mean, it couldn't hurt to just put it in and see what happens."
"That's what she said."
"Ha ha. No, I'm serious. I mean it's probably nothing, but aren't you kind of dying to know what's on it?"
"Dying to know?"
"Yeah, I know. That was lame. But come on, let's at least start it. If it's totally creepy we can turn it off."
Every horror movie instinct he had told him it was a bad idea, but he had to admit that Deb was right. He did want to know what was on the mythical seven videotape--if that was even what it was, which he was sure it wasn't.
He turned on the VCR and then the TV. There was no reception in the cabin, so all they got was white noise. He slid the videotape in and his finger went for the play button.
"No, wait."
His finger paused. "What?"
"Maybe it's not such a good idea."
John thought about the story and the phone call and the possibility, however absurdly remote, of dying seven days later. If they did watch the video and his phone rang afterwards he would lose it. Prudence got the better of him, and he did what he and Deb always yelled at the characters in horror movies to do. He played it safe.
"Yeah, you're probably right."
He ejected the videotape and put it back in its place. Then he thought about it again, pulled it back out, and destroyed the tape just to be sure.
There.
They felt better.
While hiking later on that evening, they were both eaten by a grizzly bear.
Holy shit!

January 25 - Braxton's Mom

Martha's son Braxton died of heat stroke during football practice in late August of 1998. He was 15 years old.
Martha had raised Braxton by herself after Tom died in a car accident while Braxton was in kindergarten. It was a struggle, but everyone who knew Braxton agreed that she had done a fantastic job. Braxton was a good kid who was universally liked both by the teachers and other students at Hillsdale High School.
Small for his age, Braxton had always pushed himself harder than most of the other players on the Hillsdale High Tigers. What he lacked in size, he made up for in tenacity, heart, and other intangibles. During his freshman year, he'd gotten minutes on the varsity squad and was on track to make varsity as a sophomore and possibly start. Braxton's competitive spirit and work ethic, plus the brutal August heat, plus coach Phillips' refusal to let the boys take a water break until they'd finished their laps, plus Braxton's undiagnosed heart condition were too much that day. He collapsed near the end of practice and never got up.
Coach Phillips was asked to step down and he did, getting replaced by Coach Foster who had been the Tigers' defensive coordinator up until then. No criminal charges were pressed nor did Martha pursue any monetary damages.
It surprised a lot of people that season when Martha continued to go to all the Tigers' games, but to her, it felt perfectly natural (albeit painful). Braxton's friends were still playing and--like all the other football moms--she felt like they were practically her sons as well. It would have been unthinkable not to go to the games.
The other parents were supportive, of course, as was the team, which dedicated the season to Braxton. During the halftime ceremony of the Homecoming game, Braxton's jersey was retired, and Martha was given a bouquet of yellow roses by the Tigers' captains on the fifty yard line. The crowd gave her a standing ovation.
The next season, when Martha asked to join the Tigers' coaching staff as what she later came to call the Water Mom, everybody felt more than a little bit strange about it. After all, her son had died a year ago on the practice field and now she wanted to join the coaching staff? And a water mom? Maybe in grade school, but this was high school. The whole idea made everyone uncomfortable but ultimately not enough to say anything. She joined the staff.
She drove her own car to the games, always stayed out of the coaches' way, and never opened her mouth, but even still, everyone felt uncomfortable around her and nobody knew what to say to her. Whenever players came off the field or the coaches gave their talks at the end of practice, she would always be there in her Tigers jacket busily handing cups of water to the boys who sometimes mumbled a thank you. Some of the boys drank it. Some of them just held on to it.
It was hard for her not to do more. She wanted to help Braxton's friends with their equipment and pick up after them, but she knew that would make them feel weird and she didn't want that, so she just stuck with handing out water.
The next season came and went, and so did the next one which would have been Braxton's senior year. After that everyone expected her to hang it up but she didn't. When the late summer two a day practices began the next season, she was one of the first ones to arrive, even though, as usual, she hadn't been a part of the pre-season coaches meetings. Coach Foster exchanged pleasantries with her on the dewy morning grass as the rest of the staff arrived, and soon after that the players.
Several more seasons passed and Martha was always there. Never missed a game and rarely a practice.
Years later, Coach Foster took a job coaching at Hillsdale Community College and was replaced by John Hibberts who'd come in from out of the county. He didn't know about Martha's history with the team, nor was he particularly interested in it. When he told her politely but curtly that the team wouldn't be needing her services anymore, she didn't protest. She just said she understood and left.
That was three years ago, but she still goes to every Tigers game. Except for big games like Homecoming and the playoffs, Braxton's friends' parents don't go to the games anymore, so she usually sits by herself.

January 24 - Across the Border

You'd be surprised how easy it is to get into North Korea. Seriously. The whole DMZ is sealed off by a chain link fence with barbed wire on the top, but there's this one gate out in the mountains that they often forget to lock.
I was taking a walk near the border the first time I noticed it. There was nobody else around--just miles and miles of fence, a bunch of mountains and rocks, a couple of broken down abandoned buildings, and this unmanned gate.
I went up to it and pushed on it and it opened. I was expecting all these guards to come out of nowhere and start yelling at me but nothing happened, so I decided to go through it just so I could say I'd been in North Korea.
At first I just stepped across the border and then jumped back really quick like I was going to get zapped by a laser or something, but then I decided I was being ridiculous. There were no lasers anywhere. Hell, it didn't even look like there were any cameras, so I stepped back over into North Korea, and I wasn't really sure what I should be doing so I just started doing this little Hey everybody, I'm in North Korea dance. At first I felt really self conscious about it, but then I figured, whatever, nobody's watching, and I really got into it.
Anyway, I was going to go back, but then I figured I should take a picture or get something with North Korea written on it so I could prove I'd been there. The abandoned looking buildings weren't too far away, so I walked over to them.
The one building had this big portrait of Kim Il Sung on it and all these communist looking seals and Korean writing on it, and I was like, Damn, I can't believe it! I'm actually in North Korea. This is crazy!
I looked around for something I could take back with me, but there wasn't really anything outside except for the Kim Il Sung portrait and that was way too big. I looked in the windows of the building and although there some desks and other old furniture in there it definitely looked abandoned. I thought about going inside to see if there was anything cool in there, but I started feeling like I was pushing my luck and maybe I should get back. But then again, when was I going to be in North Korea again, right?
I decided I would go in, but first--really quick--I wanted to check to make sure the gate was still unoccupied. I poked my head around the corner.
Oh, crap.
There were about four guards there and they'd set up a table. A couple of people were at the gate showing them their papers so they could come in.
I had left my passport at home. I was illegally in North Korea without my passport.
I didn't have any sort of plan, but I sort of just walked up to the gate and tried to go through unnoticed, like, Oh, don't mind me, just passing through.
One of the guards stopped me and asked me (in English) to see my passport.
"Oh," I told them, "I'm here without a visa," as if that was an option. Like, No big deal. I'm here on the no visa plan.
"Passport," the one guard repeated, the word sounding at once like a question, a command, and an accusation.
"Um, yeah," I checked my pockets again like the passport might have magically appeared there. No. "Sorry, I must have left it in my car." I laughed a little to disarm the situation, but it didn't catch on.
"Country of origin?"
"Country of--? Oh, I'm American."
"Why you come here?"
It was a good question, actually, and one for which I was having a hard time finding an answer. I started babbling.
"Yeah, I was, um, hiking here and I saw this gate and I just kind of figured I would check it out because, you know, who wouldn't want to visit North Korea? I mean, well, probably a lot of people wouldn't, he he. But, I mean, no. Not that it's not a great place, I'm sure it is. Probably very misunderstood too. Certainly by me, at least because how many people have I met who've been here? And--"
Graciously, he cut me off with a wave of his hand while he consulted with his partners. Honestly, what the hell was I talking about back there?
The four guards went off to the side and huddled, leaving the gate unattended. Could I make a run for it? South Korea was right through that gate but it may as well have been miles away. These guys had guns.
I put my hands in my pockets and found my wallet. Opened it. There wasn't nearly enough money in there to bribe them. Was there? Maybe there was. What were the going rates for bribery anyway? And how did that even work? Who initiated the exchange? Was I supposed to just slip him a $20 while shaking his hand?
The spokesman cut in and was about to talk but then he noticed my wallet. Oh crap, here it comes.
"Who is she?" He was pointing at my wallet.
"Her? Oh, that's my girlfriend."
"I see," he said, with a sort of give me hand motion.
"Oh, sure. Hold on."
I handed him the picture, and the other men crowded around speaking Korean and laughing. One of them made a hand gesture I'd never seen before but didn't feel was one I'd want to repeat to my mother. The other people standing around the gate were forgotten. The gate itself was forgotten.
"Um, could I?" I interrupted them trying to get the picture back. They all but ignored me, except for the spokesman who made a kind of I'm going to keep this gesture with the picture and waved me through the gate. Apparently some sort of agreement had just been made. I nodded and started walking past them, and the whole time I was walking through the gate, I kept expecting one of them to put his hand on my shoulder and say, "Not so fast" or something like that, but they didn't. One of them even waved goodbye when I turned around.
At the time, it felt like I'd dodged one hell of a bullet by sneaking into North Korea and then being allowed to leave just by giving the guards my girlfriend's picture, but now it kind of doesn't feel like it was that big of a deal.
Anyway, that was a couple of weeks ago. I've been back to that spot a few times since then and the gate is still usually unlocked.
People tell me I'm crazy when I tell them I want to go back inside North Korea again someday, but I don't know. Everything worked out fine last time, and I really want to check out that big weird ass hotel in Pyongyang. Besides, I've got a lot of pictures of my girlfriend. Maybe I could even have her put some of her perfume on a few.

January 23 - John Oates' Inner Monologue While Standing in Front of the Bathroom Mirror on the Day Before the Start of a New Tour

So, the mustache.
Do I shave it?
I think I do. It's time, you know? Hell, it's past time. And what better time to shave it than right before the start of the tour? Just stroll out on stage for the first song with a cleanly shaven mug and take it from there. Some people might freak, but you know what?
Let them freak.
There will probably be more than a few people in the audience who won't recognize me at first. So be it. Actually, that might even be cooler. It'll just make it more of a shock when they realize it's me and not some young session guitarist we brought in for the tour. Like, Holy crap, that's John? Damn. My boy is looking good! Was he always that cut?
Yeah, why not shave it? Besides, it's not like I haven't shaved it before. There was that one time in--what was it, '98?--when I shaved it. Yeah, and I seem to remember a certain sound engineer named Rachel that--um, how can I put this?--didn't seem to have a problem with it.
Mmm, Rachel. God, what ever happened to her?
Yeah, screw it. The mustache goes. I know Daryl will throw a hissy fit like he always does, but you know something? Screw him. "It's your trademark, John. People expect the mustache, John. It's part of the Hall & Oates Experience, John." Oh really? I've spent most of my adult life looking like freaking Baba Booey from Howard Stern because it's part of the Hall & Oates Experience!? Enough already!
Freaking Hall & Oates Experience. And what else is part of the "Hall & Oates Experience", Daryl? Your ridiculous white boy dance moves? The embarrassing way you shake around that pathetic attempt at a pompadour? And what the hell is it with you always calling us the Hall & Oates Experience? Seriously, Daryl. Tell me because I'm dying to know. And while you're enlightening us all with your wisdom, tell me this: When the hell did you become the leader of Hall & Oates? Yes, I realize Oates & Hall doesn't have the same ring to it. We've gone over that. And yes, I know you do lead vocals on most of our hits, but your solo albums don't do half the business our records do, so get over yourself. Besides, if you want to use the whole Hall & Oates Experience argument, you could say it's my mustache that completes the Experience. And as such, I have a stake in this, too, so listen up, Daryl. I'm going to teach you a new concept. Are you ready? It's a little something I call evolution. As in, not getting mired in the past. As in, moving on. Like, this is the new face of Hall & Oates.
Ooh, wow. Wait a minute. I just came up with that, but that is good. Yeah, The New Face of Hall & Oates. Oh man, that is smooth.
No, wait! Here it is: Experience the New Face of Hall & Oates. Oh man, John. You are good. You are so good.
Yes. The mustache goes. Absolutely it goes.
I wonder if Rachel is still single.

January 22 - The Morning After

I rolled over in my bed and faced the window, confirming the following: 1) Yes, I had a hangover, and 2) once again I'd come home with a horse.
Shit.
I lay in bed watching the massive, magnificent beast dozing contentedly beside me, the blankets rising and falling rhythmically with her silent breathing.
God, I'm pathetic.
The details of how this had come about yet again weren't important. What was important was trying to get her out of there before my roommate woke up and found out--if he didn't already know, which, let's not kid ourselves, was unlikely. Have you ever tried to drunkenly sneak a horse into a second floor apartment? It's not easy. The horse doesn't understand what's going on. You keep trying to shush her, but she doesn't know what that means. She just keeps running into everything and knocking stuff over, which, when you're drunk is freaking hilarious, but not really. You try to ply her with apples but that doesn't help because man are they loud eaters. And God help you if she starts to shy. God help you if she gets spooked. In my last place, this one filly did not like my cell phone ring one bit and she went totally hog wild, bucking and kicking like there was no tomorrow. Suffice it to say I did not get my security deposit back on that place.
The hooves of the massive steed stuck out under the blanket and I nudged her gently.
Nothing.
This one, a mare by the looks of her, was out like a light, which made sense now that the details of last night were starting to come back to me. She'd been a wild ride, that one, and ha-ha, I know what you're thinking, but it's not like that. Nobody ever believes me when I tell them it's not sexual, but I swear it's not. And yeah, sure, I only bring female horses back, but whatever. Nothing ever happens. I just like sleeping with them, like, literally sharing my bed with them. Sometimes people ask me about that. They say, "How can you want to sleep with a horse?" And you know what I say?
"How can you not?"
I know it's wrong. Believe me, I know it's wrong. I know "society" frowns upon it, but I can't help myself. They're such beautiful, majestic creatures. What could be more natural than wanting to drift off to dreamland nuzzled up next to one of them and then wake up and have it be just the two of you?
This one here? I honestly thought she'd never settle down. She didn't want to leave her stall at first, but once I got her out of there, she was hell on four hooves, I tell you. And quite the jumper.
Even though it was really late, we had to take back roads to avoid traffic because drunken night riding on a stolen horse is something I'd rather not have to try to talk my way out of again. When we got back to my place she was still pretty keyed up, so I had to graze her in a flower bed down the street. That usually calms them down. Worked this time at any rate. Maybe a little bit too well. She had a really hard time getting up the stairs. She kept misstepping and running into the walls, but eventually we made it. I mean, obviously, right? She's in my bed.
Oh God, another horse is in my bed.

January 21 - The Miniature Dachshund

I was standing at the crosswalk waiting for the light to change when I became aware of a miniature dachshund staring at me with a blank expression that was somewhere between poker face and curiosity, like he was interested in me but didn't want to let on that he was interested in me. I looked back and gave him a smile. I'm not sure what I was expecting. Maybe a tail wag or a yap or a doggie grin or something, but no. Nothing. He just kept staring at me with his tiny face and his tiny eyes. He was really cute, but he was so serious, almost judgemental if you want the truth.
The dog's owner started looking at him too to see what he was up to, and after a few more seconds I guess the awkwardness must have gotten to the dog because he looked away.
I cracked up a little bit and then looked at the owner, expecting to share the moment with him, but he ignored me and returned to looking straight ahead too.
Whatever. I shrugged it off.
The wait for the light to change continued and a few seconds later I could feel the dog looking at me again with the same expression. I looked back at him and smiled again and waved, but just like before, he didn't respond in any way. He just stared, standing there patiently with his little doggy sweater and his face full of seriousness. The whole time it really felt like the dog was on the verge of saying something or asking a question or accusing me of stealing his dog biscuits, but instead he just stared.
The dog's owner looked down at him again, but the dog didn't return the look. Instead, he continued to look at me for a few seconds longer before breaking off and looking straight ahead again.
I laughed a bit out loud and looked at the owner again, figuring this time he had to acknowledge the silliness of the situation, but he didn't. He just went back to looking across the street until we got the walk signal. Then we crossed the street and went our separate ways.
Christ, it was like he'd never seen a guy in drag before.

January 20 - Aftermath

When he saw the footage of the aftermath of the typhoon--the vast swaths of beach that had been wiped out; the families who'd had next to nothing to begin with and were now homeless; the widows; the parents who'd lost children; the orphans; the sheer and utter devastation--something inside him clicked, and he was able to see his own life in an entirely new light. Things were good. He had a job, money, and a nice apartment. He was healthy, he had friends, and he lived in a country where things were normal, things worked. And shouldn't that be enough?
He decided that it was enough and that from that day on he would keep things in perspective, appreciate what he had, and never complain about anything again.
Toward that end, he slowed down and savored his life. He got in touch with old friends, called his parents, and cooked. On his way home from work he let people in his lane, and he didn't get upset at other drivers. He listened to good music and never let a chance pass him by to do something nice for a friend. His mantra became Life is too short and we should celebrate the time that we have.
It lasted about three days and came to an end when he found himself swamped at work, having to wait on a simple email from his boss that wouldn't require her to write more than one or two sentences, but for some unfathomable reason she was dragging her feet, just refused to reply to his daily reminders, which meant significant delays on a project that was already behind schedule and couldn't get started until he'd received that email. That one stinking email.
On the personal front, the woman he'd been seeing for a couple of weeks hadn't called him back from when he'd called her and left a message on Tuesday, and now it was Thursday, and they didn't have plans yet for the weekend, and it was stressing him out because he dug her and he could've sworn she dug him, and all he wanted was to set something up for the weekend so they could keep this whatever it is you want to call it going and not have it lose momentum. But like seemingly every other woman in his life, she wasn't getting back to him and he didn't want to seem pushy, so he had to play this stupid waiting game and it made him feel powerless and he hated that.
And so after only three days of being good he was back to being the same guy he had been before he'd heard about the typhoon. And he stayed that way until he heard about the suicide bomber that killed more than 20 people at an outdoor market in Afghanistan, and it shook him to his core. That's where people lived, that was their day to day lives: War, suicide bombers, living in fear every day, the Taliban. And even without that, what was there? Poverty, illiteracy, disease. And I'm complaining about some chick who won't return my calls right away? A project that's slowed down by a couple of days at work? My God, man. Get a grip. At least I have a job at an office with walls and a ceiling. And if things don't work out with Jen I can find somebody else. I can find hundreds of somebody elses. Life? My life? It's good. I'm good, and it's time I remember that.
It lasted a little longer this time, but not much.There was road construction on the way to work. Again. And yeah, by all means, tear up that perfectly good pavement, mess it way the hell up, and then take forever putting it back together, because that's a brilliant use of my taxes: making my morning commute all that much suckier. And speaking of sucky, yeah, why would we need the heating system at the office to work during the winter? Why would we ever bother fixing it at all? Eventually it will be spring again and then we won't need it anymore anyway. Let's just wait it out!
And then he saw the footage of the earthquake, and there was nothing he could say. Tens of thousands feared dead, aid unable to get to where it needed to go, armed looters prowling the streets at night, the prospects of additional rescues dimming with each passing day. And even once the situation stabilized, things were going to be bad for a very, very long time.He watched the TV and read the dispatches with the same shock, heartbreak, and nausea that everyone else did and he didn't even make any resolutions to himself this time because it wasn't about him, it was about them. He sent money to the Red Cross and he followed the story through the next few days as best as he could, but it didn't last.
He got pissed off when his computer froze and he had to restart it, and then the elevator was taking forever to get down to his floor, and then during his lunch break he was stuck behind the slowest walker in the world. And somewhere underneath his frustration with all the slowness, incompetence, and inefficiency that surrounded him, way down beneath it all, on a subconscious level, he also felt a deep sense of shame, fear, and inadequacy, because no matter how many times he swore he would appreciate his life and how good he had it, he knew he never would. Not until one of these tragedies happened to him.

January 19 - Goodbye Horses

"Well, to be honest, when our manager told us they wanted to use one of our songs in a movie, we just assumed it was another one of Phil's lameass jokes/pranks. I mean, with fucking Phil you really can't even call what he does a joke or a prank. He puts nothing into it, you know, just says some bullshit pratter like, I don't know, The president of the record company's swinging by tonight's gig, so be on your finest behavior, lads. Ha ha. Just kidding.
"And it's like, yeah, no shit, we know you're kidding. We fucking always know you're kidding because 1) you tell us right away, and 2) even if you didn't tell us we'd still know because your jokes are so bleeding obvious.
"Anyway, looking back on it now, when he didn't tell us right away that he was kidding, that should've been our first clue that he was serious, because he kept with it and gradually we realized that fuck me, he's serious. And the crazy part was that he was talking about a real movie with a real director we'd actually heard of. We were like holy hell, he's talking about the Stop Making Sense guy. Have you ever seen that? For a concert movie, it's pretty fucking good, right? I ain't seen it in a long time, but I bet it holds up.
"So anyway, we were like yeah, do it. Permission granted. Of course. Fuck yeah. And in fairness, the song got a lot of attention because, holy hell a lot of people saw that movie and it won, like, every Oscar ever, and our song was featured in a pretty prominent and memorable part of the movie.
"But even still, yeah, mixed feelings. Sure it got us introduced to a huge audience and it made that song our best known tune, but if we had the chance to do it again? Yeah, I don't know. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but really, how would you feel if your best and most personal song always immediately made people think of Buffalo Bill tucking his goodies between his legs and doing that creepy ass mangina dance in Silence of the Lambs?"

--William Garvey, lead singer of Q Lazzarus on his feelings about their song Goodbye Horses being used in Silence of the Lambs.

January 18 - Alternate POV

"Really? That's what you've got for me? What you told me was true from a certain point of view?"
"Well--"
"Seriously?"
"I--"
"God, you're incredible. You know what would have been clearer than 'from a certain point of view'? No? Don't know? Fucking anything. Seriously, man. Anything else you could have said would have been better than your 'certain point of view' bullshit. With the intergalactic shit storm we have raging around us, how the hell do you not just tell me what happened?"
"It was very complicated. I--"
"No, Ben. No. Not complicated. My father went bad. Went a little bit power crazy. Lost his shit when mom died and then he turned bad."
"Luke, you have to understand my position in this."
"OK, I'm listening."
----
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Darth Vader did not 'kill my father.' He was my father. People have bad fathers. It happens. Just freaking tell me that next time. I mean, do you have any idea how much of an asshole I felt like when he finally connected the dots for me? He was like, I am your father. And what did I do? I said, Noooo, that's impossible. Actually, that's not completely true. I moaned it, I whined it. God, I must have sounded like such a dick. Noooo! I always told myself I would never go the Noooo! route, but then when I had the chance I jumped all over that shit."
"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."
Luke ignored him. "And speaking of not being afraid to tell me shit, um, Leia? Dude, you knew she was my sister. Why not fucking tell me that from the get-go? Don't laugh, that shit's disgusting. We totally kissed. Dude, I dug my sister. I wanted to kill my father. That's some fucked up Oedipal shit. You know, this sounds terrible to say, but I'm actually glad our mom died in childbirth. I heard she was hot. You probably would've figured out some way for us to be all cougar and cub together."
"Sorry. Cougar and cub?"
"Yeah, I don't know either. It sounded right when I said it."
"Oh."
"Anyway."
"Yeah, anyway."
"Is there anything else?"
"Anything?--Oh, well. There is just one more thing."
"Oh God. What?"
"You're not going to like it."
"Whatever. Just tell me."
"Yoda totally had a crush on you."
"Shut up."
"Seriously."
"Really."
"No, I'm just messing with you."
"Good one."
Ben did his best Yoda. "Play with your other light saber, I desire."
Luke joined in. "Mmm, hung like a wookie you are."
And they both laughed.

January 17 - Teen Vamp

"All I'm saying is I wish you would've been a little clearer about what you meant by 'this age forever'."
"I still don't get what I did wrong."
"This," she said, pointing to the pimple that stuck out prominently from her chin like a mermaid on the front of a clipper ship. "I pop this every morning before I go to sleep and then the next night when I get up it's back again. If I'd known I was going to have to go through the rest of, like, eternity with a zit on my chin, I would've made you wait for, oh, I don't now, a few fucking days before you bit me so it could clear up? You know, so I could have a smooth complexion forever? But no. Why would you say anything? Nope, best to just fucking bite me and then fill me in on the details later."
"I think it's kind of cute."
"God, you're such a fucking asshole."
"Makes you look young."
"Fuck you."
"Come on, it's not that bad. Just put a little foundation on it, you'll be fine. Besides, it's not like people are ever going to get a good look at you."
She gave him a look that said, and?
"Because we only go out in the dark?"
"Whatever."
And she left it there for a while.
"Oh and by the way, thanks also for the heads up about my hair."
"Your hair," he started, not getting it.
"I got it cut the day you bit me?"
"Yeah, I thought it looked good."
"God, you're such a guy."
"What?"
"You should've waited at least a couple of weeks so I could grow into it. Have you ever, you know, actually talked to a girl about her hair?"
He didn't answer.
"Never mind, it doesn't matter."
"Seriously, I like your hair. Really. I thought you cut it that day because you knew I was going to bite you that night."
"Um, I didn't know you were going to bite me that night."
He smiled and rolled his eyes. "OK."
"Whatever, I didn't. OK, I thought maybe that night would be the night, but Jesus, I didn't, like, get my hair cut especially for our 'special night together.' It's not like it was the prom or something."
"Well still, I think it looks good."
"Great. Really happy for you. Actually, I hope you do like it because you're gonna be stuck looking at it for the rest of your life."
"That's cool."
"That's cool," she repeated mockingly.
"Anything else?"
"What?"
"Anything else. So far we've got the zit and the hair. Is there anything else?"
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah, why not? Let's get it all out once and for all."
"You are such an asshole sometimes."
"No, I'm serious. I want to know."
"Why? It's no like there's anything you can do about it, is there?" Her question was 90% accusative and 10% hopeful.
"Well, no. But still. You can tell me."
"Well, since you asked, I'm not exactly crazy about this," she said pinching her belly.
"Oh, come on. Now I know you're messing with me."
"Actually, I'm not. You could have given me, like, a couple of weeks to tone up a little. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm glad you bit me. I really am. But I just wish I could've had a little more time to get ready. It's like being your high school yearbook picture for, like, the rest of forever. All I'm saying is, if you ever bite another girl give her more time to get herself ready."
"Don't worry, I will."
"What?"
"Nothing."

January 16 - The Rosewater Wellness Spa

Machiko entered the Nippori branch of the Rosewater Wellness Spa, took off her shoes, and put them in one of the shoebox-sized lockers on the wall near the entrance. Then she locked the locker, took the key, and started toward the front desk, but then decided to take off her socks too and leave them with her shoes.
She went back to her locker and opened it, but her shoes were gone. Not only that, but the back side of the locker was open. She looked through the opening and she could make out a room. A few people walked past the opening. One of them stopped and looked through the opening. He made eye contact with her, registered an expression of shock, and quickly closed the back side of the locker.
Machiko looked around the entrance way, but nobody else was there besides a couple of staff at the front desk looking at computer monitors.
She put her hands on her hips and frowned, wondering if she'd really seen what she'd seen.
Then she put her socks back on, left the Rosewater Wellness Spa, and went next door where a receptionist chirped a welcome. Machiko ignored her and tried to estimate where in the building the room with her shoes was.
The receptionist stood up.
"Sorry, you can't go in there," she said, but it was too late. Machiko pushed the door open and went into the room which appeared to be some sort of a lab. It was bright and clean and there were computers and lab equipment everywhere. Two men and one woman in lab coats stopped what they were doing and looked at her.
"You're not supposed to be in here," one of the men said.
Machiko looked around. "What is this place?"
The people in the lab coats looked at each other and then at Machiko. Finally, the woman said, "Give her her shoes."
The other man looked at her. "Which--?"
The woman motioned to Machiko's shoes with her chin and the man picked up the shoes and handed them to Machiko. She accepted them hesitantly keeping her back toward the open door, glancing behind her occasionally.
"What is this place?" she asked again.
The woman spoke this time, apologizing for her inconvenience and bowing deeply.
The receptionist squeezed into the room behind Machiko. "I'm so sorry. I tried to stop her but she wouldn't listen."
"That's all right," said the woman. "She's leaving now."
"Not until you tell me what this place is."
Again the people in the lab coats looked at each other before their eyes settled on the woman, who, Machiko came to believe, was in charge.
"Come in," the woman said. "And close the door."
Machiko hesitated.
"Don't worry," she assured her.
Machiko put on her shoes, stepped into the room, and closed the door.
The woman told her about the place and it was clear from her delivery that she had told the story before, possibly many times. The short version was that the room was a lab where they--a team of geneticists--conducted DNA testing of women who frequented the various branches of Rosewater Wellness Spas all across Tokyo (and throughout Japan). They took DNA samples from the women's shoes while they were visiting the spa. Thus, the shoe lockers with the back doors.
The geneticists were looking for a grown daughter of the Japanese royal family who, in a freak mishap, had been sent home from the hospital with the wrong family at birth. It was only in the last few years that the mistake had come to light and the royal family was desperate to find the female, now 32 years old, who was the rightful heir to the Japanese throne. They figured that since most women in Japan visited spas at least occasionally, taking a DNA sample from their shoes while they did so was the best shot they had at identifying the missing daughter.
Machiko's mind reeled as the woman told her the story.
"But the crown prince--"
The woman shook her head. "--has been in a coma since a car accident two years ago. We managed to cover it up and we've been using lookalikes for his public appearances ever since. Needless to say, he won't be assuming the throne."
"His brother?"
"Alcoholic and completely unfit for the role. Everybody on the inside knows it and that's how we've been able to ammend the succession laws."
"And so the woman you're looking for is 32?"
"Yes."
Machiko's eyes lit up before she could stop herself. She was 32 years old. Not only that, but she had been adopted at birth and didn't know who her birth parents were.
But the woman in the lab coat didn't let that fantasy get too far.
"Sorry," she said. "It's not you, Ms--" her eyes scanned Machiko's file. "--Tanaka. We actually tested you twice because you fit the profile in so many other ways. But no, sorry."
Machiko felt disappointed that she wasn't actually a long lost princess, and then she felt silly for getting her hopes up so quickly, especially over such a preposterous story. She had barely even gone through a princess phase when she was a little girl. And now to be caught fantasizing--however fleetingly--about such a scenario? She felt embarrassed that the woman in the lab coat had been able to read it all on her face. She hated being predicatable.
"If there's nothing else, we really should be getting back to work."
Machiko nodded, confused about how quickly everything had happened. She still had so many things to ask the geneticists, but the questions weren't forming. They turned their backs to her and went back to their work.
The receptionist put her arm around Machiko, surreptitiously jabbed her with a serum that would make her forget the whole episode, and then walked her out of the lab and back to the spa.

January 15 - Casual Friday

His name was Detective Jack Friday but everybody called him Casual Friday.
Why?
Because the dude was fucking casual.
Seriously, the guy would roll into the precinct whenever he felt like it and if the sergeant or anybody else ever gave him any shit about it, he'd be like, "Dude. Seriously. Relax."
And they would because the man was chill.
Never wore a tie, always knew the score, and generally specialized in being dug--and I mean dug hard--by all the fly chickens in every coop in every part of town.
Casual Friday.
Sometimes people would be all, "Jack Friday? Don't you mean Joe Friday?" and he'd be like, "No."
Fuck.
Seriously, man. Dude was ice cold.
Any time one of his many old ladies got down on him and accused him of running around behind her back, he'd be like, "Baby, you know you're the only girl for me. What's with all this negativity bringing us down? It's Friday, baby." And then he'd pop the cork on the champagne. "Time to celebrate."
Just one look in his eyes and they never doubted him again, because the man was pimp.
Bad guys? Fucking feared him. Tried hard to buy him off, placate him, give him a wide berth, steer clear.
Didn't matter.
Dude may've been casual, but when it came to kicking ass, he was strictly business. He'd just show up to arrest some fools, toss them the handcuffs, and be like, "You know what to do," and the cats would cuff themselves.
Fucking bad ass.
Hell, this one time he walked in on a deal involving some serious players in the Gotti clan. Must've been twenty motherfuckers in there packing. Dude just strolled in and was like, "Boys, how many times I gotta tell you? This shit will not flush in my precinct."
Are you fucking kidding me?
What happened? Dude, what do you think happened? That's right. All them motherfuckers laid down their weapons, got on their knees, and tried to remember the moment as best they could, because one day--if he let them live that long--they would get to tell their grandkids about the time they were arrested by none other than Casual Friday.
Casual motherfucking Friday.

January 14 - Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out

I may not be the only person you know who was conceived the night his parents met, but I'll bet I'm the only person you know who has a recording from that night.
It's not what you're thinking, or at least it's not what I'll bet you're thinking. My parents met at a Stones show at the Garden on November 27, 1969, and a recording of the concert was released as an album: Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out. If you've heard that album, you've heard my parents. And I don't mean that in some sort of bullshit way like, my parents were in the audience so if you can hear the audience you can hear my parents, or some other such fuckity fuck. No. Like, you can totally hear them, like, their distinct voices.
Side one: Right before Sympathy, you can hear this woman requesting Paint it Black and she sounds all bored and ho-hum like she's been saying paint it black all day but nobody will pay any attention to her, and, like, it's my mom. That's her requesting Paint it Black. And then a couple seconds later, she says. "Paint it black, you devil," and it's fucking classic because why the fuck is she calling Mick a devil. She insists that she doesn't remember why she was calling him a devil, but still.
Anyway, later on in the album they play Midnight Rambler and about halfway through they slow the song way down, and Mick's like, "Well, you heard about the Boston--" and then Keith, like, nails this big "BOMP!" on his guitar and then you can hear this guy in the background yell out, "Goddamn!"
That's my dad.
You kind of have to turn it way up, but you can totally hear him.
Anyway, long story short: My dad was a roadie during that tour and my mom had scored a backstage pass hoping to get with Mick. But he didn't fancy her, though. My parents always use that word, fancy, when they tell anyone the story because that's the word Mick used. Anyway, my dad was leading my mom out of the dressing room area and he was all You can get yer ya-ya's out with me if you want. And somehow my mom went for it. Hey, it was the '60s, or at least that's always what my parents always tell me.
The really gross part is that the whole time I was growing up they kept on using "get yer ya-ya's out" as their little code word for doing it. They would always bust it out in front of me and my friends when I was growing up. They'd be all, hey babe, what do you say we leave these guys to their movie and go get our ya-ya's out. Totally used to gross me out back then, but now I'm like, whatever.
But even to this day, it's kinda weird knowing that after the show the Goddamn guy and the Paint it black, you devil woman got together and did it and then nine months later I came along and spent the rest of my life calling them mom and dad.
My dad insists that his little come on line was where the album title comes from. I don't know if that's true or not, but I gotta admit there are definitely worse Stones albums to have been recorded on the night you were conceived. I mean, can you imagine being conceived the night they finished up that one shitty album with Harlem Shuffle on it? That would totally suck.

January 13 - Bunch of Slow Ass Bastards, Man

What the hell is it, Slow Ass Bastards' Day around here? This whole damn place is horrible with slow ass bastards determined to milk their tables as long as possible. Every other jackass here is just freaking sitting there with an empty cup and an open book, completely oblivious to all of us miserable cocksuckers waiting for an empty table to sit at.
Campers, man.
Bunch of freaking blind ass campers.
A table of three started slowly gathering up their things. He stood in front of their table, shooting Hurry the Christ up! glares at them, while he got in position to box the rest of the standing customers out if necessary, but there was nobody else around. All the other hoverers were in a different section.
They weren't even close.
If these slow ass, evil hussies could put just the slightest bit of fast on it, this table will be mine.
They dillied.
And then they dallied.
Minutes passed.
And yet they lingered and chatted, their shopping bags just sitting there on the table. He looked out the corner of his eye for other options. Nearby tables were being vacated and filled. Opportunities lost.
At last the women left, and from out of nowhere a pair of crafty, devious, old crows swooped in from out of nowhere and put their things on the table.
Unfreakingbelievable.
He looked around for witnesses, fully confident that anyone who had seen the outrage would back him up.
No.
They all pretended not to notice and carried on with their conversations.
Screw this.
"Um, hi. Maybe you didn't see me, but I was kind of waiting for that table?"
"Hmm?" one of them said. "No. We were here before you. I saw you in line."
He hadn't seen them in line and in any case he felt like it didn't matter. Who kept track of who'd gotten there first?
Was it enough to get in a pissing match over, though? In front of all these people?
Yes, he thought. Hell yes. That was my table. Freaking mine. Ask anybody.
He made the commitment and leaned in to let them have it.
"Sir?"
"Yes?" He turned around.
"White chocolate truffle latte--decaf?"
Christ, he thought. Of all the days not to order black coffee.
"Yeah, that's me," he said, taking his cup.
The old women looked at him with pity, and he shriveled in stature.
His credibility shot, he slinked away to look for another table. As he was leaving, he could have sworn he heard one of the old women say, "White chocolate truffle latte decaf? What a fucking girl's drink."
And then they both laughed.

January 12 - The House Sitter

When Bill and Rachel got home from two weeks in the Caymans, they both immediately noticed that something felt off in their house, but they didn't say anything at first. After taking the luggage upstairs and getting a drink of water, Rachel couldn't ignore the nagging she was feeling any more and she asked Bill if he felt anything strange too.
"I wasn't going to say anything, but yeah. It's like--", but he didn't have the words to finish his thought. This made Rachel feel like they were probably getting the same vibe because she couldn't really put what she was feeling into words either.
"Yeah, me too," she said, scrunching up her face like something smelled bad, even though it didn't. "It's like the air is different or--yeah, I don't know. Did Paul say anything?"
"I don't know, that's what I'm checking now."
Bill picked up the note that Paul, their house sitter, had left for them with the mail on the kitchen counter. "Hi guys, welcome back. Hope you had a great time . . . blah, blah, blah . . . Yeah, no. Nothing here."
They let the matter drop and went back to unpacking and getting settled.
It wasn't until a couple of weeks later that what had felt off about their house revealed itself to Bill.
Sitting in front of the computer in his office, he slowly, horrifyingly realized that the video he was watching online had been shot in their house.
Everything in the background was unmistakably theirs: the cathedral ceilings, the fireplace, the artwork on the walls, the lamps, and the bedroom.
Oh God, the bedroom.
The video continued to play as Bill put the pieces together.
Paul told us he was a video producer.
But he never said what kind of videos.
On the flickering screen in front of Bill, a third person joined the action taking place in the bedroom where he and his wife slept every night.
Oh, Jesus.
He lost his breath and his heart pounded as he watched the video on his computer screen.
He was shocked, outraged, nauseous.
Speechless.
But in the end, he knew he wouldn't confront Paul, nor would he ever tell Rachel about what he'd seen, because eventually one of them would get around to asking him how he knew about the video. And he simply had no justifiable reason why he was checking out www.grannyfucker.com again.

January 11 - The Final Countdown

At 1:11 and 11.1 seconds on 1/11/10, Marty started the clock: precisely one year until 1/11/11 1:11.11.1, the exact time prophesied by the ancient followers of the desastre volador de alimento cult of Guatemala as the end of the world.
Exactly one year until the Grand Shitstorm.
Marty smiled to himself.
I'm gonna make this the best year ever!
Marty started the year off with a deep, cleansing nap. He didn't want to go into history's final year feeling anything less than well-rested.
Waking up a bit later than he'd planned, he decided to hold off on doing anything big that day. Instead, he would kick off the year with a grand banquet, the type of sumptuous feast befitting the beginning of the end. He would go to the store right after an episode of Saved by the Bell.
Three episodes later, the feast had been downgraded to a simple meal.
And then to a turkey pot pie he had in the freezer.
But actually, that was perfect because this should be a year of unloading, simplifying, and casting off all the excesses that had been weighing him down all these years. Yes! No more buying new stuff! He would use and whittle down all he had until exactly a year from now when there would be nothing left and he would leave the world exactly as he had entered it. Inspired, Marty sorted out his recyclables, feeling like the year was getting off to a good start.
The next day, he got up and went to work. Marty had originally planned to quit his job and spend his last year on the planet--and the planet's last year on the planet!--pursuing his passions and doing all those dream projects that he'd never been able to find the time to do. He would run with the bulls, visit Egypt, join an improv group. He would do it all!
It'll be hectic, he thought himself. But one year will be the perfect amount of time to squeeze it all in!
Unfortunately, one year was also a pretty long amount of time, and he would have to keep working during most of it and chip away at his dream projects when he could find the time. But if he timed it right, and saved and saved, and sold everything he had that was worth anything, he could arrange things so that he could take off for Christmas vacation a week early with a good chunk of change and about four weeks--almost a month!--to cram it all in.
It'll be a bit rushed, but I can do it!
Marty spent much of the next 11 months saving, planning, and resting up for his final four weeks.
The 11th of January arrived and Marty sat alone in his apartment. He had never gotten around to ending his lease and moving into the Four Seasons to spend the final week in style like he'd planned--just like he'd never gotten around to traveling the world, living life like a homeless person just to see what it was like, taking up sculpture, swimming the English Channel and running with the bulls. Like so many other things on his list, it had just gotten away from him.
No use worrying about it now!
He watched his clock count down inexorably toward the fateful moment. With five seconds left, Marty took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Here it comes.
Marty waited.
And waited.
But nothing happened.
He opened his eyes and the moment had indeed passed. His countdown clock read 0:00 and the world had failed to end. Marty couldn't believe it.
Maybe he'd gotten the prophesy wrong. Maybe it was supposed to happen at 11:11, not 1:11.
He ran some errands that afternoon, splurged and got his favorite kind of pizza for dinner (Money's not going to matter in a few hours anyway!), and then got into position and watched the clock strike 11:11.
Same thing. The world kept turning.
It was strange, but at first Marty was disappointed. But then disappointment gave way to relief.
The world hasn't ended! There's still time!
Marty felt blessed, and decided not to squander the second chance he'd been given. He still had time to do everything on his list after all. He wouldn't waste another moment.
He would get started on it right away. Right after a quick episode of The Simpsons.

January 10 - The Messenger

The most important and difficult thing was establishing his credibility and gaining their trust.
Over the years, he'd learned that this must be done gradually, delicately. If he showed them too much too soon, the job would be botched. And enough jobs had been botched for him to be well aware of the extraordinary damage that that could bring about.
He came to them in their dreams and he was as clear as he could be about the ground rules: He was going to offer them a glimpse into the future. They would have the power to change the future, but once they did, he would never come to them again, nor would he come to them again if they told anyone else at all about his visits.
However, if they were patient, if they demonstrated the will power to wait for the bigger, more significant glimpses into the increasingly distant future without altering anything about the intervening weeks, months, and years, he promised them it would be worth their while.
Most couldn't do it. Most cracked early and told their spouses or used their privileged knowledge to impress their friends. That's why he moved slowly and was careful to reveal only inconsequential but unmistakably recognizable details about the future early on. He had to make sure they believed him and he had to be sure not to give them anything that they would be too tempted to use to their short term advantage.
It often took several years to gain their complete and unquestioning trust.
Just before giving them the final reveal, he always carefully and patiently talked them through everything he had shown them about the future that had come true, like a lawyer delivering his closing arguments. He would not show them the final image until he was sure that they had 100% faith in the truth of what he was going to reveal.
Even still, they always balked. Despite the fact that everything he had shown them about the future--all the sneak previews they'd been privy to that had without exception come to fruition, they couldn't accept the final image. None of them.
After sitting quietly while they tried to come up with a loophole, they would plead with him, as if he were the one making up the rules. He wasn't. He was just the messenger.
"OK," they'd say, finally. "I can fix this. I'll--"they struggled to find other words,"--fix this."
"There is only one way to fix it."
He knew they understood what he meant right away but their minds wouldn't accept it. There was always a long pause before they spoke again. He could tell they were trying to find a way for his sentence to have a different meaning.
"I--I can't."
"You have to."
"But why?"
"It is the only way to be sure."
"But why is it the only way? How could it be the only way?"
"It's not up to me."
"But then, how do you know it's the only way? How can you be so sure? There has to be another way. I'll give him more guidance. I know I haven't been the best father in the world, but I can do better."
"It won't matter. What I have shown you is what will happen. It is the way it has been written. There is only one way it can be stopped. Anything else you do will only delay it or hasten it."
Denial soon gave way to anger.
"But why would he put me in this position?"
"I don't know," he said because he truly didn't. "Maybe he's bored. Maybe he's curious."
Almost nobody could do it. Over the millenia a few did, but history doesn't know about them.
Pen Saloth couldn't do it.
Nor could Svetozar Milošević.
And neither could Alois Hitler or Muhammed Awad bin Laden.
Some of the other angels thought his poor track record reflected poorly on humanity, that it demonstrated how blindly ignorant people were, but he didn't think so. He felt the fact that people could retain their hope and faith even in the face of the bleakest scenario imagineable was a remarkable thing.

January 9 - The Ring

"No, Dan. Don't pick that up," they told him, but it was too late. By the time the words were out of their mouths, Dan was standing upright again, holding the gold ring between his index finger and his thumb.
"Dan, seriously. You should put that down," Lin told him.
"Don't worry, I'm not gonna keep it. Somebody must have dropped this. We should give it to the police or something."
"No, Dan," said Huang. "Whoever put it there left it there on purpose."
"What?"
And they told him. In many Taiwanese cultures, parents whose daughters die before they have a chance to get married leave rings in public places. The belief is that the spirit of their daughter will find a spouse in whomever picks up the ring. Dan was impressed by the story. Part of the reason why he'd moved to Taiwan three months ago was to experience a new culture and to hear stories like these. However, at this point he was more impressed with how unexpectedly superstitious his new co-workers were. All three of them--Dan, Lin, and Huang--were medical researchers. Not the kind of people you'd expect to believe in ghost marriages.
"No, no, it's OK," he told them. "I'm not Taiwanese. She wouldn't be interested in me."
They didn't laugh.
"Dan."
"OK, OK. I'll put it back." He stooped down, pretending to put the ring exactly where he'd found it, but instead he slipped it in his pocket when they weren't looking. He would give it to the local police after they had parted ways. Dan, Lin, and Huang then continued on their way to dinner and after dinner they grabbed another drink and before long the ring had slipped his mind.
He felt a little guilty when he got home and found it in his pocket, but he told himself he would take it to the police the next day.
But the next morning came and he couldn't bring himself to do it. The dream he'd had that night was too vivid and too real not to hold on to the ring for another day--and another night--and see if he had the same kind of dream.
He did.
The next night his dream was the same, or at least it was grounded in the same world and featured the same woman--not only that night but every night for as long as he didn't return the ring, which he decided he never would because, well, these dreams. This woman.
Her name was Li and she had died single when she was 23. On Dan and Li's first night together she explained how it worked to Dan: The worlds of the living and the dead came together in dreams. In this dream world, Dan and Li were husband and wife and it was in this dream world that they would live their lives together. If Dan had stopped to think about it, he would have been taken aback by how readily he accepted this reality. But he didn't stop to think about it or question it or do anything that might make it go away.
He'd never experienced anything like it. It was a dream world governed by dream rules (which was to say, no rules at all). But unlike other dreams he'd had, he was firmly in control in these dreams, completely lucid. It was as if he were living two lives: one in the waking world, and one in the dream world--only when he woke up he was never tired. Despite effectively living a completely separate life in his sleep, when he woke up each morning he was well rested.
It didn't take him long to realize that he liked the dream world better.
The main reason was Li. Despite having coming of age in different countries, different cultures, hell, different centuries, Dan and Li had an amazing relationship, certainly the best Dan had ever had. He wanted to be with her all the time.
And so he stripped his waking world existence to its barest essentials so he could spend as much time as possible in the dream world. He reduced his hours at work and moved into a smaller, cheaper apartment. Months later, he quit his job and found something he could do at home so that he wouldn't have to commute and he could sleep longer. Using herbal Chinese medicines that Li had told him about, Dan began sleeping 12, 15, 18 hours a day, remaining in the waking world only long enough to make enough money to pay for his food and rent.
Dan took more and more of the Chinese herbal medicine and slept longer and longer each day. Finally he seized upon the idea of taking enough of the herbal medicine so that he would never wake up again and he could stay in the dream world forever.
But he miscalculated.
Instead of taking enough to switch over completely to the dream world, he ended up in a coma. But the upside of this was that he was able to spend all of his time with Li. It was glorious, blissful, all that he'd ever wanted.
And then one day it all went black.
Dan opened his eyes and he was in a hospital, having been brought out of his coma by pharmaceutical advances made possible by the very same medical research he'd started and Lin and Huang had continued after he left the company.
That night--and the next five nights he stayed in the hospital--he slept a deep, blank, dreamless sleep. He was miserable, confused. He wanted to be with Li, but she was gone.
When he got out, Lin and Huang took him to the storage facility where they had put his things when he went into the coma and the landlord had evicted him for not paying the rent.
All of his things were there and accounted for, except for the ring. Lin and Huang had gotten rid of it.