March 31 - Jumper on the Line

Moments before he was about to step in front of the train, he hesitated.
Since he was going to be dead soon anyway, why not have his favorite food one last time? The train whooshed by as he reasoned it out: He still had money and God knew he wouldn't need it tomorrow. Yeah, why not have one last steak? And since it was going to be his last meal on earth, that was as good an excuse as any to splurge and go to D'Antonio's, the high end place he'd never had the occasion to visit.
And so he did, and it was good. Remarkably good. Maybe not reason-to-go-on-living good, but definitely good.
By the time he was finished, the trains were no longer running, so he decided he would do it the next morning. No need to set his alarm clock. Not like he had anything else he had to do that day.
The next morning came and he was a little hungover from the wine he'd had with his steak the night before, but after a couple of cups of coffee he was focused and on task.
On his way to the train station, he passed the used record store where that one indie snob he always hated from afar worked: the jerkoff with the skinny jeans, hipster-approved haircut and irritating column in the weekly "alternative" paper. The one who always had a condescending way of making you feel like a loser no matter what you were buying or trying to sell back.
They'd never met but over the course of living in that neighborhood he'd developed a genuine hatred of him. So much so that he decided to make a quick stop at the record store on his way to the train station.
He walked right up to hipster record store guy and ended his phone conversation by putting his fingers on the cradle of the land line phone he was using. Then he looked him square in the eye, unfurled his middle finger and said, "Fuck you."
Hipster record store guy just stared at him dumbfounded as he put his middle finger away and then swept his arms over the Employers' Picks shelf dedicated to his recommendations and knocking them all to the floor before leaving the store triumphantly.
And it felt good.
So good that he put off his trip to the train station a bit longer and stopped by the supermarket for a celebratory beer, splurging for a wine-sized bottle of a fancy lager from Europe which he split with a homeless guy he found feeding empties into the recycling machine.
Their conversation wasn't life changing, but it felt good to socialize, and he ended up buying and sharing a few more bottles of the European lager with the guy. As the beer flowed, he thought of a few more people he wanted to give the same "Fuck you" treatment he'd given to hipster record store guy before going out, but he didn't want to do it drunk. He didn't want people's last impressions of him to be as the guy who drunkenly told them off (out of the blue) before making a one-way trip to the train station. So instead he went home and made a list of the people he would tell off the next day:

• His sister-in-law
• His brother
• Pretty much everyone at his job
• And his last job
• The "Would you mind if I worked in a set here really quick" guy from the gym who always took forever and then never wiped his sweat off the equipment
• People who talked too loudly on the train
• Smokers
• People who spit in public
• Several others

The more he wrote, the more people he thought of to add to his list. But instead of cutting it off, he let it go, and if it took longer than a day to get through everybody, then so be it.
It definitely took longer than a day to get through everybody, much longer. But once he got into a rhythm, he found the work to be very agreeable. Most people had no idea what was going on. One moment they were going about their day and minding their own business, the next this guy (depending on the person, a relative/friend/co-worker/acquaintence/complete stranger) was coming up to them, flipping them off, and saying, "Fuck you" before leaving just as suddenly as he'd arrived. If he'd bothered to think about it, he would've acknowledged that most recipients of his middle finger "Fuck you" treatment probably didn't understand what had prompted it, but he wasn't concerned about how they took it. He was focused on himself. This was for him. And just as it had with hipster record store guy, it felt good. Every time. It gave him purpose. And once he had gotten through everyone on his list, he felt more grounded. His vitriol had been sated and he no longer felt like going to the train station.
But at the same time, he didn't want to return to his old life. He couldn't. Although he'd never gone through with that fateful trip to the railroad tracks, in many ways his old self was dead. He was a new person now, reborn. Even still, he didn't want to be the "Fuck you" middle finger guy for the rest of his life, either. It had been gratifying while it lasted, but he was ready for something less spiteful. And so he made some adjustments. He kept the spirit of the "Fuck you" middle finger guy--calling people out for inconsiderate behavior (it occured to him later that this was what he hated most of the people on his list for)--but dropped the profanity and the middle finger (since profanity and middle fingers themselves were inconsiderate). His focus would be the same--ridding the world of inconsiderate behavior by calling out the people who perpetrated it--but his delivery would be more family friendly. Among his new catch phrases:

"Hey, don't be a jerk."
"Knock it off."
"Be nice."

None of which may have had the impact of "Fuck you" and a middle finger, but he liked them anyway, and used them every day.
It felt good to have a purpose.

March 30 - Ice Cream Party

It's high time we had an alternative to the Tea Party movement, and I can't be the only one who thinks so. Every time you turn on the news there's some sort of Tea Party rally, and everybody's so angry. Obama's turning us into a nation of socialists! What the hell kind of tea are they drinking anyway? I thought tea was supposed to calm you down. Isn't that what Sleepy Time Tea has made a fortune off of? Tea should be all about cuddly bears in sleeping caps gently dozing off in front of a crackling fireplace, not angry white people yelling about how we need to take the country back. We need something different. And until somebody comes along with a better idea, I've got a suggestion: The Ice Cream Party.
It's pretty simple. Everybody just calms down and has some ice cream. No political agendas, no jingoism, no getting hysterically pissed off about something they're only semi-informed about. The Ice Cream Party is just about Americans getting together and having ice cream, regardless of political affiliation, race, age, gender, religion, socio-economic status, and all the rest of it. We should still be able to do that, right? After all, at the end of the day we're all Americans. (Well, all of us except for the ones who aren't but even non-Americans can be cool sometimes, so maybe we should invite them, too.)
People can have whatever kind of ice cream they want. They're not going to have any liberal Vermont Ben & Jerry's forced on them. Sure, they can have that if that's what they want, but they can also have Baskin Robbins, Breyers, Friendly's, McDonald's, Mr. Softee, whatever. They can even make their own ice cream.
Don't get me wrong: It's great that people are getting involved in democracy, but it's getting ugly and mean out there. We all need to take a break from the tea and the hysteria. Who's with me on this? You scream, I scream, let's all scream for ice cream.
And I'll bring the sprinkles.

March 29 - Funny Faces

Michael took a seat on the subway facing a mom, a dad, and their little girl. While the mom and dad talked, their little girl--probably about two years old-- sat on her mom's lap and gazed vacantly across the aisle. Sitting next to the family was an attractive woman in a business suit who looked up at Michael briefly and then returned to her Blackberry, the faintest trace of a smile visible on her face.
Michael put his paper aside and glanced at the woman in the suit who glanced back. Figuring he would win her over by getting the little girl across the aisle to laugh, he smiled and waved at the little girl, but the little girl didn't respond.
The mom and dad continued talking and the little girl continued staring into the distance. It was like she was watching a cartoon or a video game that only she could see. Michael smiled again and stuck his tongue out at her, and when she didn't flinch he upgraded to peek-a-boo. The woman in the suit caught a glimpse of him and smiled more openly, but there was still nothing from the little girl, although her mom flashed him a perfunctory half smile as if to say, OK. Efforts acknowledged. You can go back to your paper now before returning to her conversation with her husband.
But it wasn't the mom's acknowledgement Michael wanted, it was her daughter's--and through hers, the woman's. Besides, now he was committed to the project, and if smiles and peek-a-boo didn't get him anything, he would have to break out the big guns: funny faces. He put his palms on the side of his face and stretched his mouth and his eyes so that they were slants.
Nothing.
He pinched his eyelids and cheeks and scrunched his face up with buckteeth.
Nope.
He stuck his bottom lip out, put his hands on both sides of his face and pulled down.
Not so much as a blink.
The woman in the suit glanced his way again to see how he took the lack of reaction. Cut bait and call it a nice effort? No way. He wasn't going to back down, not until he got something from her, and if he had to use the nuclear option, he was prepared to do that: Funny faces with sound effects.
Sneaking a quick look at the woman in the suit, he went through the same faces he'd made at the little girl before and added cartoonish boogity-oogity voices to them and finally, finally the girl responded. Her eyes and nose scrunched up in what looked like a precursor to laughter before she buried her face in her mother's arms and cried.
Michael was taken aback. The woman in the suit and several other passengers looked at him to see what he had done and he recoiled in shock.
"Hey asshole," her father mouthed at him. "She's blind, OK?"
The woman in the suit rolled her eyes and texted her boyfriend while the girl sobbed in her mother's arms and Michael prayed for the train to hurry up and get to its next stop.

March 28 - The Mask

Every year, hay fever allergies beat the hell out of him and caused him to go through several boxes of tissues. But one year, he decided that rather than just throwing the snot drenched tissues away, he would hold onto them. And not just hold onto them, but recycle them. And not just recycle them, but make them into something both creative and useful: a snot and tissue paper mache mask that he would use to inoculate himself against future seasons' allergies.
It took him about two weeks to make the mask, and at the end of hay fever season he put it in storage. Then, the following year, when hay fever season was about to start, he got the mask out of storage, put it on, and slept in it, believing that the tiny doses of pollen in the mask would help his body build up its defenses, enabling him to get through hay fever season scot-free.
It didn't work. That year, even with the mask, hay fever hit him just as hard as it had the previous year.
Undeterred, he decided he needed to up the ante. Figuring that the problem was that he was using his own snot for the mask and that he was probably immune to it, he decided he would make a new mask with other people's snot. And so every opportunity he got, he went through the waste paper baskets in his office building and smuggled whatever used tissues he could find back to his house where he used them to make another mask.
But it didn't work either. If anything, his hay fever was even worse that year. And so over the following year, he developed a machine that could extract snot out of used tissues. His goal was to harvest enough of it to fill a kiddie pool, which he would then submerse himself in, believing it would give him a whole body inoculation from hay fever.
Although he wasn't able to get quite enough to fill a kiddie pool, he did get enough to fill a coffin that he bought wholesale from a friend who owned a funeral home. That year, at the onset of hay fever season, he could barely conceal his excitement as he submerged himself in the snot-filled coffin. Finally, he would defeat hay fever! He lay back in the coffin and let the sticky snot wrap itself around every inch of his arms and legs, fingers and toes. It filled his earlobes and enveloped his armpits, crotch, face, and hair. It crept up his nose and down his throat. Believing he had the ability to breathe through the snot and extract the oxygen he needed from it to survive, he didn't fight the process and let it enter his body.
But he was wrong. They found him four days later, drowned in a coffin full of snot.
The moral of the story is: Stay away from snot baths. They might just kill you.

March 27 - Coke Zero

You're such a fuck-up. Those were her exact words, and the hell of it was that he couldn't really argue with her.
The weekend had not gone as planned. It rained when it should have been sunny. The hotel was completely booked when he'd assured her that getting a room without a reservation wouldn't be a problem. And as it turned out, they were exactly one week late for the festival that they (but mostly she) had wanted to see.
His accidentally calling her by his ex-girlfriend's name during sex didn't help either.
And so they were on their way back a day early. Not a lot of conversation. He knew she would get over it eventually, but for now he felt it would be best to let her sleep and then work on a full-scale apology when they got back. He held her overnight bag in his lap and watched the night time scenery speed by.
Their train pulled into a station a few hours from home. There were vending machines on the platform. As a first step toward an apology, he decided he would get a Coke Zero to surprise her with when she woke up. The last train of the night usually stayed at each station a bit longer, so he knew he would have more than enough time to get off, get the drink, and then get back on before the doors closed.
She didn't wake up as the train stopped, and he shimmied out the door, as smooth and quiet as a ninja. The nearest Coke machine was several cars down the platform, and he wasted valuable seconds debating whether or not to chance it before deciding that yes, he'd do it, he'd make it.
He ran down the platform, dug into his pockets, and came up with a handful of change--but not enough. His heart racing, he dropped her overnight bag, got out his wallet, and with trembling fingers pulled out a bill.
The conductor blew his whistle.
He shoved the money into the slot. The sucked it in and spit it back out.
The conductor blew his whistle again.
He thought about aborting. No. I've got this. He straightened out the bill, fed it into the slot, and glanced down the platform which was practically empty of people. The machine sucked his bill in as the conductor stepped back onto the train. The machine lit up, he pressed the Coke Zero button, the can dropped to the opening, he grabbed it and then all but dove back onto the train.
He was elated until he turned around and looked at the Coke machine. Sitting there next to it was her overnight bag containing her cash, credit cards, ID, cell phone, keys, and asthma medicine.
Oh, God!
He leaped off the train to get the bag, and he had it in his hands when the doors closed and he helplessly watched the train pull out of the station.

March 26 - Inner Monologue of a Trained Sea Lion That Performs at Sea World

Here we go again. 11:30 am. Showtime at Sea World. Twenty minutes of yucking it up for yet another identical crowd of camera toting parents and their oohing, ahhing easily impressed children.
Fuck my ass.
There is literally nothing I don't hate about this job: the skits, the tricks, the audience, the trainer, and my willing involvement in all of it. I can believe I actually auditioned for this job and got stressed out about the possibility that I might not get it. Yeah, that would've been a real tragedy. I would have had to stay in the communal pool and spend my day swimming, sunning myself, and eating fish. Wow, that would have sucked.
But no. Instead, I get to trot out in front of the morons twice a day and act like an asshole so the trainers can toss me enough fish to keep me alive long enough to do it again tomorrow. Speaking of which, there's my cue.
OK, people. Yes, right. I'm cute. I'm so adorable with the way I drag myself around with my front flippers and then slide. Hey, guess what, fuckies: We're sea lions. That's how we move. Unlike everything else I'm about to humiliate myself by doing, this handy little way of getting around ain't for your entertainment. It's just how we move. Hold you applause for the tricks, dummies. Jesus.
And here we go with the balancing the ball on our nose trick. And now the balancing our body weight on our front flippers and looking like complete douche bags while doing it. And now we're basically pretending to be a human family because what on earth could possibly be cuter than an animal pretending to be a person? And that's what it comes down to, isn't it? Being cute. They only like us animals if we're cute or food. Or both.
You want to know what really sucks about this gig? Everything. Seriously, man. Everything. For one thing, it's actually hard work. Balancing all my weight on one flipper is not easy at all. For another thing, as performers we're totally isolated from the rest of the group like we're freaking Chinese gymnasts or something. And it's like, hey, assholes: We're social creatures. We thrive in the company of others. But no. Separate tanks. And they probably think they're doing us a favor somehow. Twice a day during my show I can see the main sea lion pool and that fucking Sammy makes it a point to be in my line of vision every time so I can see him laughing at me and scamming on Brenda. And they're totally going to mate, you can tell. Meanwhile, I'm over here doing photo ops and barking like a jerk every time the trainer throws me a fish.
God, I suck.
And now here comes the finale where we play those Goddamned horns and set the animal liberation movement back another 25 years. But what the hell, I get a fish so it's worth it, right?
Whatever. Show's over. Thanks for coming. See you again at 2:30.

March 25 - WOLFF

You know what I wish they'd come out with? An Ultimate Fighting Championship for old women. Don't laugh, I'm serious.
My buddies and I were talking about this the other day and I think it would totally take off. You could call it World Old Lady Fighting Federation, or WOLFF.
WOLFF, fool! Try keeping a straight face when you tell me that's not totally badass. That's right, bitch. I didn't think so.
How it would work is it'd basically be just like UFC, except instead of guys you'd have old ladies from around the world stepping into the octagon and just getting rude with each other. No holds barred, no limits, no rules. What, like you wouldn't be all over watching some hard, wiry, leathery old woman from a hills tribe in Laos going toe to toe with a beefy, blue-haired recovering communist from the Ukraine? Shit would be off the freaking hook man, because these women--all of them--are as hard as nails: Mongolian yak herders, Romanian factory workers, Bulgarian collective farmers, Chinese hostess club managers, Peruvian mountain guides, Malian subsistence farmers. What do all of these women have in common? Everything up until now--their whole existence--has essentially been a training program that has shaped them into hard nosed, hard assed, no nonsense survivors and ass whoopers of the highest magnitude. And if someone was like, Andy, would you ever mess with any of these women, you know what I'd say? I'd be all, Hell no, dude.
And that's just the women who have had work outside the home. That's before you tap into the unlimited reserves of badassery that exist in any pocket of the world where women do the heavy lifting for their households (i.e. pretty much everywhere). You see, a woman's work is like a master's course in stepping up and doing what needs to be done, and I can't be the only one out there who thinks the time is long overdue for these women to have a forum for putting their ass kicking skills to work. Enough screwing around. Let's make this happen because it would kick so much ass.
Seriously: If you put all the hardest, toughest, meanest old ladies from around the world into one fighting league, who do you think would win?
I'll tell you: The audience, dude. The audience.
Dig me hard on this one, kiddies: They are WOLFF. And it is time to hear them roar.

March 24 - The Vendor

"What are these?"
"Those? Those are teeth."
"Seriously."
"Seriously."
Alan held the baby food jar up to eye level and looked inside. It was more than halfway filled with teeth, many of them with roots, some with blood marks.
"Jesus. Where are they from?"
"Dentists' offices, mostly," said the guy, dusting off a mason jar that was filled with murky liquid and a fetal pig.
"And people buy them?"
"Sometimes, sure."
"Who?"
"Who?"
"Yeah, who buys them? Just curious." Alan hoped he wasn't unwittingly asking the vendor to violate some sort of buyer/seller confidentiality.
"I dunno, people?" he said and went to another part of his section at the flea market to help another customer.
People, thought Alan as he scanned the guy's card tables and tin shelves: More jars of teeth. Another jar labeled toenail clippings was filled with what looked like toasted shredded coconut. Paper bags labeled blond, brunette, amber, etc. lined the bottom shelves. A card table had framed sections of plaster, tile, drywall, and paneling with what looked like bullet holes in them. More jars with murky liquid, silt, and animal remains. What looked like several first attempts at taxidermy: pets, squirrels, birds. A human skull. The headless torso of a mannequin painted white and fixed with wings instead of arms. Medical textbooks, photos of burn victims, prosthetic limbs, spent shell casings. Various blunt objects: bats, golf clubs, tire irons. Cutlery. A rogues' gallery of ragged and stained stuffed toys. Doll babies with missing limbs and eyes.
Alan noticed the guy was standing near him again.
"Where do you get all this stuff?"
The guy gave Alan an appraising look. "You a badge?"
"A--No. No, I'm not."
"If you are and I ask you, you have to tell me. Otherwise, it's entrapment."
"No, I promise you I'm not a badge." Alan was 95% sure the guy was using 'badge' to mean 'police,' but whatever else badge could have meant he was sure he wasn't that either.
"Sorry, gotta ask. With some of this stuff, well, not sure it's 100%, you know. Anyway, I got sources. People. I got people in places who get me this stuff."
Alan felt like the guy must have thought he was wearing a wire, what with the way he was cryptically talking around his answer without using any identifiable nouns.
"I got friends on the force who get me crime scene stuff like these," he said handing Alan a couple of shell casings, "you know, after the trial is all done. Dental hygienists get me the teeth. Hair's easy. You can get hair anywhere."
Good to know, thought Alan.
"Other stuff, I got meth-heads who go dumpster diving at hospitals and clinics."
"No."
"Yeah. Swear to God. Shit, meth heads'll do worse than that for money. Way worse."
Alan didn't need any examples, nor did he want to know what was in the coolers.
"So, like, who buys this stuff?"
"Ah, I dunno. People? Some rock singer wants a necklace made of baby teeth. Some Goth wants some," he used his hands to illustrate, "dark and disturbing shit for their apartment. Some people probably use some of it for voodoo."
"Seriously?"
"I dunno. Sure, why not? Point is, there's no one kind of people that buys this stuff. It's all kinds of people."
Alan shrugged.
"Hey, different strokes, right?"
Alan nodded in agreement, thanked the guy for his time, and went to the next vendor's section.

March 23 - The Conference

The speaker droned on for hours.
Inside the filled-to-capacity conference room, the AC was broken and the temperature was in the upper 80s, possibly 90s. Jeremy shifted in his seat again and pulled his socks down. His shins were sweating. His brow was sweating, and so were his back and upper lip. Hell, everything was sweating, but he was trapped in the back of the room.
He looked out the window again and the scene couldn't have been more crushing. Years from now, the town's historians would look back on that day as the most perfect spring day in history and he was stuck in the Most Boring Conference Session Ever. Liberation was just on the other side of a first story window, but it may as well have been worlds away.
"Blah, blah, blah," said the speaker. He was almost certain he actually heard him say blah, blah, blah.
Jeremy looked out the window again: A brunette in a sundress put a couple of bags in the back of a red convertible and looked through the window of the conference room. Made eye contact with Jeremy.
Smiled.
For once in his life, Jeremy was cool about it. He didn't reflexively look down, he didn't look over his shoulders to make sure she wasn't smiling at someone else, and he didn't panic. He smiled back and held the eye contact as long as she did.
And then she squinted her eyes a bit and mouthed, "Je-re-my?"
He perked up and strained his eyes to get a better look at her.
"Su-sie?" he mouthed back.
And she nodded, Susie Jenkins from high school nodded. Susie Jenkins, the girl Jeremy should've asked to the prom but didn't for reasons escaped him right now, nodded, and then motioned for him to wait a minute while she went through her purse and came up with a cell phone.
"Text me," she mouthed and then used her fingers to communicate her phone number.
The speaker rambled his way closer to the title of World's Most Boring Speaker as Jeremy texted, "Hey!" and then sent it to her number.
Outside the window, Susie showed him her phone as if to say got it, and then started working on a response.
Jeremy looked at the speaker who was obviously oblivious to what was going on and then checked his settings to make sure his message signal was off.
The reply came.
"Holy (emoticon for poop)! Long time, no C. What R U doing?"
Jeremy thumbed furiously: "Besides dying of boredom, not much."
Moments later, the answer: "LOL. Meeting? Class? Inquiring minds want 2 know."
"Conference. Insurance law. Snore."
"Ouch. Can U escape? Wanna hang out?"
"God, I wish."
"Come on then."
"Kind of hard to just leave."
"(emoticon for chicken)."
And that was it Being called a chicken was what did it. Peer pressure was what made him slide the window open and toss his things out before stepping through the opening with one leg, saluting the conference attendees staying behind, and then stepping the rest of the way through and hopping down. The other attendees followed them with their eyes as far as they could. The speaker never seemed to notice. Jeremy and Susie were laughing as they drove away.
And it was great. They drove with the top down and talked and laughed. Susie was single and looked even better than she had in high school. She'd just moved back to the area and was excited to be back and excited that Jeremy was still there. They caught each other up on mutual acquaintances, and filled each other in on what they'd been doing since graduation, and it was completely natural and effortless.
They had dinner and laughed about how they totally should have gone to the prom together and, yeah, what had they been thinking? They flirted more openly as the wine flowed. There was sustained eye contact. Smiles. The rest of the restaurant faded into the background.
More wine, more laughing.
Night swimming in the ocean.
More wine on the beach. Laughter. Truth or dare and it was just like they were in high school again.
Back to the car.
Kissing.
Then more than kissing.
Then lots more.
Then sleep.
They woke up to the sounds of applause. A group of spring breakers who had happened upon them hooted and cheered and roused them from their slumber. They covered themselves with blankets and squinted into the sun.
Jeremy laughed a bit and looked over at Susie, but she was gone, replaced by the business suit clad conference attendee who'd been sitting next to him when he'd started daydreaming. She was clapping, as was everyone else. Jeremy looked out the window. If the convertible had ever been there in the first place, it was gone now. The speaker chatted with a few conference attendees at the front of the room while everyone else closed their laptops and put away their things. Jeremy rubbed his eyes, pulled up his socks, and got ready for the next session.

March 22 - An Open Letter to Michael Jordan Written by the Birmingham Barons Player Who Lost His Position When Jordan Quit Basketball to Play Baseball

Let me be the first one to congratulate and welcome you to the team, Mr. Jordan. Everyone here at the Birmingham Barons is just thrilled to have you on board, and looks forward to a long and fruitful association. If we were all at a bar right now, you know what I would say? I would say, "Raise your glasses and join me in toasting the newest member to the Barons family. Here, here!"
But of course we're not at a bar, so instead let me tell you that I'm especially honored to be the man who has been called upon to sacrifice his place on the team--and along with it, his dreams of playing in the majors!--so that you can give baseball a shot.
At last, after having been stuck for the last 10 years in a tragically dead-end career in the NBA you will finally have an opportunity to pursue your lifelong dream of playing professional baseball. You'll have a chance to achieve! And isn't that what this country is all about, giving everyone a shot at glory? And that really does go for everyone, whether you're a humble high school dropout from rural Georgia (hi!) or a multimillionaire, perennial NBA all-star, scoring champ, Finals MVP and member of three NBA Championship teams, two Olympic Gold Medal winning teams, and a collegiate National Championship winning team. No matter who you are, everyone deserves a shot, Mr. Jordan. I'm just glad that now that you've finally put that ignominious basketball nonsense behind you, you'll finally get yours.
Please don't worry about me. My cousin back in Flatsborough told me he could get me some hours at the Chevron station. I'll be fine. Besides, I've been playing single A ball for going on four months now. If I haven't made it by now, I obviously wasn't ever going to make it anyway. And so I readily relinquish my position to you, Mr. Jordan, in the hopes that you can soar higher in professional baseball than I ever could have. Mr. Jordan--His Airness--I wish you God speed and the best of luck in the pursuit of your dream.
Fuckin' dick.

March 21 - The Leader of the Gang That Will Go on to be Named the Baseball Furies Unveils His Vision for the New Identity of Their Gang

OK homies, I know we've been struggling to come up with a name and identity for our gang for a long time, but I think I've finally come up with something good. Let me walk you guys through this.
First of all, forget everything you thought you knew about street gangs. Forget leather jackets, gang colors, guns, knives, all that shit. Just chuck all that tired conventional bullshit right out the window.
Is it all gone? Good because now I've got a question for you dudes: Have you ever noticed how stone cold creepy mimes are with their makeup and the way they never talk and shit? Well, what could be creepier and more badass than a fucking gang of mimes?
Bitches, I shall tell you: A gang of baseball playing mimes!
Boys, I give you the Baseball Furies.
Look at this picture I drew. Just look at it. Are you fucking kidding me? Motherfucker is like the missing member of Kiss in a baseball uniform--and he's got a baseball bat?! Are you seriously telling me that you would fuck with that guy? A whole gang of that guys? Fucking forget about it.
Dig:
Crazy ass face paint? Check.
Old skool uniforms? Check.
Serious ass WTF factor? Check.
Honestly guys, who's going to stand up to us if we go out dressed like that? Seriously, tell me because I want to know. The Warriors? Screw those vest wearing douche bags. The Baseball Furies would knock them out of the park in the first inning.
Who else? Those sissies who cruise around the subway station on roller skates? Bitches, please. We'd be all "foul ball, fools!" just prior to letting loose with a serious ass Baseball Furies beatdown all over their rollerskating asses. Next.
The Gramercy Riffs? Freaking Cyrus? Really? That bitch would strike the motherfuck out if he tried to go to bat against the Baseball Furies and then we'd be all up in his grill saying, "Can you dig it? Can you dig it? No, Cyrus. We cannot dig it!" And then we'd just stroll away twirling our baseball bats like the Baseball Furies we are.
OK, who's with me?
Batter up, Baseball Furies. Batter the motherfuck up.

March 20 - A Research Study Into the Honesty of Japanese People

The Japanese are well known for their honesty. Stories abound of lost wallets and purses (and their contents) being mailed back to their owners by the scrupulous Japanese citizens who find them. However, it always seemed that none of the stories people hear are ever traceable to a particular person who has experienced this honesty phenomenon firsthand, so one day armchair sociologist Martin Greengrass decided to put the stories to the test.
He got five wallets and put cash, pictures, restaurant/store point cards, and a piece of identification (with his address) in each one. Then he went out and "left behind" each wallet in a public place.
This proved harder than he'd thought. Tokyo is a crowded city, and the first several times he set one of the wallets down on a bench or counter top and walked away from it, he was chased down by someone who'd seen him do it and was eager to return it to him. However, he eventually managed to leave all five behind without being noticed. Then he went home and waited for the wallets to find their way back to him.
A few days passed.
Then a week.
And then another week.
And then midway through the third week the police showed up at Martin's door with all five wallets and their contents, along with a translator, having (correctly) assumed that Martin's Japanese wasn't that good.
They asked him why he had so many wallets and how he had managed to lose them all. He sheepishly told them about his experiment, and the translator told him that they had suspected that that's what had been going on.
"It is an interesting experiment, Greengrass-san," the translator told him. "However, your methods are not so sound. Five wallets in one city does not constitute a sufficient experimental sample. Also, your placements were too . . . what is the word . . . haphazard? Furthermore, you had no control groups. Therefore, we took the liberty of conducting our own study based on what we assumed was your premise--that given the opportunity, Japanese people will do the morally upstanding thing and return lost or forgotten property to its rightful owner. Here," he said, handing Martin a binder that read A Research Study Into the Honesty of Japanese People.
"We apologize for taking such a long time to return your wallets, but it took us some time to put this study together."
Martin thumbed through the binder which contained charts, tables, and extensive explanations of all the contents. It was well over 100 pages long.
"You put this together just for me?"
The translator nodded. "We hope you don't think we were too--" he typed something into his electronic dictionary,"--presumptuous, but it seemed that this is what you were looking for."
The translator took Martin's silence for understanding and thanked him for his time. Then he and the other policemen bowed and went back to their office.

March 19 - Inner Monologue of the Owner of a Place Called Ska Bar in Koh Samui, Thailand

Man, fuck this fucking place. I really mean it this time. A bloody ska bar? In Koh Samui? Jesus H. Skanking Christ, what was I thinking? Yeah, it'll be brilliant. Instead of coming here for a week every year, just fucking go for it and get your own place. Just do it. Open your own bar. How hard can it be? Chill at the beach all day, run the bar at night, play some ska, get some regulars who actually like good music instead of the shite you hear at every other fucking bar here and, you know, just have a go at it. Do what you love and the money will follow. That's what everybody always says, right?
Right. That statement deserves a big old asterisk that says, "Except open up a place called Ska Bar in Southeast Asia, because it's so plainly a crap idea."
But of course nobody tried to talk any sense into me. They were all like, do it, man, live the dream, especially my mates so they could come out here every winter and have a place to stay and drink beer and play pool on a completely rubbish pool table and assume that all the help will want to shag them. They all had advice and tips and ideas for me, but you know what none of them said that would've saved me a ton of grief?
Ska is some fucking shite ass music, man.
Holy bloody cocksucking hell, man. If you play it all night every night, you quickly realize that this ska shit all sounds the same. Every bit of it. There I was thinking it was pretty diverse, what with Studio One and then 2-Tone, and the third wave and some of the J-ska coming out of Japan, and so on, but a list like that always ends with "so on" even though that's all there is: Studio One, 2-Tone, third wave, and a bit of Japanese shit. That's it. No more. There's no massive eclectic ska scene out there bubbling under the surface. We've already heard everything there is to be heard when it comes to ska, believe me.
And here's another thing: Who actually likes this shit? It ain't hot Thai women--or any other women for that matter. And apparently not that many guys. Here I was thinking it would pull people in after the Full Moon parties or away from the clubs looking for some real music but people don't give a rat's arse about music when they come to Thailand. They just want to get fucked up.
I could be back in London working for a bank pulling in a couple thousand quid a month. Instead I'm down here in Thailand year-round, running this bloody Ska Bar.
Fuck me, man.

March 18 - The Mind Reading Flight Attendant

It was only during the pre-flight safety demonstration that the flight attendant was able to read minds. There was something about the combination of mindless routinized actions that she had done a million times(demonstrating how to fasten a seatbelt, unfasten a seatbelt, and put on her emergency oxygen mask before assisting others) and a keen vigilence of her surroundings that made it possible. She'd tried to replicate the conditions to make it work in other situations, but it never did. She was only ever able to read minds during the few minutes of safety demonstrations before take off.
As she kept herself in sync with the head flight attendant's reading of the safety instructions, she listened without listening, her mind free to wander the aisles and rows of business class and pick up snatches of passengers' thoughts. A woman tending to her baby glanced up at her: Yeah, you're looking really good now, aren't you, you little hussy. Squeeze out a couple of these and then come see me.
An overweight businessman across the aisle looked up from his magazine: If this plane goes down and I'm not too fucking terrified to get hard, let's say you and me join the mile high and falling fast club, toots. I'll make it worth your while. And if not, screw it. We'll both be too fucking dead for it to matter, am I right?
A young guy in a suit in the back of business class watched her closely throughout the demonstration while most of the other passengers talked to each other or read. She focused on him: She probably thinks I'm a perv staring at her like this, but screw it. I always feel bad for them standing up there doing their thing and nobody paying any attention to them. People should show these women more respect.
She smiled at him.
Plus I would totally tap that.
And then rolled her eyes.

March 17 - Safari

The land cruiser arrived and the passengers went inside the giant tent which was filled with cakes, pies, cookies, torts, a sundae bar, a crepe station, vats of puddings, and all manner of decadent treats. Everyone grabbed a plate and silverware and tucked in--all but John, who approached the driver.
"Um, excuse me. This isn't quite what I was expecting. I thought we were going dune buggying and checking out camels and shit like that."
"Oh, no, sir. You're thinking of the desert safari. This is the dessert safari."
At about the same time, an identical land cruiser ripping through the sand dunes nearly rolled over and a hefty German passenger with strudel on the brain soiled himself. It was not the outing he thought he'd signed up for.

March 16 - The Shining

I'm in Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport with a long layover listening to the theme from The Shining on my iPod. I barely slept last night, if at all. The lack of sleep, the ominousness of the song, the isolation caused by having earbuds in my ears, and the steel, tile and dust of the post-Soviet layout of the airport are all casting a surreal and foreboding pallor over everything I see: A couple walks by holding hands, the man laughing, the woman not. A man in uniform looks at me from across the room and speaks into a walkie-talkie. The woman in the cell phone ad that's looping on the TV screen looks directly into my eyes and shushes me. Outside, barely visible in the cold distance, a lone figure walks along the runway. Inside, a baby cries; her mother ignores her. Passengers walk through the terminal in slow motion, a few of them looking at me briefly and then looking away. There's Russian writing everywhere. Every time I turn my head, my eyes take a second to catch up. The snows have started again. It's cold. I need to get out of here.

March 15 - Under the Hood

A few minutes ago, while walking around Dubai I spotted an exceptionally large woman. She was dressed in a black burka that seemed to be enjoying a second career after having retired from its original position as a ninja's parachute. This woman was big. Real big. Security detail for a pro wrestler big.
Only her hands, feet, and eyes were visible. Everything else was covered by her burka. I got close enough to see that her feet and hands--both the backs of her hands and her palms--were covered with intricate henna tattoos. And before I could stop myself, I started speculating on the character of this woman--based solely on those tattoos.
The first conclusion I came up with was that when it came to making love, I'm pretty sure old triple XL might just have something to teach us all. I mean, with those crazy ass tattoos visible on her hands and feet, there's just no telling what kind of sordid tales lurked underneath her burka. Maybe I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm betting that visible henna tattoos are the Arab world's equivalent of a back tattoo and a thong peaking out from hip hugging jeans on a woman in the States: probably not one to take home to meet your parents, but definitely one to take home, if you catch my drift.
The woman's size and the way she carried herself also led me to believe that she was well versed in the fine art of putting foot to ass. Hers was a monumental presence: strictly business, no nonsense. Judging from her unhurried gait and imposing swagger, I'd say there was no way you'd want to cross paths with that woman. Tons of Fun could turn into Tons of Trouble in the blink of an eye, and you would not want to be the one who'd flicked that switch. All I'm saying is if I ever found out that she'd entered a round robin ass whooping/ass throwing tournament, I'd put next month's rent on her. Without hesitation. Purely a hunch and purely hypothetical, but I'm almost never wrong about these things.
Anyway, food for thought, my friends. Food for thought.

March 14 - Piggyback

As I wandered the side streets and alleys of Old Dubai, at every turn there was someone eager to sell me something--imitation watches, pashmina shawls, gold necklaces, T-shirts, etc. It was exhausting but exhilerating.
A midget Arab approached me carrying a tray of bottled water and juices.
"Would you like to buy cold drink, sir?"
"No, thanks. But I think I see somebody who could use a piggyback ride!"
"No, thank you, sir," he told me but it was too late.
"Get up there, you," I said, hoisting him up on my shoulders. He protested and begged me to put him down, but I could tell he didn't really mean it.
"All aboard the Piggyback Express! HOO HOO!" I shouted, intoxicated by the excitement of making a new friend in a foreign land. I charged us through the throngs of tourists and merchants, my little friend screaming to be put down.
"Not just yet," I laughed. "Not just yet!"
But as I wound my way down another street, it became harder and harder to ignore the fact that the merchants weren't cheering me on, but hollering at me to stop, to stop at once.
So I did, and I put my little passenger down.
"You idiot! Why don't you people ever understand that piggyback rides are strictly forbidden here! We're Muslims! Pork is unclean."
Oh, God. He was right. How could I have been so insensitive? As the merchants gradually went back to their shops, I begged him to forgive me, and at last he did.
"But what about a horseback ride?" I asked him. "There's nothing wrong with one of those, is there?"
"No. Horseback rides are fine. Just don't ask me to carry you, sir. You're twice my size!"
"No doubt, little man. If you tried to give me a ride, I'd crush your sorry ass like last week's dates!"
And we both laughed.

March 13 - Dolphin Safe

"Hey!"
No answer.
"Hey!"
No answer.
"Over here!"
"Who's there?"
"Me."
"Who's me?"
"The tuna."
"Who?"
"The tuna. Right in front of you. Look straight ahead. Now down a bit. There. See the tuna moving his mouth? That's me."
The fisherman stared at the talking tuna.
"You seem confused. Probably think you're hallucinating, right? Well, you're not; however, seeing as how I'm the thing you think you're hallucinating about, I'm not in much of a position to convince you that you're not hallucinating. You see what I mean? You'll just have to take my word for it. You're not hallucinating. Scratch your forehead if you understand me."
He did.
"Good. I'll get to the point. I need you to throw me back. Wait! Don't walk away! Please, you're not crazy. Just humor me for a minute. Please!"
He stopped.
"OK, thanks. Like I said, I need you to throw me back. Look at me. I'm not that big. I'm still young and I'm still growing. Put me back and let me feed a few more months, and then come back. I'll stay in these waters and I'll remember your boat. Just give me until the summer and then I'll let you catch me. Don't worry. I won't put up a fight. By then I'll be much bigger and you'll get a much better price for me. Plus the extra time will give me a chance to put my affairs in order. Everybody wins."
"I'm leaving."
"Wait, no! Please."
"I'm not listening to you. Tuna don't talk."
"Right. So says the guy who's talking to a tuna. Listen to me: Tuna talk. I'm not the only one. Just accept it so we can move on to you getting me off this boat."
The fisherman shook his head. "Dolphins communicate with man sometimes, but they're different. They're intelligent."
"Oh, Jesus. You're one of those. I should've known."
"One of what?"
"Yes, 'dolpins are our friends and they're cute and intelligent and blah, blah, blah.' I'll bet you feel good about using dolphin safe nets, too, right? Why the hell are you people so in love with dolphins? Let me tell you something. Dolphins are assholes. Seriously, dolphins are the assholes of the sea. I've heard you call tuna chicken of the sea, whatever that means. Well dolphins are the assholes of the sea. What, you guys teach them to jump through some hoops and all of a sudden they're smart? Even though you have to use special nets so they don't get their intelligent ass bottle noses caught when you're going after us? And another th--"
THONK!!
Another fisherman had entered and slammed a sledgehammer on the tuna's head, killing it instantly.
"Whoah!"
The fisherman who'd hit the tuna was unfazed. "Hey, you're the new guy, right?"
The other fisherman didn't answer.
"Hey. New guy?"
"Yeah. I'm the new guy."
"So was this one getting chatty?"
"I--"
"Don't tell me. 'Tuna are smarter than dolphins? Dolphins can't even outsmart a tuna net?' That kind of thing, right? Don't worry. You're not going crazy. Everybody 'hears the tuna.' It's not just you."
"So, they--they really can talk?"
"Question isn't can they talk. The question is can they shut up. Most of the time the answer is no, so we have to kind of help them out sometimes."
The other fisherman didn't respond so the old timer continued speaking.
"I know what you're thinking. If tuna can talk, that must prove their intelligence, right? God, the things a tuna will say to save its life. Take it with a grain of salt, new guy. Just don't forget. Tuna ain't smart. It's the dolphins that are smart. You know it. I know it. The dolphins know it." He smacked the tuna for emphasis. "And the tuna know it, too. Come on, let's go back on deck."
The new fisherman went along with the older fisherman a bit skeptical, but eager to learn.

March 12 - Product Launch

Steve Jobs walks onto the stage wearing his trademark jeans, sneakers, and tucked in long sleeved black T-shirt. The gathered press and company higher-ups applaud enthusiastically. Jobs' movements are broadcasted on a huge screen behind him. He addresses the audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen, for well over half a century, we have been under the impression that our concept of the vacuum cleaner is as good as it's ever going to get."
He switches on the vacuum cleaner that has been pushed out to center stage. The audience laughs as he shouts to be heard over it. "This bulky, clumsy, hulking, loud machine that knocks into your furniture and takes up a lot of space, and--let's be honest--doesn't even do that great of a job cleaning your floors--"he switches off the vacuum"--is outdated.
"It's time, ladies and gentlemen, to reimagine the vacuum. The vacuum should be light. Small. Sleak. Voice commanded. And modern." As he speaks, his words flash up on the screen behind him in bullet points.
"It should integrate seemlessly into the existing cleaning framework of your household and make your life simpler and tidier.
"The vacuum of the future should make dust a thing of the past.
"It should.
"And it will.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the iSuck."
The audience applauds as a protoype of the iSuck is brought out and handed to Jobs.
"The iSuck works both as a stand alone vacuuming unit and as a manually controlled cleaner. Its built in GPS navigational system enables it to cover the entire surface area of your house without you lifting a finger, but of course if you want control it, you also have that option. It interfaces with your iPhone, iBook, iPod, iPad and also responds to voice commands."
He demonstrates by crushing a fun-sized bag of chips and dumping them on the floor and then setting the iSuck down where it sets to work vacuuming up the chips.
"Now, as you can hear--or actually, as you can't hear--the iSuck is quieter than a ninja sneaking around a library; however, you can download "cleantones" from the iTunes store that let your iSuck project the sounds of classic vacuums from history and pop culture, such as the '52 Hoover, the '84 Dustbuster, and Rosie from the Jetsons. You can also download thousands of apps to your iSuck, enabling it to both learn and teach dance moves, respond to voice commands in more than 100 different languages, and communicate with other iSucks that are in its network.
"The iSuck is now available as the iSuck Classic which retails for $599. This summer we will introduce the iSuck 3G which will be lighter and thinner, come with mopping capabilities, and retail for $799.
"We fully expect the iSuck to blow conventional vacuums away.
"Thank you for your time."

March 11 - Sleeping Pills

Hey, having trouble sleeping?
Yeah, kind of.
Do you want to try one of my sleeping pills? They're great. Here. Completely naturopathic, but they'll knock your ass out for 5 - 6 hours of the best sleep you can imagine.
Sounds great.
They are, but there's just one side effect.
Oh yeah, what's that?
Well, it's weird, but they make you dream that you can't sleep. Like, if I take them when I fly they'll put me out, but then I'll always have this incredibly vivid dream that I'm on a plane and I can't sleep.
Hmm.
Yeah, and it's totally realistic. The seats are uncomfortable, the movie sucks, I forgot my book, and the flight attendants are old and cranky.
Hmm.
Yeah, it actually kind of sucks now that I think of it.
How do you feel when you wake up?
Not that good, which is messed up because I slept great. But even still, I always feel really cranky because I dreamt that I didn't sleep.
Even though you did.
Yeah.
Hmm.
Yeah.
Got anything else?
Benadryl.
Yeah, I'll take that.

March 10 - A Question

Here's one: If I see a picture of a guy and think to myself, "Wow, if he had a twin sister, she'd be pretty hot," is that gay?
Right off the bat, I'd have to say no, I don't think it is, even if she kind of looked like her brother (which she would if they were twins). Take Julia Roberts: She definitely looks like her brother Eric, but finding her attractive doesn't throw up any red flags. I hear what you're saying: Yeah, but that's Julia Roberts. It's not really controversial to say she's good looking. What about if it's not someone famous we're talking about?
In that case, I still think we're OK. It's simple genetics: Plenty of women look like their brothers, and if you think some of them (the sisters) are hot, it doesn't necessarily mean that you think their brothers are hot, too. So yeah, I think we're OK.
OK, but let's take this a little further. I've always had a thing for tomboys. Let's say, take the same theoretical twin sister of the guy in the picture and give her a short haircut. Think: Demi Moore in Ghost. Think Mary Stuart Masterson in Some Kind of Wonderful. If you kind of long for the existence of such a woman--the twin sister of the guy in the picture and now she has a short boyish haircut--is that gay now?
I still say no, because yeah, she might have short hair and kind of look like her brother, but we're still talking all woman here. Some women can totally rock the short hair look, and if anything finding them attractive is the opposite of gay.
Fine, so now let's give her a pretty athletic build. Give her slightly broader shoulders and a pretty flat chest. And she still looks like her brother. How about now? Is that gay?
No, it's not, for the same reasons as above. Sure she might not be the most buxom woman in the world. She might have short hair and a flat chest and look like her brother. But as long as she's still a woman, it's not gay to find her attractive, of course it's not.
OK, but how about if we take the same woman--short hair, broad shoulders, flat chest, looks like her brother--and we give her an itty bitty penis and you kind of want to just hold it gently in your hand every now and then. Is that gay?
Yeah, I'd say that's pretty gay.

March 9 - Lola and the Fat Suit

Her name was Lola. She wore a fat suit. She used it on her commute to get one of the privileged seats on the subway that were reserved for people who were older, handicapped, pregnant, or with a small child.
Her friends thought she was shameless and ridiculous, but Lola thought they were the ones that were being ridiculous. She had a long commute and getting a seat made it a hell of a lot more tolerable. Most people would gladly give up their privileged seat for someone who deserved it, but if such a person wasn't around, then whatever non-privilegedl person it was who had the seat would just keep it. And since the subway was always super crowded when she got on, she never got a seat.
And so she started wearing the fat suit and it worked. Nine times out of ten, people would stand right up and insist she sit. In the rare cases that they didn't, she got to feel a strong and wholly undeserved sense of moral superiority to them. She would just glare at them, and as other standing passengers noticed the scene and shook their heads at the offending party, her ire would intensify and she would lose herself in her character to the point where she actually believed she was pregnant and thus entitled to that seat, despising whatever callous bastard that wouldn't relinquish it to her.
But most of the time it wasn't a problem at all.
She always wore the same maternity dress over the fat suit and changed out of it in the bathroom of a Burger King a block from her office on the way to work. And then every day after work, she'd go to the same Burger King and put it back on.
Nobody there ever said anything to her.
There were a few embarrassing episodes with the fat suit, though. One time she and the girls went out for drinks after work and she thought it would be hilarious to ride home wearing the fat suit. The other passengers, however, weren't nearly as amused at the sight of a clearly bombed--and as far as they could tell--pregnant woman laughing hysterically while sprawled out on the privileged seats.
Then there was the time when she'd carried her bad mood from work onto the train and bitched a seemingly able-bodied man out for taking up one of the privileged seats and not getting up as soon as she got on board. After her verbal barrage, he strained to stand up and as the train continued on its way, he had a difficult time standing. Through talking to him a few minutes later, she found out that he'd aggravated an old knee injury playing basketball earlier in the evening and was on his way to the hospital.
Whoops.
She felt awful, but it didn't stop her from taking his seat or wearing the fat suit again the next day, week, month, and year because hey, privileged seat.

March 8 - ADA

The plenary speaker of the 2010 American Dental Association Conference walked to his podium, accepted the audience's applause, and began speaking. The lights in the auditorium were dimmed for his PowerPoint presentation, and the more than 500 dentists in attendance shifted in their seats and became more comfortable.
His baritone voice was deep, rich, and soothing.
Five minutes into his PowerPoint, the first few attendees, most of whom had arrived on overnight flights, started nodding off, but he continued undeterred. As he made his way through his PowerPoint, more and more of the audience--the most powerful and successful dentists in the country--fell asleep.
By the 20 minute mark, more than half the audience was under.
After another 10 minutes, the speaker himself was the only person in the auditorium who was awake.
His voice gradually faded to a whisper and then he stopped talking entirely for one minute. When nobody moved and he was sure they were all asleep, he took out his cell phone and made a quick call.
Less than a minute later, all the doors to the auditorium opened and scores of men in black jumpsuits, helmets, and facemasks entered the room. They fanned out across the hall, and flashed a red penlight in the eyes of each of the dentists before injecting their necks with a tiny needle.
Once this was finished, the men in black left the room as quietly as they'd entered it, the plenary speaker snapped his finger, and all of the dentists immediately awoke from their trance. Without skipping a beat, the plenary speaker wrapped up his speech, the dentists applauded, and they all filed out of the room to go to dinner.
About a month after the conference, the American Dental Association issued a press release with this headline: Consensus reached! Five out of five dentists surveyed recommend sugarless gum to their patients who chew gum.
And Trident's stock went through the roof.

March 7 - Has Been

At 7:53 in the morning, Peter Spunkmeyer received the news that one Jorge Corvocado of Brazil had masturbated 27 times the previous day, smashing Peter's World Record of 25 completions in one day.
That's how fast it'd happened. That time yesterday, Peter had been in the record books, and then 24 hours later, he more or less held the distinction of being the second best masturbator in the world.
He'd always known this day would come. He just wished he could have lasted a bit longer on the top; it had been a hell of a ride: the endorsements, the stints as a celebrity judge in adult industry talent contests, a recurring column in Adult Entertainment News, recognition everywhere he went.
But now it was all over. That's how it worked. One minute he was sitting on top of the world--the master of his domain as it were. The next, some young up and comer (ahem) had jerked him off (hey now) his throne and he could already hear the people on the streets failing to know who he was.
"Hey, don't I know that guy from somewhere?"
"Nah, he's nobody special."
Peter was surprised at how quickly he accepted it. In a way, it was a relief. When you're on the top, everybody is gunning for you. NBA Champs? World Heavyweight title holders? Multi platinum recording artists? He felt their pain. It's nice to be number one, but it comes with a price--and a target on your head.
But no longer. Now, those were Jorge Corvocado's problems, and Peter wished him well. Maybe later on he would send Jorge a congratulatory email, but for now Peter concentrated on getting used to his new identity. Yesterday he was Peter Spunkmeyer, the Greatest Masturbator Alive. Today he was just some guy.

March 6 - Retirement Dinner

Ann Shepherd retired from Cedar Falls' ABC affiliate on March 6, 2010. Her retirement was commemorated with a dinner that featured a montage of her most noteworthy clips as a reporter.
Naturally, the bulk of the clips came from her stint as one of Iowa's first female sportscasters during the 1970s. The position had not come to her easily. Over a stretch of almost nine years, she put in far more than her fair share of research, copy editing, statistics crunching, and fact checking before she finally got her break as a last (last, last) second replacement for Fred Hammond (who'd caught a nasty cold) to cover the 1972 high school football championship game.
And she crushed it.
Her talent was undeniable so the reports continued and she never looked back, spending the next 30-plus years reporting sports across Iowa and the country, and on a few occasions (the 1988 Olympics in Seoul and the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona) overseas.
Whenever she would be invited to give talks at her alma mater, University of Iowa's School of Journalism, it was inevitable that one of the female professors or students would call her or her work pioneering and talk about how she had paved the way for all of them. Ann always found those accolades flattering but embarrassing. She never thought of herself as a pioneer. Throughout her career, she'd only been doing what she loved doing: talking about sports. If her hard work (and she had definitely worked hard) made it easier for other women to follow in her path, that was great, but she felt funny about accepting their praise, mostly because being a trailblazer (their word, not hers) was never her intention.
In a way, she felt like her entire career and subsequent legacy were at least partially misunderstood. True, she'd always loved sports. The only child of a high school football coach and his football loving wife, Ann had just been brought up watching, talking, and living football. But it's not like it was her only interest. Her mother was a piano teacher and had taught Ann from when she was in kindergarten. And unlike other children who sometimes shied away from their parents' interests, Ann enjoyed the piano immensely and continued playing it through high school, college, and all of her adult life. In fact, she had often toyed with the idea of walking away from sports and trading her career for what she saw as the quieter, more down to earth life of a music teacher.
Life on the road was exciting, though: During the fall, she traveled with the Hawkeyes and in the spring she covered the triple A Cedar Rapids Kernels, and it was during those times that she felt the most alive. But it was also when she felt the most exhausted and lonely. That was when it became incredibly easy to idealize the life of her old college roommate who taught piano and voice at the high school where they had been students. As a broadcaster, she was always on the move. New people were always coming and going, and moving on to bigger markets, different cities, or other affiliates. Yes, it kept things lively, but she often wondered what it would be like to be a part of something steadier and more grounded--to watch and help children grow and mature, to be a part of their development, and to have them come back one day and visit after they had graduated and tell her what a difference she had made. In a way, this happened whenever she visited Iowa's journalism classes, but it wasn't the same as how she imagined it would be as a high school teacher. It lacked the personal connection.
Not that she regretted her career choice. She didn't, not at all. But during those milestone moments like her retirement party, it was hard not to get reflective and play the 'what if' game. As the montage film of her career achievements came to a close, she thought to herself that maybe somewhere in a parallel universe, another Ann Shepherd--otherwise completely identical to the sportscaster Ann Shepherd--was living out her fantasy of being a high school music teacher.
She smiled to herself, accepted their applause, and thought about what she would be doing this time tomorrow.
Maybe playing the piano.

March 5 - The Marker Fairies

Have you ever used a whiteboard marker, and then afterwards you could barely read what you'd written because the marker was so low on ink? If you're like most people, you probably just reached for a new marker and then put the one that was out of ink back on the ledge of the whiteboard instead of throwing it away. Why do we do that? We should just throw those empty markers away, right?
Well, that's what I used to think. But that was before I found out about the marker fairies. If you haven't heard of them, I wouldn't be surprised because they're pretty rare. But they exist!
Late at night, when nobody else is around, the teeny tiny marker fairies will come prancing into your classroom or boardroom or wherever and give your empty whiteboard markers a little extra juice--just enough to keep them going a little bit longer--before disappearing off into the night.
They're pretty similar to pen fairies, condiment fairies, and printer cartridge fairies. Exceedingly rare, all of them--but not nonexistant!
So hold on to all those old markers, pens, printer cartridges, and mustard jars you think have exhausted their use, because you never know when the fairies might come visit you!
But if you see them, don't try to capture them. They may be cute, but they will fuck your shit up.

March 4 - Inner Monologue of a Man Wearing Nothing But a Purple Mesh Half-Shirt While Standing Knee Deep in the Water at a Clothing Optional Beach

You are looking good today, Stewart. Seriously, man. You are looking real good.
Baby, you have got this place wired for sound. For real, man: You freaking own this beach. Look at all those square ass fools in their bathing suits and T-shirts and sunblock. They don't get it, man. Not like you do, man. Not like you, you waxed and golden brown piece of ass.
Check me out, dog. Not a freaking care in the world. Let the sun shine on my boys. Let the world see what I've got lurking underneath the hood. Let those waves gently splash and tickle my proud, bronzed, emancipated goodies.
It don't bother me.
Life is too short, G. Life is too short and fleeting not to embrace the world and the sun and the sea and let it embrace you right back.
Dude, make love to that delightful righteousness. For that is why you are here.
Yeah, I know some people might look at me and say: Stewart, you are without a doubt the flyest cat of them all. That I will not question. But why, my man, why do you not go all in with your nu-di-tay? Why must you tease us all with that half-shirt? Stop tormenting our imaginations and for once in your life truly let it all hang out.
People, dig me when I tell you that I do desire to go completely unbound by clothes.
However.
The Stew man likes to maintain a certain aura, a certain mystique, a certain poise. And that, brothers and sisters, is what the half shirt is all about.
Someday? Someday I will go fully nude.
Don't doubt that.
But until then, I must say that I am looking pretty damn fine in the skimpy get-up that I am showing off to God and all of his beautiful, beautiful children.
Stewart baby, you are just too pretty.

March 3 - The Ups and Downs of Flight

On the flight that's about to take off you have 1) an aisle seat 2) in an emergency row 3) with nobody sitting next to you or in the window seat. (Whoo hoo!)
However, moments before the gates close, another group of passengers boards and they're making their way toward your aisle. (D'oh!)
And yet, none of them takes the seat next to you. (Whoo hoo!)
Except that just when you're about to spread your things out across your three seats, one more couple--Russian by the looks of them--boards the plane and stops at your row. The heavyset man who smells of sweat and boiled potatoes sits next to you while his (smoking hot) wife takes the window seat. (D'oh!)
But then just before take off they switch seats because he seems to want the window seat, which clearly annoys her. You infer this by the way she looks at you and smiles just as subtly as she rolls her eyes and her leg brushes against yours. (Whoo hoo!)
About 20 minutes into the flight her husband falls asleep while she orders a double vodka and starts talking to you, and you quickly become convinced that she had to have been at least the first runner-up in the Sexiest Accent in the World Pageant (Whoo hoo!) and without question the first prize winner of the Miss Bad Breath Contest. (D'oh!)
Through your conversation, you learn that the man next to her is not her husband (Whoo hoo!) but her boyfriend (D'oh!), and they're probably going to break up soon (Whoo hoo!) because she's pretty sure she's a lesbian. (D'oh!/Whoo hoo!)
As she tears into the next of what you are sure will be several vodkas, she warns you with a wink that alcohol makes her a little naughty (Whoo hoo!) and gassy. (D'oh!)
Two vodkas later, the conversation dies down. She arches her back, rubs her neck, and unbuttons the top two buttons of her blouse, showcasing the kind of cleavage that men go to war over (Whoo hoo!) and a tattoo that says Richard Marx wuz here - 1986. (D'oh!/WTF?)
More vodka. (Whoo hoo!)
Turns out she wasn't lying when she said it made her gassy. (D'oh! (seriously, man))
It also makes her clumsy as you learn when she spills her drink in your lap (D'oh!) and then insists on cleaning it up herself. (You'd think Whoo hoo!, but actually it's D'oh! She scrubs your lap like it keyed her car.)
The flight attendant notices what's going on and cuts her off. The situation quickly becomes ugly and is moments away from escalating into a full blown cat fight (Whoo hoo!), but then her inexplicably rational boyfriend wakes up and disarms the situation. (D'oh!) She passes out and that's the last real contact you have with her. (D'oh!/Who hoo!)
Upon arriving at your destination, you learn that the airline has put your luggage on the wrong flight (D'oh!), but tracked it down and will deliver it to your place tomorrow, which means you won't have to carry it home yourself. (Whoo hoo!)
On the train into the city, you're seated between a guy that smells like hangover (D'oh!) and a woman that smells like herbal tea and gingerbread. (Whoo hoo!)
You have to go back to work tomorrow (D'oh!), but the weekend's almost here. (Whoo hoo!)
It's raining today (D'oh!), but sunny tomorrow. (Whoo hoo!)
And on and on for the rest of your life.

March 2 - The Insufferable Bastard, part II

Marge: I have this one co-worker that always has to one-up everybody. No matter what kind of story you have, he has to tell you a similar story that's just a little more impressive than yours. Drives me crazy.
Ralph: My co-worker is the exact same way, only he's worse than yours.