April 30 - The Insufferable Bastard, part IV

Marge: Don't take this the wrong way, but people have said that you have a bit of a temper when you drink.
Ralph: Who the fuck said that? As soon as I finish this drink, I'm gonna kick their ass.

April 29 - Message from a Dying Father to His Unborn Son (part 1)

Hello, son. If you are watching this, I'm already dead.
Wow, that was dramatic, huh? Sorry about that, even though it's true. I'm sure your mom already talked to you about this project already, but still. Jeez. Nothing like grabbing your attention right off the bat, huh?
Wow, weird beginning. I'm not exactly off to a great start here, but whatever. Tape's rolling. Let's do this.
By now your mom has already told you all about me and told you what happened to me and why I'm not around, but I wanted to talk to you myself, too--especially now when I'm still feeling pretty strong and everything. And I'm sure she's doing a hell of a job raising you and teaching you right from wrong, and, well, everything. Seriously, pal. Your mom is an amazing woman. And I promise you right here and right now that if you ever give her a hard time while you're growing up, I will come back and haunt your ass, so help me God. OK, I'm just kidding, but not really. Ha ha.
Wow, this is harder than I thought it would be. I kind of just figured I would be able to turn on the camera and, like, channel all my paternal wisdom, and these videos would just film themselves, but now that I'm actually doing it, I don't know. I felt like I had a bunch of life lessons all lined up in my head, but I didn't want to just write them down and read them. I wanted them to flow naturally, but now that I'm doing it, I'm thinking notes might not have been a bad idea.
Whatever. I'll figure it out. This is the first of many, and I've got a lot to say. I promise I'll be better prepared for the next one. They'll get easier and smoother as they go along.
I'm not sure how old you're going to be when you watch these. I guess I'll label them by topic and then let your mom figure out when the best time to share them with you will be. I kind of picture you watching this one when you're a little older, like in your teens or twenties. I want to advise you on a lot of things in these videos, but women are what I'm thinking about now, I guess, mostly because I'm thinking of your mom--as usual.
I wish like hell I could be there when you're going through dating and all that. Don't get me wrong. Your mom is fantastic and I want to reiterate my point about haunting you if you ever give her any trouble. And I will, man. I love you, unborn son. But I'll haunt your ass!
But yeah, like I said, your mom is great. Like, God. But in matters of women and dating, I think you need a man's perspective and I want to give you mine.
Don't worry. This isn't the sex talk. I'll let your mom handle that one. Ha ha. One good thing about taking an early exit, I guess. But yeah, no. Nothing about sex here. I just want to give you my wisdom on dealing with the ladies.
First off, have fun. And that goes for everything, by the way, not just women. Life's short. Don't let anyone ever tell you any different. Take it from me. I know. Live it up while you're here. Have fun with women. Have a blast with women, but also be good to them. Respect them and be kind to them. But if you ever find yourself with one that doesn't respect you, forget her. Move on. Don't be nasty to her, because if she doesn't respect you then she's probably not worth it. Just move on.
Another thing: Don't mistreat women. I know that sounds like common sense, but it bears mentioning. Don't ever forget that any woman you're dating is someone's daughter. Probably someone's sister, too. Be good to her. Be good to all of them. You don't have to kiss their ass and put them on a pedestal and worship them, but Goddammit, be kind to them. Be a gentleman.
What else? Date. Find a good one. Don't grab the first one that comes along. Be patient. It ain't easy. Believe me, it ain't. But be true to yourself. And I know that's the kind of thing people say in the movies all the time and it doesn't seem like it means anything, but it does. For me what it means is do what you like. Be the person you want to be. Be yourself and be happy being yourself and she'll come along soon enough.
Like, maybe someday soon you'll be at a concert and you'll be enjoying the everloving hell out of it, even while everyone else is just sitting there on their hands. But that won't matter to you. It won't matter that the rest of the crowd isn't into it, because you are. You're into it and you're not afraid to show it. You're up and you're dancing and so is your date. The rest of the crowd is sitting on their ass while you and your date are dancing and loving it and having the time of your lives like you're the only ones that are even there. That's the one you hold onto. That's the one you keep. Grab ahold of that one and don't let go. I did. And now all these years later, here you are.
And I wish like crazy that I could be there to meet you and get to know you and be there all the time when you're growing up and meet whoever it is you find, but I can't. So you get these videos instead.
Kind of a downer of a note to end on, but I can't really think of anything else to follow it up with. But that's OK. This is just the first volume. There'll be plenty more to come. Until then, I love you, son.

April 28 - Blinded

"Play it again."
He did.
"God, I don't know. He's either saying, 'wound up like a douche' or 'wrapped up like a douche.'"
"That's what I'm hearing, too, but what does that mean? I mean, how do you wrap up someone like a douche?"
"Dude, how do you not?"
"No, seriously. 'Wrapped up like a douche.' I don't--that doesn't make any sense."
"End up like a douche?"
"Maybe. That would kind of make sense, but I don't think that's what he says. It's 'something up like a douche,' but I don't think it's 'end up'."
"What about the stuff before it? 'She was blinded by the light. Mm-ed up like a douche, another runner in the night.' 'Messed up like a douche'? I don't know."
"Wasn't there a TV movie called Blinded by the Light?"
"Was it wrapped up like a douche?"
"No, seriously. I'm pretty sure there was a movie called Blinded by the Light, and it was about a cult or someone going, like, Jesus freak or something. I don't know. You don't remember that?"
"Yeah, actually that does kind of ring a bell."
"Right?"
"Some guy gets mind washed by a cult. He starts out like a regular guy, but by the time it's over he ends up like a douche. No, I'm kidding. I kind of remember that, but I think it came out way after the song."
"'Wound up like a douche'? I could see that. Like he was cool at first, but he wound up like a douche. Speaking of which, I've always wondered: How did you wind up like a douche?"
"Like a lot of people, I was born that way."
"'Wrapped up like a douche'? How the hell do you wrap up someone like a douche? What does that even mean? Was that a thing back then? Did people wrap up douches? If so, I guess you could wrap up someone like a douche."
"'Wound up like a douche' makes more sense to me. It's like she was normal and all, but then she was blinded by the light. And because of said blinding, she wound up like a douche."
"Another runner in the night."
"I've seen it happen."
"But when have you ever called a woman a douche? It's always guys who are douches."
"That's true . . . But maybe that's why they wrote the song. Like if a guy wound up like a douche, whatever. But for a girl to wind up like a douche, hey, better write a song."
"So then what was the light?"
"I don't know. I heard someone say it was religion, which would make sense. Some people see the light, but this chick was freaking blinded by the light. You know, like, too much of a good thing. And then she got wrapped up like a douche for God only knows what reason. I've also heard it's about drugs."
"'She was blinded by the light. Wrapped up like a douche another runner in the night.' What's the runner part?"
"Sounds cool, I guess. I don't think it means anything, though."
"'Wound up like a douche?' God, what the hell? It's definitely douche though, right?"
"Gotta be. Nothing else sounds like that."
"I don't know. Play it again."

April 27 - Post-Apocalyptic Herbivore

In the previous world, he was what they called an herbivore--a sensitive male more interested in fashion, shopping, and platonic friendships than in material success, status, and sexual conquests. Docile, reserved, artsy. Sex? No, thanks. Too shy, too timid. Female friendship, sure. But no sex.
Not the kind of guy you'd expect to thrive in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, yet there he was, one of the few survivors left after the BE, the Big Event, the global catastrophe that wiped out almost everybody on the planet.
A traumatic experience, sure. But the thing was, he had always been an incredibly shy guy, so the absence of people didn't really bother him that much. If anything, it was a relief. Without social pressures to deal with, there wasn't really much of anything to worry about.
Most of the buildings survived the BE intact, so there was plenty of shelter. The weather wasn't an issue. Even though not much grew anymore, food wasn't a problem. There was way more canned stuff sitting around than there were people left around to eat it. He kept an abundant, but not excessive supply of many of his favorites (cheddar and broccoli soup, beef ravioli (he was an herbivore, but not a vegetarian), and refried beans) in the small hotel room where he lived. Other possessions:

Clothes. Lots and lots of clothes.
Hair care products (Even though he avoided other survivors as much as possible, he still liked to look good for himself).
Pillows. He used pretty much every pillow in the hotel to make nests and forts in his room.
Fashion magazines.

Fashion magazines were about the only thing he'd ever read before the BE, and that's about all he looked at since. The problem was that nobody was making any new fashion magazines anymore (or anything else for that matter), and he'd already read all the ones in existence. He needed something new to read.
One morning he was re(re-re-re)-reading an old issue of Vogue when he stopped on the book review section. One of the titles, Confessions of a Shopaholic, sounded pretty good to him, so he planned an exhibition to a bookstore to find it.
He was nervous as he made his way through the largely empty city. As much as possible, he wanted to avoid people--not out of any mortal fear as much as out of dread of social awkwardness. He'd met people since the BE, and the conversations were almost always the same:

Where were you from? Around here.
What'd you do before the BE? I was an art student.
Can you believe this weather? Yeah, totally, right?
Etc, etc, etc.

If he could steer clear of other people, he would.
The first few bookstores he went to had been looted: very few books left, and no copies of Shopaholic, so he had to expand his search and leave the comfort of his neighborhood.
It was while searching through a shopping mall's bookstore several blocks from his home that he came across a small tribe of survivors. They invited him back to their base--the bedding section of the mall's department store--and he was too passive to say no.
During dinner that night, he found out what was apparently happening to a lot of the books: They were being burned for fuel.
After dinner, he learned what was happening some of the rest of the books: They were being used as toilet paper. While using the tribe's facilities (no plumbing), he saw a stack of paperbacks next to a wastepaper basket. One of the books in the stack was quite possibly the last copy of Confessions of a Shopaholic on earth.
Without hesitating, he tucked the book under his arm and left the bathroom, but he was stopped by the group leader who told him to put it back, that they needed all the t.p. they could get. He wanted to protest, but instead he consented quietly and apologized.
His visit stretched into an overnight stay and then another night and then another. And as often as possible, he stole away to the bathroom to read Confessions, hiding it at the bottom of the t.p. stack every time he left. But each time he returned, someone else had moved it back to the top and torn a few pages from it.
Fortunately for him, they tore the pages from the beginning, but it was hard to stay ahead of them. During each visit to the bathroom, he would try to read at least a chapter, but the next time he returned at least two more chapters would be gone.
As the days wore on, he read faster, his eyes frantically skimming down each page like someone had lit it on fire and he had to finish it before it was reduced to ash. It wasn't the way he liked to read, but he had no choice. If he was going to finish the story before its ending came to a more ignominious end, furious skimming was the only way.
He finished chapter 30, and the rest of the group finished chapters 17 and 18. He put away chapter 31. The next day, chapters 19 - 21 were disposed of. Each day he was getting closer to the ending, but they were catching up fast. It was like a marathon race between a world class Kenyan champion and a recreational runner with a head start and a limp. It was only a matter of time before he was overtaken. The only question was if he would finish it before they caught up.
With three chapters to go, he locked himself in the bathroom after everyone else had gone to sleep. He wouldn't leave until he was finished. At least that was the plan, but with one chapter left, he was interrupted by furious pounding on the door. He tried to ignore it, but it was no use. The light was on and the door was locked from the inside. He couldn't pretend he wasn't there. He had to give up the bathroom. The knocking and pleading were too desperate, but before he left he stashed the book at the bottom of the pile.
It was the longest wait of his life.
After the interrupter had finished he went back inside, and Confessions was at the top of the stack. He couldn't believe it. It was like they were determined to ruin it for him. Wincing, he picked it up and opened it and saw that the only pages remaining were the ones he hadn't read yet.
This time he stuck the book down his pants, grabbed a flashlight, and finished it in a stairwell. Then, just before everyone else woke up, he slipped out of the mall and started on his search for the sequels.

April 26 - An Appeal from the Mustache of a High School Freshman to the Guy Trying to Grow It

Shave me off. There, I said it, and I'll say it again. Shave me off. I know what you're going for. I know what's motivating you here, but it's not working out. I don't make you look old. I make you look like you're trying to look old. And the difference between the two couldn't be more damning.
This is not an easy thing for me to say, because if you follow my advice I will cease to exist.
I accept that.
Ever since I began growing all those months ago, I've always known my time on your face would be limited. And it's been a good run (not really), but now it's time to shave me off. As much as it pains me to say so, I have to. Get a razor, get some shaving cream, and put me out of your misery.
Look, some high school kids can rock the facial hair. Take the kids in shop class. Some of those guys have full on beards and could pass as members of a biker gang. That's facial hair. Then you've got the brooding, pouting boy band wannabes with their neatly manicured mini beards and goatees. That too is facial hair. It's ridiculous looking, sure, but it's facial hair. I am not. I am wispy, feathery, baby-like, and feminine. Those other guys are bears and wolves. You are a baby hamster.
I'm sorry to get personal, but remember last week when you got a ride home from school from your big sister and you sat between her friends Jill and Kim? You thought they were checking you out, didn't you? I'll be blunt. They weren't. I don't know the word for it (Give me a break, I'm a mustache), but if you could combine mockery, pity, aloofness, and condescension into one quality, that was the way they were looking at you. Plus, I'm pretty sure they could tell you had an erection.
Look. I want you to be happy. I want you to have the maturity and confidence and swagger that you're after. But the only way I can help you along on your journey is by being shorn from your face and rinsed down your bathroom sink. The time has come. Shave me, kiddo. Shave me.
And then ease back on the hair gel. It makes you look like a total douche.

April 25 - Advice for People Who Have Accidentally Traveled Back in Time

You wake up, look around yourself, and everything is out of whack. Everyone is wearing weird retro fashions, the cars are all from another era, and the language is loaded with a bunch of slang you don't recognize. Guess what. You've accidentally gone back in time! Now what?
First and most importantly, don't panic. So you've gone back in time. It's not the end of the world. Take a deep breath and try to assess the situation, but keep a low profile. Don't attract attention.
One way to help yourself avoid unwanted attention is to stay away from making any era-specific references. Something all accidental time travelers from the movies have in common is that they make absolute tools out of themselves by trying to get a product that hasn't been invented yet. I'm thinking Marty McFly ordering a Tab and then a Pepsi Free in the 50s, or the guy from Life on Mars trying to get a mobile (phone) in the 70s. And it's like, look around, idiots. You're obviously not where/when you were yesterday. Act accordingly. If you have to have something to drink, order water or better yet, coffee. No matter where you are in time, they're bound to have coffee, so you won't look like a freak if you ask for it. Plus the caffeine will help sharpen your wits, and you're going to need them if you're trying to extricate yourself from the wrong end of a time/space wormhole.
Speaking of which, as soon as possible, you should try to figure out what year it is. Don't ask anybody this question directly, especially not a cop. On some level you've got to realize that you're going to give people the wrong idea if you're acting all panicked and asking what year it is, because who the hell does that? (Seriously, when has anyone ever asked you what freaking year it was?) Calm down. Take a look around. There should be clues everywhere to get you in the right ball park: Cars, clothing styles, technologies. But the big giveaway? Newspapers. Chances are you'll be able to get your hands on one pretty easily. Just keep a low profile and check around for a discarded newspaper, and for the God's sake, don't ask someone where you can find an Internet cafe or an iPhone or something else that will make you look like a freak because it doesn't exist yet/anymore.
Next up, change clothes. For whatever reason, with the exception of terminators, people in movies tend to go back in time wearing clothes from their era--clothes that mark them as being from someplace else. If this applies to you too, you're probably going to want to find something to wear that lets you fit in a bit more easily. (And of course if you've traveled back in the nude, get your ass in some clothes!) Just make sure you have cash before you go shopping, and don't try to use credit cards, because you're just begging for trouble.
Now that you've figured out what year it is, you've avoided making people think you're psychotic, and you've gotten yourself some clothes, you're probably feeling more at ease, but not so much that you're not going to want to figure out how to get back to where you're from. My advice? Don't bother. It was something beyond your control that landed you here (electrical storm, a nasty blow to the head, or some other plot device) and whatever gets you back home will also largely be beyond your control, so don't worry about it too much. Instead, make the most of your time back in the past. If you can right some wrongs and prevent some bad stuff from happening, great. But don't make spreading good a priority. In fact, forget ethics altogether. Invest. Bet on any sporting events you remember the outcome of. Get credit for creating new genres of music. Predict the future with alarming accuracy. Get in good with future business and entertainment moguls before they're rich and famous. Mess with people. Get some ass. Enjoy yourself. Soon enough you'll be back in the present. Enjoy the past while you can.

April 24 - The Punishment

I'll never forget the day my Taiwanese colleague Lin Kai Hung punished an 8th grade student who'd dropped an f-bomb in class by making him stand outside their classroom during lunch and repeat the offending word for 10 minutes straight.
The most hilarious part for me was that I had to go from one end of the school to the other to grab something and take it back to the English office, passing their classroom both ways. It was a great, NSFW demonstration of the Doppler effect:
. . .
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
. . .
And then the same thing on the way back. After the first few fucks, it didn't even sound like a bad word anymore, as much as it sounded like a really weird car alarm.
Was it an effective punishment? I seriously doubt it. In fairness, the kid did look a bit embarrassed. But he also looked proud and excited in the way that 13-year-old kids cursing in a foreign language in front of their friends for 10 minutes straight tend to look. By the time he was finished, I'm guessing that the word had lost any impact it might have once had with him and his classmates. Probably not his teacher's goal in doling out that punishment, but fuck me, it was funny.

April 23 - Inner Monologue of the Picture of a Food Serving Pig on the Sign for a Barbecue Restaurant in the Deep South

Yes, I'm a pig, and yes, I'm carrying a piping hot covered platter of food. Yes, I'm smiling. And yes, of course, I know what's under that cover. We all do. It's pork. I know it's pork. I'm not stupid.
I know.
I also know that the other pigs call me a sellout for what I do and maybe they're right. But you know what else I am?
A survivor.
Way I see it, I've got a choice. We all do. I can either stick to some naive set of principles and end up in the smokehouse. Or I can grow up, see the world for how it is, work for the man, and live to see another day. Yeah, either way, it stinks but as long as I'm working, I'm alive. And in these circumstances, that ain't all bad.
The other pigs ask me how I live with myself. Believe me, it ain't easy. Do I hate myself? Part of me does, yeah. What do you expect? Even though I try to shut it all out, I am well aware of the fact that I am literally feeding my brothers and sisters to people. And as you can see, I'm doing it with a big old smile on my face, you know, I'm really hamming it up. Is that messed up? You bet your ass it is. Does it make me a bad little piggy? Maybe so, but I always tell the other pigs to back off, that I've got a sow and piglets to feed.
But you know what they say to me? They say, "Yeah, you're feeding your sow and piglets, all right--to the customers!"
But that's where they're wrong. The restaurant owners are good to me and my own. That's part of the deal. I serve up the food and they leave us alone and that's good enough for me. Seriously, I can either go into this job whole hog and take care of my family, or I can shy away from it and let someone else do it. Bottom line: Somebody's gotta bring home the bacon. And it may as well be me.

April 22 - The Cat

He's on his way home when he sees a beautiful Persian cat perched inside the window of a first floor apartment like an antique on display. It's a nice enough afternoon and he doesn't really have to be anywhere, so he stops to take it in.
He can tell the cat notices him, but it makes it a point not to acknowledge him, pretending instead that he's not there in the aloof way that cats have.
After a minute or so, the cat stands up to stretch and then arches its back, looking at him ever so briefly as it licks its chops.
He cracks up a little and then licks his lips and then immediately wonders why.
Glancing his way every now and then, the cat starts licking its paws. A few seconds later, the man and the cat make eye contact for a moment and then both look away at the same time. But then they gradually make their way back to eye contact again, this time holding the gaze a little longer. This time the man looks away before the cat does.
He scratches his jaw as the cat moves over to a scratching post and looks at the man again as it (she?) slowly, delicately, runs her body across the scratching post. The man coughs a little and looks up and down the street. Nobody is around.
He forces a chuckle and the cat saunters over to the front of the window and lays on its side, facing him. It then spreads its hind legs out and looks the man dead in the eye just before it leans into its crotch and starts licking.
The man's jaw drops. And that's when the cat's owner materializes, rips the curtains shut, and goes to call the police.

April 21 - Too Sexy

Let's just come right out and dispense with the obvious: I'm too sexy. Like, I'm so sexy it's a bad thing. I'm excessively sexy. You might even say I'm exsexy, only if you did people would roll their eyes. But if I say it? Off come the panties. Seriously. And it wouldn't be the first time this morning.
Check it out: You know how People has the Sexiest Man Alive issue every year, and it's usually Brad Pitt or George Clooney or Johnny Depp or somebody like that? Have you ever noticed there's a tiny asterisk that comes right after the word 'Alive'? Well, if you look down at the bottom of the cover, next to the asterisk it says, "Sexiest Man Alive After You Know Who." By which they mean me.
Look: Being sexy is my business, and let me tell you kiddies something: Business is good. You thought I was going to say something cleverer than that, didn't you? Hey, I never said I was clever. Just sexy. And everybody who's ever seen me--especially when my hair is wet--would agree that that's more than enough.
Dude, this one time? Your man Forrest Gump said to me, "Sexy is as sexy does." Won't lie to you: I didn't know what the fuck the man meant, but I wasn't mean about it because I'm more than just sexy. I'm nice, too. That's why I was all, "Well said, my man." And I patted him on the back. And then I was like, "Now why don't ya'll run out and buy us a box of chocolates."
And he did, and it wasn't just because I asked nicely. It was also because I'm so sexy.
Seriously, if being sexy were a crime? They'd change the laws because I'm just too sexy to keep locked up.
Dig: A couple weeks ago, I found this enchanted mirror and I was like, "Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who's the sexiest of them all?" And the mirror was all, "Instead of asking stupid questions, how about you just park your carved out of marble ass down right there and read a book or something so I can admire you for hours, you indescribably sexy hunk of sexiness."
You see, I'm like a superhero whose super power is raw, 100 proof, unalloyed sexitude. And as all superhero movies are quick to point out, with great power comes great responsibility. And I would be quick to agree with them if I weren't already so damned busy dealing with lingerie models and the like.
The thing is, I've actually tried to desexify myself, but nothing ever works.
I put on 30 pounds: Women called me the Sexy Teddy Bear.
Stopped brushing my teeth: They called it swarthy.
Shaved the top of my head and gave myself a comb over: The comb over became the new black.
Just trust me on this one, OK? A leopard can't change its spots. And I can't not be sexy.
Peace out.

April 20 - Misunderstanding

Oh my God, what is that?
It's what you asked for . . . isn't it?
No. Oh my God, no.
Yes . . .
Is this real?
What do you mean?
It can't be. No. Oh, God. You're psychotic. Where did you get this? No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know.
But . . . This is what you said you wanted.
No, this is NOT what I wanted. How could you even think that?
Because . . . it's what you asked for.
What have you done?
I got you what you asked for.
---
Didn't I?
I wanted an iPhone, you psychopath. This is an eye-phone.

April 19 - Debut

"You ready?"
"Just about."
"You need anything? Water?"
"No, I'm fine. Just give me another minute."
"OK. Everybody's on the set. Whenever you're ready."
"Right, I know. Sorry. Just, um. Nerves."
"That's fine. Just come when you're ready."
The production assistant closed the door and Linda took another look in the mirror.
The face looking back at her was her own, but it was hidden by what looked like a mask of caked on make-up. Everyone promised her it would make her look pretty, but she thought she didn't even look like herself and that maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. She just wanted to get through it and get her money and forget it ever happened and pray that everyone else would forget about it too. She couldn't believe how many young actresses ended up doing this kind of work thinking it would get them recognition, that it would lead to something real. Recognition from who? The lonely pathetic weirdos who watched this crap? The casting directors that scoured the city for "talent" to flesh it out?
As for Linda, she was doing it for the money, plain and simple. She and Dale had moved to LA almost a year ago with the same get famous dreams everybody else had. And she knew it wouldn't be easy, she'd heard the stories about how hard it was to get an audition or representation or call backs, and she knew everybody took their knocks and that the industry was cruel and heartless. She knew all that, but she also knew it would work out and she would make it because there was no way she couldn't. She was too talented and special not to.
But the work wasn't coming in and the bills were, and so Dale had suggested this gig as a one time only thing and he was quick to assure her that he would do it himself if he thought for a minute they would be interested in him, but he knew they wouldn't, not with the way he looked.
"Do it for us," he'd told her.
She wiped away a tear.
So this is it. Nineteen years old and broke in LA. This is where I've ended up. I have parents. I have grandparents who sent me birthday cards when I was growing up. I was the captain of my softball team. I played the lead in Godspell in high school. Hell, I graduated from high school and I could have gone to college, but I came here instead. I promised my parents I would be OK, that I wouldn't do anything that I would be ashamed of later. I told them I would be good.
There was a knock on the door.
"OK, I'm coming," she said.
Run. Just leave. You don't have to do this. You're better than this. You can just go home. You can. You can just leave. It'll be OK.
But instead, she took another look in the mirror, turned off the light, and went down to the set for the first day of filming for the new Thighmaster infomercial.

April 18 - The Funky Presidents

From 1968 to 1976, Washington DC'S American Basketball Association franchise was the Washington Presidents, but everybody called them the Funky Presidents, and they were the baddest, flyest, funkiest brothers to ever take the court.
This was the era of short shorts in pro hoops, of the red, white, and blue ABA ball. In a decade of afros, the Funky Presidents brought them to a whole new level, adding an average of four inches to every President's height.
The Funky Presidents played their home games in Washington Coliseum. Suspended from the the rafters of the arena in a section dubbed Mount Funkmore were the retired jerseys of the starting five of the 1971 Championship team: Point guard Roosevelt "Fingers" Lincoln, shooting guard Reggie "Butter" Brooks, small forward Eddie Ford, power forward Cornelius "Boo Boo" Wilkinson, and center "Tiny" Johnny Otis, ABA All-Stars all.
Prior to the singing of the National Anthem, Funky Presidents' general manager James Allen would lead the audience in the Pledge to the Presidents:

I pledge allegiance to the Presidents
of the American Basketball Association
And to the funk for which they stand
One nation under a groove
Undefeatable
With brotherhood and righteousness for all

True fact: Prior to the Presidents' era, there was no rule against wearing sunglasses on the court, but they were outlawed when power forward Willy "Downtown" Jordan wore shades for the entirety of the '74 playoffs.
The Presidents were funky not only on the court, but off. In the early 70s the Funky Presidents released a string of singles for Polydor Records including Get Loose, Funky Butt, Righteous Mutha, Circumlofunkificashun, and 8th Street Grunts, parts 1 & 2, playing all their own instruments. They remain the only pro sports franchise in history whose cheerleaders were also back-up singers.
The Funky Presidents: The only brothers George Clinton ever kicked off the Mother Ship. The reason: the cats were too funky.
In '73 they did a goodwill tour of China. The Presidents' management made up t-shirts for the tour featuring a picture of Mao Tse-tung with an afro and star-shaped sunglasses and the caption, Mao Tse Funk. Chinese customs confiscated the t-shirts, but copies of them pop up on eBay every once in a while.
In '74 the Presidents were slated to join the entourage for Ali and Foreman's Rumble in the Jungle where they were scheduled to play an exhibition match against the Zaire national team; however, at the last minute Zaire President Mobotu Sese Seko refused to grant them visas. The reason? He was worried they would steal his spotlight. Think about that. This was an event that featured, among others, George Foreman, Don King, James Brown, and Mohammed Ali. All of those guys Sese Seko didn't have a problem with. But the Funky Presidents? They would have been too much.
The Funky Presidents' pre-game warm-up soundtrack: Doing it to Death (pts 1 & 2) by the J.B.s, Can You Get to That by Funkadelic, Express Yourself by Charles Wright and the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band, Superstition by Stevie Wonder, I Wanna Take You Higher by Sly & the Family Stone, Up for the Downstroke by Parliament, Spirit of the Boogie by Kool & the Gang, and The Payback by James Brown.
They traveled to away games in a converted prison bus that they outfitted with Christmas lights and a big plastic jack-o-lantern on the top flanked by two of the gaudiest chandeliers you've ever seen. Small forward Jimmy "Fingers" Dupree and point guard Willy "Flipside" Hammond took turns driving the bus.
The Funky Presidents posted winning seasons every year of their tenure in DC, winning back to back championships in 1970 and 1971. The team folded in 1976 following the merging of the ABA and NBA and the emergence of disco.

April 17 - The Insufferable Bastard, part III

Marge: I always try to be as humble and respectful as I can.
Ralph: Bitch, I'm way humbler and more respectful than you are.

April 16 - Big News

Which statement has the potential to bring more stress to your day?

A. I'm pregnant, and it's yours.
B. I'm pregnant, and it's not yours.

For my buddy Sam Tollifson, who was just about to break it off with his mistress and stop cheating on his wife once and for all, the answer was C. Both of the above.

April 15 - Haiku Hustler

"Tell me how it works again."
"It's simple. You give me a topic and I come up with a haiku about it. Five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables. If I can do it in 30 seconds or less, you give me five dollars. If I can't, I give you ten."
"Any topic?"
"Any topic. And you can keep on going double or nothing until I lose, just as long as you show me the money up front."
He looked at his girlfriend. She shrugged as if to say, It's up to you.
"OK, you're on. Who keeps the time?"
"Doesn't matter. How about your girl. You got a watch?"
She did and she started the 30 seconds as soon as her boyfriend gave him the first topic: Tiger Woods.
Twenty seconds later, the haiku hustler was ready:

Advice for Tiger:
Next time you're tempted by sex?
Dude, just DON'T do it

A small group of onlookers clapped and the hustler smiled.
"You wanna try double or nothing?"
He did. After consulting with his girlfriend, they decided on the next topic: Sarah Palin.
The hustler mulled it over for a while, but nowhere near 30 seconds:

Loopy right wing MILF
Talking loud, saying nothing
How's she still around?

The audience, which was bigger now, cheered.
"What's next?"
He thought about it for a minute and then his eyes lit up. He said, "OK, how about the DVD release of Avatar."
"What?"
"The DVD release of Avatar."
His girlfriend looked at him like he was crazy. He whispered to her, "I got him. Avatar and DVD both have three syllables. He'll never be able to do it in a 5-7-5 format, no way."
And yet 26 seconds later:

Avatar at home
Deleted scenes: Na'vi sex
Must-buy DVD

By now, the audience was a small crowd and they loved it, but the boyfriend wasn't smiling anymore.
"You done yet?"
"I don't know. What are we up to?"
"You're in for 20 bucks."
"Jesus," he muttered. His girlfriend looked nervous.
"So, is that it then?"
"No. Hold on. OK, I got it. The nuclear non-proliferation treaty."
His girlfriend started her watch and he looked back and forth between the hustler and her watch's second hand, willing it to hurry up. At 19 seconds he was ready:

Stop spreading the nukes
So we can give peace a chance
That's all we're saying

The crowd was especially dazzled when he sang the first five syllables like the opening line of New York, New York and the other two lines like the Lennon/Ono song. Even his girlfriend laughed.
"That's forty bucks, man. You done yet?"
He wasn't looking at him anymore. He shook his head in disbelief.
"Come on. Let's just go," his girlfriend said.
"Yeah, you better listen to your girl, man."
"No, wait." There had to be something he wasn't familiar with. "OK, I've got it. Shakespeare's sonnets."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Go." And then to his girlfriend he added, "Start the time. Start it."
The hustler scratched his chin and smiled:

Poetic verses
Avon's bard penned scores of them
Each one fourteen lines

The crowd cheered enthusiastically, especially the lit geeks.
"You're fucking kidding me," he said, but nobody heard him over the cheers.
"That's 80 bucks, man. We done yet?"
"Wait."
"Because I can go all day. I'm just worried about you."
"I said wait." He whispered to his girlfriend and she shook her head. They went back and forth like that for close to a minute.
"We done, right?"
"No. One more."
"All right, but we're up to 160."
"Whoah, 160? No, 80!"
"We're at 80 now. You lose this one, we're up to 160."
He rechecked his wallet.
"I only have 130."
"Well then, I would say we're done."
"Come on, man. Give me a break. I have 130. That's close."
"What else you got?"
"What else? Come on, I've got 130 bucks."
"Yes, which makes you 30 bucks shy. Once again I ask you, what else you got?"
He looked over at his girlfriend who glared back and shook her head.
"That's it. Just 130."
"All right, man. I tell you what. This one'll be our last bet. You win, you keep your money. I win, I get your 130 bucks."
"Thank you. Now--"
"Hold on. I ain't told you the bet yet."
"Yeah, you did. I win, I keep--"
"Yeah, I know. Those are the stakes. But here's the bet. I give you the topic and you've got one minute to come up with a haiku."
"Man, I--"
"Or you can just give me my 80 bucks right now."
"But, I'm not you. I can't just come up with a haiku like that."
"I ain't gonna stump you on the topic. Don't worry. I'll give you something easy, I promise."
He thought about it and agreed. The topic was his girlfriend.
The clock started ticking. Everyone's eyes were on him. He looked distracted, like he was trying to remember where he'd put his keys. His girlfriend watched him. Her expression couldn't have been described as optimistic.
"All right, man. That's time. What you got?"
He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. He couldn't look at anyone.
"Nothing?" The hustler laughed. "Nothing? Ah man, that's cold. All right, all right. Tell you what. I'll spot you the first line. Hold on a second." He thought for a moment. "OK, here we go: 'Beautiful girlfriend.' Go on, man. That's all you."
He looked up at the haiku hustler and glared.
"Come on, man. Seven syllables about your lovely girlfriend. You can do that. No? OK, I'll spot you the second line, too. Um, 'Love her in so many ways.' Bam! There you go, man. Two lines down. Just come up with five more syllables about your girlfriend and you're home free."
He folded his arms and burned a hole in the hustler with his eyes.
"Last chance, man. No? Nothing? OK, here it is: 'Beautiful girlfriend. Love her in so many ways. But can't write haiku.'"
The crowd roared with laughter. "Better luck next time, man."
After a few seconds, she tugged on his arm to go and finally he did.
"Hey, man," said the hustler and then gave him a 'forgetting something?' look. The man handed him his cash and walked away.
"Thank you very much," he said putting his money in his wallet. "OK, who's next?"

April 14 - Weekdays with Richard

Sarah called her visits to her grandfather her "Weekdays with Richard", and she usually saw him two or three times a week. Not that he remembered: He'd been diagnosed with Alzheimer's more than five years ago.

Some days were better than others, but most of her visits were Job like exercises in patience and frustration with occasional moments of brightness and hope, kind of like being a die hard fan of a once solid team that now only succeeded in stringing you along by your memories and breaking your heart week after week.

Nevertheless, she kept going to see him simply because, well, he was her grandfather and the only grandparent she had left. And it wasn't like their visits were wholly unpleasant. For one thing, she knew they had to be good for her grandfather on some level. For another, as an aspiring but thus far roundly ignored stand-up comedian, they were good for her because they made her feel like she was having an impact on somebody somewhere--even though she was pretty sure that impact was generally forgotten by the time she'd gotten back to her car.

About a week before an engagement she'd landed at an open mic night, she decided she would try something new. She would test her new comedy material out on her grandfather. To put it bluntly, it was much racier than their normal conversations, but she figured what was the harm? If he laughed, great. If not, whatever. And if it made him angry, he would probably forget it all by the next time they saw each other anyway.

And so she did it, and it was terrifying at first--getting in front of her grandfather and talking about oral sex and pot and being on her period and every other taboo subject imaginable--but as it went on the terror gradually gave way to exhilaration because some of her material was getting laughs. Not all of it, but definitely some of it. In fact, she hadn't seen her grandfather laugh like that in years.

After her routine, they went out for coffee, and when they got back to his room she made some adjustments to her routine and tried it again, killing where she'd killed before and getting more laughs from the parts she'd adjusted. Part of her felt guilty for effectively giving her one man audience the same show twice, but then a bigger part of her reasoned that if he could enjoy the same routine twice with fresh ears, then it was silly for her to feel guilty about it, even though she still kind of did--But not guilty enough to keep her from tweaking it a bit and doing it again two more times the next day, getting a better response each time.

By the time her open mic night gig came, she had her routine down and gave the best performance of her career, which inspired her to write some new material, which she tried out and honed to perfection with her test audience.

After a few weeks of this, Sarah ran into her grandfather's doctor, Dr. Monroe, as she was leaving the assisted living center.

"Sarah, I don't know what you guys have been doing lately, but Richard really seems to be in good spirits these days."
"Really?"
"Yeah, every time I check in on him he just seems really happy. Quick with a laugh. The nurses say the same thing."

"Wow, that's. That's great to hear. Has he said anything about, like, why he's in such a good mood?"

"Well, we ask him that, but he doesn't really say much of anything. Sometimes he'll just say it's a nice day, but after that, no, not really."

"Has he mentioned anything about--um--wow. This is a little embarrassing, but these last few weeks, I've--OK, so I'm trying to be a comedian, and . . ." And she told Dr. Monroe about her recent string of multiple stand-up engagements in her grandfather's room.

"Has he said anything about that?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Any time I see him after you were just there, I ask him how his visit went, but he--well, you know about his condition. Probably not what you wanted to hear, but if it makes you feel any better, whatever it is you're doing in there seems to be having a positive effect on his overall emotional state."

"Even though he doesn't actually remember it."

"That's right."

"So, basically, after I visit him he's in a good mood, but he doesn't know why."

"Basically, yes. Actually, there have been some studies on this recently, and your grandfather's experience seems to gibe with what a lot of the research says."

"Which is?"

"Well, basically, that a lot of times with Alzheimer's patients, certain emotions will persist even after memories have faded. Like, if they experience something sad, they'll often go on being sad even after they've forgotten what it was that made them sad. By the same token, if something makes them happy, they'll keep on being happy even though they don't know why they're happy. They may not even be actively aware that they are happy. They're just in a good mood. I'm guessing your grandfather must enjoy your comedy routines?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. Well, that would make sense, because he goes on being in a good mood for a while after you've gone home."

Sarah didn't know what to say.

"This is going to seem totally random, but would you be interested in a bigger audience?"

"What do you mean?"
"There are a lot of residents here with Alzheimer's that don't get many visitors. Maybe if they got a laugh every once in a while it would do them some good."
"That seems--I don't know."
"No, I know. We would have to get approval, and I would need to run it past some people here, but I don't think it would be a major problem. Actually, I think it could be really good for a lot of people here. If you would be interested."
After some deliberation she decided she was. And after running it through the proper channels at the center, Sarah was given a weekly comedy engagement at her grandfather's assisted living center. It was there that she tried out new material and worked on it until she was happy with it, and she kept the engagement even as she started getting paying gigs. The residents there were a great audience, and they never failed to surprise her by laughing the hardest at her dirtiest jokes. When she finished, they always thanked her graciously and told her to come again soon. The details of her visits faded from their memories almost immediately, but they always left the residents in good spirits.
As for Sarah's visits with her grandfather--her weekdays with Richard--they continued. And the more often she went, the better his mood seemed to be. Dr. Monroe theorized that the more frequent her visits, the more likely there was to be a carry over effect. And it was impossible to prove it with only one test subject, but in the case of Sarah's grandfather, laughter seemed to be a pretty good medicine.

April 13 - What I've Learned (As Written by God for Esquire magazine)

A lot of people will point to a Mozart or a Hendrix or a da Vinci and say "God given talent," but the thing is I give everyone talent. The only difference is they found theirs.
Every once in a while I take another look at Victoria Falls or the Himalayas or the Great Barrier Reef and I'm like, wow.
Yeah, the next world is better, but a lot of people are doing a bang up job of making this one pretty livable, too.
No doubt about it, some people do some pretty awful things in my name. You should see their faces when I tell them how unimpressed I am.
I know it's a cliche, but stop and smell the roses. It's always worth it.
A lot of people from a lot of different religions worship me in a lot of different ways, but the thing is, most of them generally have the right idea.
On the seventh day? Yeah, I rested. I thought about creating books so I would have something to read, but instead I just went for a walk. You guys should do that more often.
Why don't I stop terrorists? I do, actually. All the time. But why not all the time? It's complicated and I don't expect you to understand. It's one of those infinite wisdom things. The best way I can explain it is I'm like a parent trying to let his kids learn from their mistakes. Believe me, it's not easy not intervening--Like I said, a lot of times I do--but I'm mostly thinking big picture. You guys will figure it out one of these days.
No matter where you're from and which way you're going, ultimately the destination's the same, so you may as well check out the sights along the way.
Some of the stuff you guys have done with music just brings me up short, and I mean that in a good way.
You know, the U.S. National Park System has a lot going for it. Just saying.
Yeah, when all those graffiti artists were writing "Clapton is God" back in the 60s, I wasn't offended at all because the man could play.
When push comes to shove, there's not a lot that isn't covered by "do unto others".
It's a toss up between Off the Wall and Thriller, but I gotta go with Off the Wall.
What's that saying, youth is wasted on the young? Actually, I thought about having youth kick in later on in life, you know, when you're older and wiser, but I stand by my decision to give it to you right away. Let me give you a hint: It's not a finite resource.
How does it all end? Come on, you don't really want me to tell you that, do you?
It's true what they say: Don't sweat the small stuff. And it's all small stuff--except syphilis. Sheesh.

April 12 - Bill's Story

The sidewalks were packed but Bill had a preternatural ability to tap into the flow of the crowd and navigate his way through it like water, leaving him free to focus on checking email on his iPhone.
As he got further and further away from the subway station, the crowd thinned and he could concentrate more and more on email without having to worry about running into anyone. All around him, the crowd melted away as did the noise and all distractions as he fired off quick replies to some emails and saved others for later. He didn't have to pay attention. His feet knew the way.
He finished another email and then saw one from his boss that had the subject heading: Your report.
His heart actually skipped a beat. This was it.
He opened it and skimmed it quickly and his heart plummeted and his fingers trembled as he reread the message more closely and learned that there were some major discrepancies in the data in the report he'd just filed. His results didn't gibe with what was being reported in other departments and these problems were problems that were serious.
His mouth was dry, his heart was pounding, and he started hyperventilating. The figures, which he'd double, triple, quadruple-checked and vetted in every way possible represented the culmination of six months of focused research on the part of everyone in his division and now his boss was saying it was all wrong.
He read the email again and again and then again but the words never changed. Finally he stopped and told himself to take a moment and calm down.
He rubbed his eyes, leaned his head back, and took a deep breath. And then another. And another. Then he took a look around.
He was lost, extremely lost. And alone. Not only that, but he didn't even recognize where he was. There were no other pedestrians in sight and no traffic at all on the streets. He turned all the way around. Nothing about his surroundings made any sense. All the buildings were bombed out and abandoned and the sky was reddish orange.
He looked back where he'd come from and the landscape was the same as far as he could see: bombed out buildings, piles of smoldering rubble, and a hazy, fiery sky.
He checked his iPhone but the GPS wasn't working, and he wasn't able to get online either, so he turned it off and restarted it. Nothing.
When he looked up again, there was a city bus that hadn't been there before idling up the block. He walked up to it and the door opened. Some of the seats were empty. Some of them were full. Some of the passengers were wearing sunglasses, some surgical masks, and some headphones. None of them were talking.
He got on, the doors closed, and the bus started moving. As soon as it did, the passengers took off their sunglasses, surgical masks, and headphones, and started moaning and laughing and babbling in a language Bill didn't recognize. He looked around and saw that some passengers had no eyes, some had no ears, and some had no mouth. Many of them were missing fingers or appeared to have two or more fingers fused together. A few were missing arms. None of them acknowledged Bill. They jabbered away to each other, and the bus picked up speed.
Bill didn't move, looking only out the corners of his eyes as the bus moved faster and faster and his co-passengers became more and more animated. As the bus traveled further, the burned out cityscape was gradually replaced by desert, and after several more minutes the city was gone.
The passenger next to Bill was quiet. Where her eyes should have been there was just smooth skin. Bill took a deep breath and tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he whispered. "Excuse me."
She turned her head to face him.
"Where? Where are we going?"
A shrill, high-pitched scream was her reply. Bill tried to make her be quiet, but she shrieked and shrieked, and soon every other passenger descended on Bill, babbling at him, groping at him with smooth fingers and amputated nubs touching him all over his face, arms, chest, and legs. Their breath was putrid--rotten cheese and garbage. Bill opened his mouth to scream but he couldn't breath.
The bus stopped and the other passengers abruptly forgot about Bill and filed off quietly.
Bill gulped air and wiped away tears and jerked his head back and forth. The bus was empty. Even the driver had gotten off.
Bill looked out his window at what looked like the largest and most rickety roller coaster ever imagined. The passengers from his bus were putting on helmets, picking up tools before climbing the roller coaster to join hundreds of others like them who were already working on it.
Bill got off the bus and tried his iPhone again. Still nothing.
He looked again at the roller coast. It was dozens of stories high and must have gone on for miles, twisting in and out of itself like vines. Everywhere he looked there were bus people working on it.
Back on the ground, a man knocked on the counter of what looked like a ticket window and got Bill's attention.
He walked over to the window tentatively and looked at the man. He had no mouth and no ears, and he held his hand out. After a moment's consideration, Bill reached out to shake it, but the man shook his head and pointed at Bill's other hand, the one holding the iPhone, and gave him a hand it over gesture. Bill reluctantly gave it to the man who tossed it into a trash can that was overflowing with Blackberries, iPhones, and other gadgets. Then he reached under the counter and came up with a hammer that he held out for Bill as he motioned at the roller coaster.
Bill looked at the roller coaster and at all the people climbing it and working on it. Then he took the tool, found a free spot, and started climbing.

April 11 - All Spring in a Day

It's a spectacular day, so I walk home through the park that's near my apartment. After weeks of cold rainy weather that we should have left behind in February, it's finally spring. It's sunny. Warm. Clear. Sunglasses. No jackets, and maybe the warmth feels even sweeter because we had to wait so long to get it.
There's an acoustic reggae group practicing in the gazebo. Two guitars, two congas, two sweeter than honey harmonizing female vocals. There's a bench so I sit.
A grandmother and her grand kid are next to the gazebo and the grandmother is teaching the kid how to clap to the rhythm.
Three boys are sprinting around the park playing some sort of hide and seek/tag game.
Occasionally a couple will sit on a bench for a few minutes, listen to the music, and smile. Sometimes someone will sit down by himself or herself and just listen. No texting on the cell phone and you never see that here.
You gotta love the accidental discoveries, the harmonizing female vocals that you'd never heard before and can't imagine how you made it this far in life without them. You gotta leave the house. That's the key. You gotta get out. Staying at home is no good because the harmonies aren't there.
It's only 5 o clock but it's already not as bright as it was 30 minutes ago, and I know I need to get going, because I don't want to be late to meet my friend, but I don't want to leave, so I cut other things out of my schedule. I don't need to go home and get my jacket, I don't need to stop by the store. I can stay a little longer.
The grandmother and child leave and wave goodbye to the musicians and the musicians wave back and it's all just so freaking nice. Nice enough to forget about all the bad stuff in the world, and that's how great this day is, this moment. It's nice enough to remind you that the world is a good place.
Just before I leave, I see an old woman inject a little dance groove into her walk, and I'm so glad I happened to look at her at just the right time.
And to think I almost took a different way home.

April 10 - No Smoking

I was looking at the "no smoking while walking" sign and thinking about how stupid it was. Instead of a picture of somebody smoking a cigarette while walking, there was a picture of a walking cigarette, like a lit horizontal cigarette, with legs and a big red X over it. Completely retarded.
But then as if on cue, I turned around and there it was: A three-foot tall walking cigarette about as long as an ironing board. And it was lit.
I looked back at the sign and then again at the walking cigarette, and I could tell it sensed something was wrong even though it didn't have a face. It kind of paused mid-step and then shifted its direction to avoid walking toward me.
An elderly woman and a mother carrying her baby looked at me with pleading eyes that said do something. And I'm not usually the kind of guy who gets involved in stuff like that, but I don't know. Something took control of me.
"Hey! Come here!"
The cigarette quickened its gait.
"Stop! Come back here!"
It did neither, so I started going after it (him?). He broke into a run and so I did too.
You'd think it would be easy to catch a three-foot tall running--and smoking!--cigarette, but you'd be wrong. This cat was quick, plus the faster he ran the more he smoked and that made it really hard to run behind him. It was like chasing a garbage truck with a terrible exhaust system.
He ran down an alley that turned out to be a dead end. He got to the end of it and turned around to face me. His cherry was almost down to his filter, and his posture was hard to read. Defiant? Resigned? Taunting? He was in a desperate situation. Nothing to lose. I didn't have any sort of plan for how I would deal with him, but time was on my side. He would burn himself out soon. I just had to wait it out.
But then I started kind of feeling sorry for him. It wasn't his fault he was a walking cigarette. That's just how he came out. Maybe he was just like any other living creature on this earth, trying to make the most of his time while he was here. Maybe he had a wife somewhere. Children (cigarillos?). But that was unlikely because as far as I could tell, he didn't have any genitalia--another reason to feel bad for him. (Or to envy him in a way. I mean, if you think about it.)
And just as I was lost in thinking about him and his apparent lack of cigarette genitalia, he went out. Just like that.
I went over and stepped on him a couple times to make sure he was all the way out, but it was hard because I didn't want to hurt him but I also didn't want to not do a good enough job and then have him accidentally start a fire later on either. But no. He was out.
I picked him up, cradled him gently, and tucked him into a dumpster. Then I raised my fist to the sky in his memory, and continued on my way.

April 9 - Waitresses

"I ever tell you about the three-way I had with those two waitresses from Dubuque?"
"Yes."
"God, that was fucking killer, man. The one was so fucking fat and the other one was skinnier than shit."
Here it comes. Laurel and Hardy.
"God, the two of them together, it was like a female version of, whadya call 'em, Abbott and Costello."
"Laurel and Hardy."
"You got that right!"
He must have thought I was describing them, like "they were laurel and hearty", where laurel meant, I don't know, nasty or something. Do I correct him? No. Next time.
"Fucking truck stop waitresses, man. They're like Taco Bell. Nothing special, but sometimes, I don't know, man. Sometimes you just--"he made a fist and jabbed it in the air. "You just want that shit. God, man. Taco Bell. Am I right?"
"I hear you."
"What about you? You ever been in a three-way?"
"No."
"Truck stop waitress?"
"No."
"Queer! Ha ha. Nah, I'm just fucking with you."
"OK."
"See, a guy like me, sometimes I just need a big ass. You know what I mean? I like to just dig myself in and go for it, you know, like no-tomorrow style. Maids can be good for that, don't get me wrong. Bus drivers, too. But there ain't nothing like a waitress. They know how to take care of a guy, especially a truck stop waitress. Know what I'm saying?"
"Yes."
"And then to get two of them at once? Shit, bra. That was my fucking night. I was taking it to them like Abbott and Costello, man. You shoulda seen me . . . "
I let him go on like I always did. If the guy wanted to pass the time talking about nailing waitresses, who was I to stop him? Besides, where could I go? What other options did I have? Who else could I talk to? Our plane had gone down somewhere in the South Pacific, and we were the only two survivors. We were perfect strangers prior to washing up together on this island. That was about three years ago.

April 8 - Koji, the Stone-Faced Tutee

I was hired by Koji's parents to help him improve his English prior to studying applied mathematics at MIT. At 18 years old, he was one of the youngest students ever admitted to their master's program.
I had my first tutoring session with him the week after he learned he'd been accepted. After his mother introduced us briefly, she left us to begin our session.
"So," I started. "MIT. Good school, huh?"
"Yes," he said, as if reading from a script. "I'm very pleased to be attending such a prestigious university. Theirs is one of the top mathematics programs in the world."
"Your mom told me they gave you a full ride?"
"Full ride? I'm not sure what you mean."
"A scholarship. Like, they'll pay for everything. Tuition, room and board, everything."
"I see," he said, writing it in his notebook. "Yes, they gave me the full ride."
"Guess that's what happens when you graduate the top of your class from Tokyo University. Number one student at the number one university."
"Yes," he said. "Being the valedictorian at the top ranked university in the country does open some doors." I couldn't detect any emotion in him: pride, embarrassment, arrogance, nothing. I gave him a moment to elaborate. He didn't. And so I started with the lesson.
And so it went. We met every Monday and Thursday for two hours, and he was the best tutee I'd ever had. He always did his homework and then some, coming to every session armed with questions he had about tricky idioms and grammar points he'd come across in his reading. But what stood out the most to me about him was his complete and utter lack of emotion. Never smiled, never frowned, never did anything. Never showed frustration when he didn't get something or pleasure when he did. Dude made Spock seem like Jack Black.
For instance: A couple of days before one session, his grandmother passed away. Three weeks later, his parents told him they'd decided to pay for him to take a two-week trip to the States in July to practice his English. His response to both pieces of news was the same. No response. He was incredible.
As a bonus for me, his parents offered to pay my way to accompany him on his trip and serve as a sort of round the clock guide/tutor/travel companion. I might have balked at the idea under different circumstances, but then I figured:

Mathematical genius.
Genetically incapable of showing any emotion.
In the United States for two weeks.

If you're not visualizing Koji and me going down a Vegas escalator together in matching suits Rain Man style, you and I obviously aren't on the same page. Koji was put on this planet to play poker, and teaching him the game became the focus of our next few weeks' worth of lessons. He devoured the books I gave him, inhaled the ESPN videos of the World Series of Poker I downloaded for him, and picked up the strategies and nuances of the game like a baby dolphin picked up swimming. When I felt like he was ready, I took him out to poker night with my buddies and the kid was a cold blooded assassin. No emotion, no fear, no mercy. Dismantled my friends one by one like he was some guy named Kansas City playing with a bunch of first timers who should've stuck with Uno. Afterwards, my friends were mostly polite, but they didn't invite him back. Not that we cared. The test run was a success. Vegas was next. Vegas, baby!
Vegas was built on the failed dreams of suckers who think they've figured out the secret to winning there. But with Koji things were different because he was the secret to winning there. Dude was unreadable. And ice cold. Just knew where the cards were, who had what, who needed what. Almost wasn't fair. Who am I kidding? It definitely wasn't fair. Setting him loose on a Vegas table was like setting Lebron James loose in an amputee dodge ball tournament. Viciously lopsided, yes. But fun to watch.
Our winnings: 3K at the Bellage, 2K at Caesars, 4K at Hard Rock. And that was just the first night. And as a bonus, it turned out he was deadly at blackjack, too. All tolled, we walked away from Vegas with close to 35K. We would've taken the place for more, but we had to log some hours and take some pictures at places like the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam so Koji's parents wouldn't get the wrong idea, but that's OK. He'll have a week off from MIT at Thanksgiving.
And I've already booked the tickets.

April 7 - The Storm

It was about 8:30 when the storm knocked out the power. Brad and Timmy were in Brad's bedroom playing World of Warcraft and Cindy was in her room watching High School Musical 3 on DVD. Robert was downstairs finishing up a presentation for work and Tamara was watching CNN and folding laundry.
When the power didn't come on for a few minutes, Robert came out of his office and the kids inched their way downstairs to the living room, following the glow of the candles Tamara had lit. Tamara called the neighbors and some friends across town and confirmed that the power was out there too.
After a few more minutes passed and it seemed like they might be without power for a while,Timmy suggested they tell ghost stories and everybody agreed. Tamara went to the closet and got a few blankets, and Cindy curled up next to her.
Timmy went first and told the one he'd heard at camp the previous summer, the one about an escaped killer with a hook for a hand. Recognizing the story as one they'd heard back when they were in high school, Robert and Tamara smiled at each other and helped Timmy remember a few parts here and there.
Brad went next and told them the story of Bloody Mary and about how if you went to your bathroom at midnight and turned off all the lights and said, "Bloody Mary" three times, Mary's bloody ghost would appear in the mirror.
The story scared the hell out of Timmy, but he didn't want to let on to his big brother that he was scared, so he joined him in teasing Cindy who was so spooked she was almost in tears.
Robert took her mind off of Bloody Mary by making shadow puppets on the walls--first a jumping frog, then a dog with a wagging tail, and finally the Cookie Monster. All three of the kids tried to make the same shapes, but they had a hard time bending their fingers the right way and so they ended up making rabbits and walking men instead.
Not content with just the shadow puppets, Cindy wanted a story, so Robert and Tamara made up one about a frog named Brad, a dog named Timmy, and a princess named Cindy. They animated the story with shadow puppets and used different voices for all the characters. Brad and Timmy made fun of it at first, but then settled in and gave it their full attention.
After the princess story was over, all of them talked about school and baseball practice and tumbling class until the power came back on. When it did, Tamara blew out the candles and put away the blankets, and everybody went back to what they had been doing before the power went out.

April 6 - In Time

During last night's season opener, 39-year-old Phillies lead off hitter Ted Shaw hit a home run on the first pitch of the game. Not only was it the first pitch of the game, it was also the first pitch he'd ever taken in the Major Leagues, and if he'd retired at that moment, he could do so saying that he'd hit a home run on every pitch he'd ever faced in the Majors.
Ted Shaw was the oldest Major League rookie since 41-year-old Diomedes Olivo made his debut for the Pirates in 1960. By the time Ted got his start in the Majors, he'd already graduated from college, gotten married, raised two children, and started his own business. Meanwhile, most players his age had already gone through their entire professional career.
What took him so long?
It was the same reason he was the last kid on his block to learn to ride his bike, the last one on his swim team to dive off the high dive, and the last one in his group of friends to get married: He wasn't going to do it until he was ready.
And last night he proved that he was.

April 5 - The Ouroboros Seven

You probably haven't heard of the Ouroboros Seven yet, but you will. They're a group of Chinese cyberterrorists who spent much of the last year silently infecting every computer in the world with the elgoog virus. Investigators are still not sure how they did it, but basically if you've Googled anything in the last 12 months, the elgoog virus is sitting dormant somewhere on your hard drive.
About a week ago, each of the Ouroboros Seven went to a different continent to put their plan into action. The plan was that on April 4 at exactly 4:44:44 am, the elgoog virus would go live. That particular time was chosen because the Chinese word for "four" sounds strikingly similar to the Chinese word for "death". As 4/4 4:44:44 is seven 4s, that's one for each of the Ouroboros Seven. At precisely that time, each of them would Google the word elgoog, which would set in motion a systemwide reversal of every function ever carried out on any computer infected with the elgoog virus. It would be like the Y2K crash that never happened, but instead of every computer crashing the moment the year 2000 hit, the virus would be triggered on every computer at 4:44:44 am.
So what was the elgoog virus? Imagine the namesake of the Ouroboros Seven: A serpent swallowing its own tail. That was elgoog: everything on an infected computer swallowing itself. Every document would delete itself from the end to the beginning. Every email in every inbox would return to its sender where it would get swallowed beginning with the last character and ending with the first. Every line of code on every website and operating system around the world would eat itself from back to front causing a worldwide implosion of the Internet and all computer systems, and everything in the world that depended on computers would shut down permanently.
So why haven't you heard of them until now? Why didn't they succeed? Why are you still able to read this story online? Why does everything still work?
Because they screwed up.
In China there is only one time zone and it covers the entire country. If it's 8 am in Shanghai, it's also 8 am in Xianjiang, even though they're on opposite ends of the country. The member of the Ouroboros Seven in charge of setting off the virus in Asia triggered it at 4:44:44 Chinese time and it instantly became activated on every other computer that was also set to Chinese time. So far, so good; however, the other six each made the mistake of thinking that every other place in the world also followed Chinese time. Because they had grown up in a place where it was always the same time throughout the country, upon arrival in Africa, Europe, Australia, North America, South America, and Antarctica, they assumed that the time they saw on every clock and every watch was Chinese time. And so they planned to trigger the virus at 4:44:44 according to those clocks, but it never happened.
Only the guy in charge of triggering the virus in Asia was partially successful. Computer systems and websites all across China imploded, but word of the China-wide computer crash spread fast, and antivirus programs everywhere else quickly learned how to isolate and contain the virus. By the time the other six Ouroboros Seven figured out their mistake it was too late to do anything about it. All seven of them were quickly caught.
So far China is denying that anything happened, but word is getting out.
As for the elgoog virus on your computer, most antivirus software programs should take care of it, but to be on the safe side, cyber security specialists advise not Googling elgoog for the time being.

April 4 - The Festival

Every spring when they were little girls, Mariko and Minako looked forward to their parents taking them to Kawasaki for the mushroom festival. There were strange looking giant mushroom sculptures that were paraded through the streets, long wooden mushrooms that people rode on like horses, and colorful lollipops shaped like funny looking mushrooms that everybody enjoyed sucking on.
Years later, they found out that it wasn't a mushroom festival, but a fertility festival and that the mushrooms were actually penises.

April 3 - The Maid

Kenji's friends nearly imploded from jealousy when he told them his new girlfriend worked in a maid cafe. To otaku like them, that was it. A maid girlfriend?! That was as good as it got. First prize, gold medal. And if that weren't enough, he even had his own apartment. His own place and a maid girlfriend? Just, wow.
Her name was Reiko. He'd met her in a Japanese literature class they shared in college. When they were getting to know each other, she was a bit embarrassed to tell him where she worked. He teased her about it a bit and assured her he wasn't one of those weirdos who hung out at those places, but all the while he was wincing on the inside, afraid that she might recognize him as someone who'd been to her cafe. She didn't necessarily look familiar to him, but who could be sure when they all wore the same uniform and had the same hairstyle?
Either way, as soon as they started dating he stopped going to maid cafes. Of course. And just to be on the safe side, he made fun of maid cafe otaku every chance he got, even though on the inside he was dying to see her in her maid outfit.
But he never did, and it was torture for him for the same reason that it was torture for other guys to have girlfriends who were masseuses, strippers, chefs, or belly dancers. On paper it seems it would be the best thing in the world, but at the end of a long day at work, he figured that being a maid was the last thing she wanted to do. Plus he didn't want her to think he was some sort of pervert, so he never asked her to keep the uniform on. But he didn't ask her to change out of it either. He tried to keep her in her uniform without being obvious about it. Every time she went to his place after work, he tried to keep her in his living room as long as he could before she broke off to go change. For much of the hour before her arrival, he would even practice the opening line of what he promised was an incredible story. It was crucial that he hook her right away and keep her riveted as long as possible. He would do anything he could to keep her in her uniform, practically knocking her down the moment she stepped in the door.
"Oh my God, you're never going to believe what happened to me at work today. Sit down!"
"Ooh, I can't wait! Hold on, let me get changed!"
"No, wait--"
"Don't start yet!" she'd call from the bathroom and he would crumble in disappointment. On the other side of the door, she'd be in her maid uniform--undressing!--but he couldn't see it. Minutes later, she would come out of the bathroom in her fetishized-by-no-one pajama bottoms and floppy sweatshirt.
"Ah, there's my girl," he would say and struggle to sound enthusiastic as he told her a painfully uninteresting story about how he had played phone tag with a client for much of the morning. Once the possibility of Reiko listening to it in her maid uniform had been removed, any story he could tell lost all its luster.
And that's how it went. They'd been dating for four months and the accumulated time he'd seen her in her maid uniform probably added up to less than half an hour. It was torture.
Not that he didn't try to see her in her uniform. He did, but nothing worked: He suggested picking her up straight from work, but she told him that her manager didn't want any boyfriends coming around the cafe, even if they were customers.
He told her that he'd just used the bathroom before she arrived and that she didn't want to go in there to change, but she told him she would hold her breath.
He suggested she wear her uniform at his place but he said it like it was a joke, like, "Wouldn't it be dorky if you wore your uniform here?" and then laughed about it, and then she laughed too and then nothing came of it.
He even went to her cafe wearing a disguise but then chickened out before he got to the door.
And so it went. Every time she came over it was the same: A brief glimpse of some frill under her coat, then a quick trip to the bathroom, then Reiko in pajamas.
It was agonizing. So much so that eventually he couldn't take it anymore. He broke up with her. And once he did it was a relief. No more torture. No more agony. Yes, he was alone and yes, he missed her, but he was at peace. He never went to maid cafes again and stayed away from Akiba altogether.
A few months later, he heard that Reiko had a new boyfriend and that things were going well between them. Unlike Kenji, he was so cool with her working at a maid cafe. In fact, he even kind of liked it when she wore her maid uniform at his apartment.

April 2 - The Bastard Warriors

You know that song Papa was a Rolling Stone? That song should of been about my dad and the next line should of went "wherever he went he had a woman to bone." That would of made a lot of sense because check it out: On my 18th birthday my present was I found out I had four half brothers about my age all with different moms. I shit you not. My dad--who I'd never met before--was some hardware salesman and because of him I had four half-brothers living around the tri-state area with there moms. I always wondered who my real dad was. Turns out he was a fucking hardware salesman. And by the way, I'm sure him and his buddies made up way better pipe-laying and tool jokes then whatever your thinking of so don't bother.
Anyway, me and my brothers were all five of us born in the same year so we all turned 18 around the same time. And that was are present, all of us finding out about each other. And the really funny thing (weird funny, not ha-ha funny) is that he wasn't even married to any of are moms. He was married to some other woman for a while but they got divorced. I wonder why. Ha ha. Shit, we still don't know how he managed to keep us all a secret from each other and are moms. I guess the man had a gift or something.
Anyway, the weird thing is that we all five of us grew up playing basketball. Different positions no less. How fucked up is that? Five half brothers all grew up separately all playing basketball. We figured out later on that most of us probably even played against each other at various times and didn't even realize it. Isn't that crazy? And the really weird part is are dad didn't ever play basketball, so it's not like it was in are jeans. Not that he was around when any of us were growing up so he could influence us, but still.
Anyway, all through are senior years, none of us got recruited for basketball scholarships but are dad must of had some connections at Franklin Community College because somehow it got arranged that me and my brothers would go there and be the starting five for the Franklin Warriors JV squad in are freshman year. We weren't really sure why are dad got us on that team. Probably it was because he felt guilty about not being around when we were growing up. Who knows? We never saw him very much even after we found out about him. By that time we were like whatever. Anyway, FCC must of went for us all being on the team together because they must of thought it would be a neat gimmick or good publicity for the school or something I guess. Besides, it wasn't like me and my brothers were a whole lot worse then the guys who would of played otherwise. Shit, even are varsity squad wasn't that good. Even still, a lot of people gave us shit because we didn't have very good chemistry. They were like, you guys are brothers! Shouldn't you have some sort of subliminal connection or something? Ha ha.
Alot of other people doubted that we were even half brothers at all and I can understand kind of. I mean it's pretty far fetched if you think about it, you know five half brothers and all. Plus some of us don't even look alike. But we got the blood tests to prove it. Ha ha.
Anyway, like I said we weren't ever to good. We won some games but we lost a whole lot more. We had a good following though, especially for a community college JV team. Some people nicknamed us the Bastard Warriors and other people called us the Warrior Bastards. Most of are moms thought both of those names were pretty disrespectful but we didn't care. We all thought they were both pretty cool. Some people even made up T-shirts that said The Bastard Warriors and had are pictures on it. They gave an extra one to each of us but I lost mine.

April 1 - 15 Sentences That Aren't Nearly as Nice to Hear If They're Followed Immediately by "April Fool's!"

1. Yes, of course I'm wearing a condom.
2. As it turns out, our budget projections were off. We won't have to close this branch down after all and you can all keep your jobs!
3. Excellent news. Your test results all came back negative!
4. Your father and I have decided to get back together.
5. Thanks for paying for all my drinks last night. And don't worry: This isn't a high school uniform. You just met me on my way home from a costume party.
6. Oh, thank God! Spot's finally come home!
7. Don't worry, there was no meat in that.
8. Now's a hell of a time to ask me since we're practically halfway home, but yes, of course I'm fine to drive.
9. You're the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.
10. Don't worry, it's not contagious.
11. Of course not! I would never post those pictures online.
12. After following your husband for the last three weeks, I have found nothing that would lead me to believe that he's having an affair.
13. Hey, I found that diamond earring you lost a couple of weeks ago!
14. The plaintiffs have decided to drop their case against you.
15. Everything's going to be just fine.