Marge: You know, you can be really sarcastic sometimes.
Ralph: Ooh, I'm so sorry.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
August 30 - Cake
You know what job I think would be easy? Conductor.
Orchestra conductor, that is. Not train conductor, although I bet being a train conductor would be a cake walk, too.
You notice I said it would be a cake walk, right? Usually people just use that in the negative like, It ain't gonna be a cake walk. But in the case of train conductor? I think it would totally be a cake walk. All you do is walk up and down the aisles, punching everyone's tickets.
No training necessary. Just give me the ticket puncher and I'll be ready.
Oh please, like anyone has a freaking clue what it means when you punch one section of the ticket instead of another anyway. People would just hand you their ticket and you'd be all click, click, click, and then move on to the next sucker. As a bonus, I'll bet if you were nice to the engineer he would let you blow the whistle sometimes.
And that shit would never get old.
But anyway, orchestra conductor. Seriously, unless I'm missing something (doubtful) there's nothing to it. Just get yourself a tuxedo with tails, an orchestra, and some sort of wand. And now, wave said wand around to the rhythm of the music.
Congratulations! You're a conductor. Here's a whole lot of money! Wasn't that easy?
OK, in fairness, there might be a little more to it than that. For instance, there are probably some serious prima donnas in an orchestra (I'm looking at you, oboe section), so you'd want to make an effort to make everyone feel included and important. But other than that, whatever. And don't talk to me about rehearsal either. As long as everyone else practiced (likely) you'd be home free. All you'd have to do is wave that wand to the music, flip your hair around dramatically, bow graciously when it's all over, and count your money.
And then tap crazy ass afterwards in the green room.
That's a cake walk I'd go on any day of the week, my friends.
Orchestra conductor, that is. Not train conductor, although I bet being a train conductor would be a cake walk, too.
You notice I said it would be a cake walk, right? Usually people just use that in the negative like, It ain't gonna be a cake walk. But in the case of train conductor? I think it would totally be a cake walk. All you do is walk up and down the aisles, punching everyone's tickets.
No training necessary. Just give me the ticket puncher and I'll be ready.
Oh please, like anyone has a freaking clue what it means when you punch one section of the ticket instead of another anyway. People would just hand you their ticket and you'd be all click, click, click, and then move on to the next sucker. As a bonus, I'll bet if you were nice to the engineer he would let you blow the whistle sometimes.
And that shit would never get old.
But anyway, orchestra conductor. Seriously, unless I'm missing something (doubtful) there's nothing to it. Just get yourself a tuxedo with tails, an orchestra, and some sort of wand. And now, wave said wand around to the rhythm of the music.
Congratulations! You're a conductor. Here's a whole lot of money! Wasn't that easy?
OK, in fairness, there might be a little more to it than that. For instance, there are probably some serious prima donnas in an orchestra (I'm looking at you, oboe section), so you'd want to make an effort to make everyone feel included and important. But other than that, whatever. And don't talk to me about rehearsal either. As long as everyone else practiced (likely) you'd be home free. All you'd have to do is wave that wand to the music, flip your hair around dramatically, bow graciously when it's all over, and count your money.
And then tap crazy ass afterwards in the green room.
That's a cake walk I'd go on any day of the week, my friends.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
August 29 - Reno
Man, I ain't seen ass in so long, I bet I wouldn't be able to pick it out of a police line-up.
Jesus, Dad.
Just saying. We can't all be as young and good looking as you, you know.
Should've thought about that before you left mom.
Ouch. Watch it there, Oedipus.
Look, I'm just saying. You left her. It wasn't the other way around.
Right. And somehow she just happened to meet that firefighting ballroom dancer not two weeks after I walked out. Nothing suspicious there.
I'd rather not think about that.
The guy wasn't even from around here. Where was he from, Tacoma?
Spokane.
Right, Spokane. That whole situation's got matchmaker.com written all over it. How else she gonna meet someone from freaking Spokane? And a firefighter! Who's into ballroom dancing! Like she didn't enter that in some search engine.
Like I said . . .
You met the guy, right?
Yeah.
And how old is he? Your age, right?
Younger. By two years.
Can you believe that shit?
You're one to talk.
Good point.
Just let it go. Don't . . . Just . . .
No, you're right. Besides, we didn't come to Reno to wallow in our sorrow. You and me are here on the first of what I hope will be several father/son titty hunts. High five!
(Slap)
So. Where we going first?
Well, first I think we should get out of this restroom. I think that would be a good start.
He's not coming, is he?
No.
I thought you knew this guy.
No. We've gone over this. Ron works with a guy who scores from him every time he comes to Reno.
And you're sure this was the place we were supposed to meet him?
Unless there's another central bus station in Reno that has a men's room right next to the gift shop, this is the place.
Should we give him another five minutes?
Could we not? I'm starting to get claustrophobic. This stall doesn't feel as big as it did 10 minutes ago. Besides, I kind of feel like a dick for occupying it so long. I think that one guy really had to go.
Probably, but that's still no excuse for calling us--what did he call us?
Ass ramming lot lizards.
Yikes. Not bad from a guy in a wheelchair.
True. Come on, let's get out of here. I know a place that has the loosest slots in Reno.
Now you're talking!
I said 'slots'.
Oh.
By the way, you're not really going to wear that, are you? Tell me that's some kind of joke.
What, this?
Yes, that. Yes, the black leather vest with--what are those?--Judas Priest studs.
You don't like it?
It's not that. I just wish you would wear a shirt underneath it, that's all.
But then people wouldn't be able to see my tattoo.
Yeah, I was going to say it looked like you got it touched up.
A few weeks ago, yeah. What do you think?
Well, it's a lot easier to tell that that's John Wayne on the back of Jesus's Harley. And the flag is a lot more vivid now.
Thanks. I'm glad you like it.
Didn't say I liked it. Come on, let's go.
Where? Hooters?
Sure, wherever. Anywhere but here.
OK, almost done. Crap. Can you check and see if the next stall over has any TP?
Oh, Jesus! Are you serious?
What, you really thought I was sitting here with my pants down because it was more comfortable? You actually believed that?
I was trying not to think--Oh God, you were crapping the whole time?
I told you my shit doesn't stink. Come on, don't let it freak you out. We're gonna have a great time tonight. Just you, me, and all the titties and beer in Reno!
I'll meet you outside. Wash your hands when you're done.
Wait, I still need some TP. Hello! Hello?
Jesus, Dad.
Just saying. We can't all be as young and good looking as you, you know.
Should've thought about that before you left mom.
Ouch. Watch it there, Oedipus.
Look, I'm just saying. You left her. It wasn't the other way around.
Right. And somehow she just happened to meet that firefighting ballroom dancer not two weeks after I walked out. Nothing suspicious there.
I'd rather not think about that.
The guy wasn't even from around here. Where was he from, Tacoma?
Spokane.
Right, Spokane. That whole situation's got matchmaker.com written all over it. How else she gonna meet someone from freaking Spokane? And a firefighter! Who's into ballroom dancing! Like she didn't enter that in some search engine.
Like I said . . .
You met the guy, right?
Yeah.
And how old is he? Your age, right?
Younger. By two years.
Can you believe that shit?
You're one to talk.
Good point.
Just let it go. Don't . . . Just . . .
No, you're right. Besides, we didn't come to Reno to wallow in our sorrow. You and me are here on the first of what I hope will be several father/son titty hunts. High five!
(Slap)
So. Where we going first?
Well, first I think we should get out of this restroom. I think that would be a good start.
He's not coming, is he?
No.
I thought you knew this guy.
No. We've gone over this. Ron works with a guy who scores from him every time he comes to Reno.
And you're sure this was the place we were supposed to meet him?
Unless there's another central bus station in Reno that has a men's room right next to the gift shop, this is the place.
Should we give him another five minutes?
Could we not? I'm starting to get claustrophobic. This stall doesn't feel as big as it did 10 minutes ago. Besides, I kind of feel like a dick for occupying it so long. I think that one guy really had to go.
Probably, but that's still no excuse for calling us--what did he call us?
Ass ramming lot lizards.
Yikes. Not bad from a guy in a wheelchair.
True. Come on, let's get out of here. I know a place that has the loosest slots in Reno.
Now you're talking!
I said 'slots'.
Oh.
By the way, you're not really going to wear that, are you? Tell me that's some kind of joke.
What, this?
Yes, that. Yes, the black leather vest with--what are those?--Judas Priest studs.
You don't like it?
It's not that. I just wish you would wear a shirt underneath it, that's all.
But then people wouldn't be able to see my tattoo.
Yeah, I was going to say it looked like you got it touched up.
A few weeks ago, yeah. What do you think?
Well, it's a lot easier to tell that that's John Wayne on the back of Jesus's Harley. And the flag is a lot more vivid now.
Thanks. I'm glad you like it.
Didn't say I liked it. Come on, let's go.
Where? Hooters?
Sure, wherever. Anywhere but here.
OK, almost done. Crap. Can you check and see if the next stall over has any TP?
Oh, Jesus! Are you serious?
What, you really thought I was sitting here with my pants down because it was more comfortable? You actually believed that?
I was trying not to think--Oh God, you were crapping the whole time?
I told you my shit doesn't stink. Come on, don't let it freak you out. We're gonna have a great time tonight. Just you, me, and all the titties and beer in Reno!
I'll meet you outside. Wash your hands when you're done.
Wait, I still need some TP. Hello! Hello?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
August 28 - Flash
Your heart beats for a final time, your lungs stop drawing air, and all brain activity shuts down. But during the exact microsecond, the very instant that you pass from the world of the living to the world of the dead, you experience a jolt of omniscience that is as brief as it is intense. During this briefest of moments, you gain all the knowledge and wisdom in the universe. All the mysteries of the world are solved, you get a peak behind every curtain, and everything you ever wanted to know is spelled out for you as clear as day.
And then it's over.
Different people fixate on different elements of this omniscience, but the awareness that Lisa came away with was that nobody was as perfect as they seemed.
Nancy, the class president, was seeing a therapist to deal with stress issues.
Melissa had such a negative body image that she was secretly considering liposuction.
Becky and Tom, the All-American Homecoming King and Queen were miserable with each other.
Jeanne, Dana, and Lily hadn't really hooked up with college guys that summer.
Phil hadn't actually gotten early acceptance to Princeton like he was telling everybody.
More than half of the cheer leading squad was only pretending they liked Kim. In reality, they hated her.
None of the other girls on her field hockey team were really as confident as they pretended to be.
Her older sister didn't enjoy high school nearly as much as she had claimed to.
Everybody else in her high school was sensitive, too.
Everybody else worried about fitting in, too.
Everybody else was insecure, too.
They were just better at hiding it than Lisa was.
But by the time she realized that, it was too late. And that was the last thought that went through her head before her neck snapped and the lights went out.
And then it's over.
Different people fixate on different elements of this omniscience, but the awareness that Lisa came away with was that nobody was as perfect as they seemed.
Nancy, the class president, was seeing a therapist to deal with stress issues.
Melissa had such a negative body image that she was secretly considering liposuction.
Becky and Tom, the All-American Homecoming King and Queen were miserable with each other.
Jeanne, Dana, and Lily hadn't really hooked up with college guys that summer.
Phil hadn't actually gotten early acceptance to Princeton like he was telling everybody.
More than half of the cheer leading squad was only pretending they liked Kim. In reality, they hated her.
None of the other girls on her field hockey team were really as confident as they pretended to be.
Her older sister didn't enjoy high school nearly as much as she had claimed to.
Everybody else in her high school was sensitive, too.
Everybody else worried about fitting in, too.
Everybody else was insecure, too.
They were just better at hiding it than Lisa was.
But by the time she realized that, it was too late. And that was the last thought that went through her head before her neck snapped and the lights went out.
Friday, August 27, 2010
August 27 - A Guy in a Muscle Shirt Responds Preemptively to an as yet Unuttered Invitation While Drinking a Coors Lite at a Hooters in South Florida
Just so you know, the answer is no.
I am not looking to do a wife swap.
Not interested in joining your little swinger set.
Gonna have to decline the invites to any sort of key parties you might be planning.
Why?
Exhibit A: My wife.
Exhibit B: Your wife.
Case closed.
Seriously, no offense, but look at my wife.
OK?
Take it easy, partner. I didn't say stare.
OK, now look at yours.
Any questions?
Do you honestly think I'm looking to share this with anybody? You'd better think again, especially when, um, that--your wife--is what what I'd be getting in return. It's like, Hey yeah, I know. I'll just cook up a bunch of $50 a pound filet mignon and bring it to your little potluck dinner where I can trade it in for some hamburger casserole. Maybe while I'm at it, I can let you take my Trans am out for a spin while I jump start your little piece of shit Chevette and see if I can get it around the block before it conks out on me.
Sorry, man. Just being honest.
Seriously, mi hermano, have you seen my wife? Of course you have. Hustler? July 1997? Ring any bells? You probably haven't seen her naked since then (except in your dreams, bitch), but I can put any doubts you may have to rest. Yes. She's still got it. Oh my God, has she still got it.
Not that your wife doesn't. She's still got it, too. Problem is she's got it and then some. In fact, she could stand to lose a good chunk of it, chunk being the operative word. What is she, trying out for the Bucaneers? Tell you what: You can keep your defensive tackle and I'll hold on to my cheerleader. That sound like a deal to you?
I mean, in case you were gonna ask.
Anyway, you ready for another Silver Bullet? Come on, I'm buying!
I am not looking to do a wife swap.
Not interested in joining your little swinger set.
Gonna have to decline the invites to any sort of key parties you might be planning.
Why?
Exhibit A: My wife.
Exhibit B: Your wife.
Case closed.
Seriously, no offense, but look at my wife.
OK?
Take it easy, partner. I didn't say stare.
OK, now look at yours.
Any questions?
Do you honestly think I'm looking to share this with anybody? You'd better think again, especially when, um, that--your wife--is what what I'd be getting in return. It's like, Hey yeah, I know. I'll just cook up a bunch of $50 a pound filet mignon and bring it to your little potluck dinner where I can trade it in for some hamburger casserole. Maybe while I'm at it, I can let you take my Trans am out for a spin while I jump start your little piece of shit Chevette and see if I can get it around the block before it conks out on me.
Sorry, man. Just being honest.
Seriously, mi hermano, have you seen my wife? Of course you have. Hustler? July 1997? Ring any bells? You probably haven't seen her naked since then (except in your dreams, bitch), but I can put any doubts you may have to rest. Yes. She's still got it. Oh my God, has she still got it.
Not that your wife doesn't. She's still got it, too. Problem is she's got it and then some. In fact, she could stand to lose a good chunk of it, chunk being the operative word. What is she, trying out for the Bucaneers? Tell you what: You can keep your defensive tackle and I'll hold on to my cheerleader. That sound like a deal to you?
I mean, in case you were gonna ask.
Anyway, you ready for another Silver Bullet? Come on, I'm buying!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
August 26 - Good Help: Not So Easy to Find
So, who's your obstetrician?
Dr. Giles.
Oh, he's great.
She.
Right. You like her?
Yeah, she's great. Very, I don't know, normal, you know? Like, she never assumes that we have the medical background to understand what she's talking about. She always does a good job of explaining everything really clearly.
Oh, that's good. How about your midwife?
Well, yeah. We're kind of up in the air at this point. Like, we had this one woman we really liked, Roberta Flack. Seriously. That was her name, Roberta Flack.
Stop it, you're killing me.
Yeah.
Softly.
Yeah, ha ha.
With his song.
Ha ha. But yeah, she had to pull out--
He he. Pull out.
?
He he.
Um, anyway, yeah, she had to pull out because of, I don't know, some aid work project. Kind of like Doctors Without Borders, only not Doctors Without Borders. Anyway, I think it's in the Philippines and she'll be there for a month doing trainings, and blah, blah, blah, and anyway, she'll be gone, which is too bad because we both really liked her.
Oh. That sucks.
And then we had another woman we also liked, but now she's moving to Buffalo of all places. And now we've been trying to meet up with this other woman we've heard good things about, but we keep missing each other. Anyway, it's taking a lot longer than we'd expected.
Yeah, I guess so. It sounds like you guys are going through a real MIDWIFE CRISIS!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!
Ha ha ha ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!
Ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha ha ha ha!!
Hmm, yeah.
Ha ha ha ha! Midwife crisis. Ha ha ha. Whoo! Ha ha ha.
. . .
You know, instead of midlife crisis?
Right.
Dr. Giles.
Oh, he's great.
She.
Right. You like her?
Yeah, she's great. Very, I don't know, normal, you know? Like, she never assumes that we have the medical background to understand what she's talking about. She always does a good job of explaining everything really clearly.
Oh, that's good. How about your midwife?
Well, yeah. We're kind of up in the air at this point. Like, we had this one woman we really liked, Roberta Flack. Seriously. That was her name, Roberta Flack.
Stop it, you're killing me.
Yeah.
Softly.
Yeah, ha ha.
With his song.
Ha ha. But yeah, she had to pull out--
He he. Pull out.
?
He he.
Um, anyway, yeah, she had to pull out because of, I don't know, some aid work project. Kind of like Doctors Without Borders, only not Doctors Without Borders. Anyway, I think it's in the Philippines and she'll be there for a month doing trainings, and blah, blah, blah, and anyway, she'll be gone, which is too bad because we both really liked her.
Oh. That sucks.
And then we had another woman we also liked, but now she's moving to Buffalo of all places. And now we've been trying to meet up with this other woman we've heard good things about, but we keep missing each other. Anyway, it's taking a lot longer than we'd expected.
Yeah, I guess so. It sounds like you guys are going through a real MIDWIFE CRISIS!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!
Ha ha ha ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!
Ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha ha ha ha!!
Hmm, yeah.
Ha ha ha ha! Midwife crisis. Ha ha ha. Whoo! Ha ha ha.
. . .
You know, instead of midlife crisis?
Right.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
August 25 - Buzzy the Clown
Most of the other people in the circus didn't know his real name. Ted something? They called him by his stage name, Buzzy the Clown.
He hailed from Johnsonville, a small town outside of Wichita, and he joined the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus when he was 17 years old. After a couple of years of washing out the animals' carts, and feeding and washing them, he became a clown, modeling himself after Emmett Kelly. He had a perennially downcast expression; floppy, tattered clothes; and a drooping flower on his lapel. He was always the butt of the other clowns' jokes, and he was good at it.
To anyone in the audience who noticed him, he was the hobo clown, or the guy that got squirted in the eye with the gag lapel flower, or the guy that had the seat of his pants catch on fire and then ran around looking for a barrel of water to sit in to put it out. That was Buzzy.
At Ringling Brothers, clowns came and went all the time, but Buzzy was a journeyman, an institution. He was with the circus for five decades, and he never missed a performance, was never late. He was a professional. Never the star of the show, but always there if you needed him.
Nobody knew what he did between seasons. As far as anybody knew, he didn't have a family. He never mentioned a wife or kids.
He mentioned having visited New York City one time where he saw the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and Radio City Music Hall.
At the beginning of every season, he was always one of the first ones back for rehearsal. All the clowns who knew him agreed they could count on him, and everyone else at the circus described him as dependable and solid, a good guy. Kind of quiet, though.
In his early days, after shows, he sometimes got together with Harvey the elephant trainer and some of the other clowns like Gus, Ward, and Fred to drink rye and talk about football. After those guys moved on to other things, he mostly kept to himself, doing crossword puzzles in his trailer and reading adventure novels he'd pick up at truck stops.
After 46 years with the circus, he decided it was time to move on. The rest of the circus threw a retirement party for him, complete with a cake from the local supermarket decorated with a frosting clown face that looked more like Bozo than Buzzy, but he didn't mind.
It was a rainy night, so everybody squeezed into the manager's trailer to eat corn dogs and drink Busch and Coors Lite. It was hot, loud, and crowded. A lot of people that Buzzy didn't remember ever talking to before asked him what he was going to do now that he was retired, and he had to lean in to hear them.
"Relax!" he would say every time and then laugh good naturedly. And then whoever it was who'd asked him would pat him on the back, wish him good luck, and then go talk to someone else. Everybody told him to keep in touch, and he said he would, but he didn't.
It was a few years later that he died in a Kansas City flophouse. They didn't find much in his room, just some old pictures from his circus days, a few used paperbacks, clothes, and a transistor radio. He was 66 years old.
He hailed from Johnsonville, a small town outside of Wichita, and he joined the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus when he was 17 years old. After a couple of years of washing out the animals' carts, and feeding and washing them, he became a clown, modeling himself after Emmett Kelly. He had a perennially downcast expression; floppy, tattered clothes; and a drooping flower on his lapel. He was always the butt of the other clowns' jokes, and he was good at it.
To anyone in the audience who noticed him, he was the hobo clown, or the guy that got squirted in the eye with the gag lapel flower, or the guy that had the seat of his pants catch on fire and then ran around looking for a barrel of water to sit in to put it out. That was Buzzy.
At Ringling Brothers, clowns came and went all the time, but Buzzy was a journeyman, an institution. He was with the circus for five decades, and he never missed a performance, was never late. He was a professional. Never the star of the show, but always there if you needed him.
Nobody knew what he did between seasons. As far as anybody knew, he didn't have a family. He never mentioned a wife or kids.
He mentioned having visited New York City one time where he saw the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and Radio City Music Hall.
At the beginning of every season, he was always one of the first ones back for rehearsal. All the clowns who knew him agreed they could count on him, and everyone else at the circus described him as dependable and solid, a good guy. Kind of quiet, though.
In his early days, after shows, he sometimes got together with Harvey the elephant trainer and some of the other clowns like Gus, Ward, and Fred to drink rye and talk about football. After those guys moved on to other things, he mostly kept to himself, doing crossword puzzles in his trailer and reading adventure novels he'd pick up at truck stops.
After 46 years with the circus, he decided it was time to move on. The rest of the circus threw a retirement party for him, complete with a cake from the local supermarket decorated with a frosting clown face that looked more like Bozo than Buzzy, but he didn't mind.
It was a rainy night, so everybody squeezed into the manager's trailer to eat corn dogs and drink Busch and Coors Lite. It was hot, loud, and crowded. A lot of people that Buzzy didn't remember ever talking to before asked him what he was going to do now that he was retired, and he had to lean in to hear them.
"Relax!" he would say every time and then laugh good naturedly. And then whoever it was who'd asked him would pat him on the back, wish him good luck, and then go talk to someone else. Everybody told him to keep in touch, and he said he would, but he didn't.
It was a few years later that he died in a Kansas City flophouse. They didn't find much in his room, just some old pictures from his circus days, a few used paperbacks, clothes, and a transistor radio. He was 66 years old.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
August 24 - The Rink
All I remember is one minute everybody was skating laps to Jack and Diane, and the next most of the kids were dutifully skating over to the exits and getting off the rink.
I saw my older sister off to the side waving me over to come in too, and I looked back at her like What?, and she yelled something about speed something, but I couldn't hear her over the noise of the rink.
By then there were about seven or eight guys lining up at the end of the rink and a couple more on their way. Older kids. High schoolers. A couple of them were wearing Black Sabbath concert t-shirts, the kind with the black sleeves. Most of them had longer, feathered hair. One guy was putting on a helmet.
I looked back again at my sister. She was now waving emphatically for me to come in, looking more pissed off than concerned. Her friends were laughing, and I could see my friends standing near them looking out at me. The guy on the PA said something about a speed skate. By now, just about everyone else was off the rink, but for reasons that are not clear to me I turned around and joined the guys on the line.
Looking back on it now, I can't believe they would just let anyone join Skatepocalpyse Now or whatever it was called. There were no qualifying heats or anything. Just, Hey, did you hear our announcement about the next song being for future Jackass cast members only? No? Well, screw it! Join us out here anyway. All you have to do is SKATE FAST. And for God's sake, don't fall.
The announcer got on the PA.
SKATERS, GET READY.
This was a bad idea, but I had to go through with it. The other guys on the line settled into their places while tried to keep my balance and imagine that my sister's friends were watching me.
GET SET.
The other guys got into these weird crouches like sprinters from the 1920s Olympics. I put my hands on my knees and concentrated. On what I don't know.
GO!
And just like that the other guys were gone. Homicidal demon dogs chasing down a bunny made of crystal meth.
And me? Well, I didn't fall, but that's the best thing you could say about me. I probably looked like a cross between a zombie with a stutter and late era Mohammad Ali on roller skates. Lurching, choppy, graceless, like I was driving a stick shift for the first time.
By the time I got to the first turn I'd been lapped by every mustachioed dude out there and I wanted off. I'd made a big mistake, but I was stuck. I had to go around the back end of the rink and finish my lap. There was no other way. Turning around and making a beeline for the exit would be like missing your off ramp on the freeway, stopping your car right there, and backing up in your lane so you can go back and get off. No. I had to go all the way around before I could get off.
I was like Bambi on the ice at an NHL game. The other guys flew by me. I should have just gone to the middle, sat down, and sucked my thumb until it was all over, but I went for it. I got a jerky rhythm going, like a middle school band playing ska for the first time, and winced as I rounded the final corner and made my move to the exit, cutting off at least three dudes in the process.
I made it, and my friends were laughing, and my sister was pissed off, and her friends couldn't have cared less and I tried to look nonchalant, but at the same time all I could think about was how relieved I was to have made it off in one piece.
I wish I could say I'd done it to impress my sister's friends or to show off to my friends or to prove something to myself or to face down my fears or whatever but the truth was that I froze and stayed out there mostly by accident, and then managed, somewhat gracelessly, to get through it. More or less.
Anyway, ever since then, that's been the running theme in my life: Be it through incompetence, luck, or a lack of vigilance, always stumbling into situations where I'm in over my head.
See also:
Being plucked from a screaming crowd to play acoustic guitar onstage with Bruce Springsteen at Giant Stadium despite never having played before.
Helping to embalm a deceased Catholic priest while working a summer job at a funeral home during high school.
Captaining my college's JV fencing team despite never having fenced before.
Being in the room for the latest round of Middle East peace talks.
Somehow I always find myself back at the starting line of the speed skating contest again and again and again. And part of me feels like I should figure out how to get off the rink when I'm supposed to. But the rest of me feels like it usually ends up making for a good story.
I saw my older sister off to the side waving me over to come in too, and I looked back at her like What?, and she yelled something about speed something, but I couldn't hear her over the noise of the rink.
By then there were about seven or eight guys lining up at the end of the rink and a couple more on their way. Older kids. High schoolers. A couple of them were wearing Black Sabbath concert t-shirts, the kind with the black sleeves. Most of them had longer, feathered hair. One guy was putting on a helmet.
I looked back again at my sister. She was now waving emphatically for me to come in, looking more pissed off than concerned. Her friends were laughing, and I could see my friends standing near them looking out at me. The guy on the PA said something about a speed skate. By now, just about everyone else was off the rink, but for reasons that are not clear to me I turned around and joined the guys on the line.
Looking back on it now, I can't believe they would just let anyone join Skatepocalpyse Now or whatever it was called. There were no qualifying heats or anything. Just, Hey, did you hear our announcement about the next song being for future Jackass cast members only? No? Well, screw it! Join us out here anyway. All you have to do is SKATE FAST. And for God's sake, don't fall.
The announcer got on the PA.
SKATERS, GET READY.
This was a bad idea, but I had to go through with it. The other guys on the line settled into their places while tried to keep my balance and imagine that my sister's friends were watching me.
GET SET.
The other guys got into these weird crouches like sprinters from the 1920s Olympics. I put my hands on my knees and concentrated. On what I don't know.
GO!
And just like that the other guys were gone. Homicidal demon dogs chasing down a bunny made of crystal meth.
And me? Well, I didn't fall, but that's the best thing you could say about me. I probably looked like a cross between a zombie with a stutter and late era Mohammad Ali on roller skates. Lurching, choppy, graceless, like I was driving a stick shift for the first time.
By the time I got to the first turn I'd been lapped by every mustachioed dude out there and I wanted off. I'd made a big mistake, but I was stuck. I had to go around the back end of the rink and finish my lap. There was no other way. Turning around and making a beeline for the exit would be like missing your off ramp on the freeway, stopping your car right there, and backing up in your lane so you can go back and get off. No. I had to go all the way around before I could get off.
I was like Bambi on the ice at an NHL game. The other guys flew by me. I should have just gone to the middle, sat down, and sucked my thumb until it was all over, but I went for it. I got a jerky rhythm going, like a middle school band playing ska for the first time, and winced as I rounded the final corner and made my move to the exit, cutting off at least three dudes in the process.
I made it, and my friends were laughing, and my sister was pissed off, and her friends couldn't have cared less and I tried to look nonchalant, but at the same time all I could think about was how relieved I was to have made it off in one piece.
I wish I could say I'd done it to impress my sister's friends or to show off to my friends or to prove something to myself or to face down my fears or whatever but the truth was that I froze and stayed out there mostly by accident, and then managed, somewhat gracelessly, to get through it. More or less.
Anyway, ever since then, that's been the running theme in my life: Be it through incompetence, luck, or a lack of vigilance, always stumbling into situations where I'm in over my head.
See also:
Being plucked from a screaming crowd to play acoustic guitar onstage with Bruce Springsteen at Giant Stadium despite never having played before.
Helping to embalm a deceased Catholic priest while working a summer job at a funeral home during high school.
Captaining my college's JV fencing team despite never having fenced before.
Being in the room for the latest round of Middle East peace talks.
Somehow I always find myself back at the starting line of the speed skating contest again and again and again. And part of me feels like I should figure out how to get off the rink when I'm supposed to. But the rest of me feels like it usually ends up making for a good story.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
August 22 - Roger and Mustapha
Roger Crankshankle got kicked out of pirate school on the first day of class because he couldn't keep himself from laughing every time the captain said, "poop deck."
In those days (of yore), you couldn't get an official commission as a pirate without the proper credentials from an officially licensed pirate school, so his parents--both full-time pirates themselves--were very disappointed when they heard the news. They'd had such high hopes for Roger to carry on the family business.
Roger's father, Redbeard Crankshankle called a family meeting to talk about Roger's options; unfortunately, they were as limited as they were unappealing: pulling strings to get an unpaid internship as a cabin boy, waiting until next year to apply to another pirate school, or working part-time at a public house serving grog and venison.
Like many other 15-year-old would be pirates, Roger didn't care much about such serious matters like careers and commissions; his parents, however, wanted a bright future for their son. And (like any set of parents) they knew he was capable of great things. He just needed to apply himself. But how?
Thinking it would give Roger the guidance he needed, his parents enrolled him in Krakenbile, the combination Viking academy, vocational school, and floating juvenile detention center renowned for its harsh disciplinary standards. Although Redbeard's wife Agnes wasn't 100% behind the idea (especially the juvenile detention center aspect), Redbeard was confident it was the right move.
"Roger just needs a swift kick in the pants," he said, and not for the first time.
As for Roger, he wasn't so thrilled about the juvenile detention center aspect of his new school either, but he loved the idea of living on a boat. He told his parents he would do his best, and off he went.
His days at Krakenbile were busy: cleaning and boat maintenance in the mornings; sailing and vocational classes in the afternoon (Roger majored in the culinary arts); swashbuckling practice at night.
Swashbuckling practice was his favorite activity by far because it reminded him of playing pirates when he was a kid. Everyone else at Krakenbile was ultra serious and competitive, but Roger treated it--like everything else in his life--like a game. And it frustrated the others to no end that Roger was one of the best swordsmen at Krakenbile--seemingly without trying.
Roger's roommate Mustapha, a sword fighting prodigy from Tunisia, recognized in Roger an almost innately preternatural talent with swords--a talent he took it upon himself to develop through nightly one on one swordsmanship clinics. Although Roger usually wasn't one for self improvement, he enjoyed sword fighting with Mustapha because he was such a good and challenging opponent. He looked forward to their sessions every day.
Very soon, an unconventional--and one-sided--rivalry developed. Mustapha would tutor Roger in tactics and strategies, and then get frustrated when Roger's mastery of the tactics and strategies he'd just been taught exceeded those of his teacher. This drove Mustapha to work harder and harder, which had the indirect result of Roger's skill improving even faster.
The irony was that Roger wasn't even aware that a rivalry existed. He merely engaged in sword fighting with relish and glee, oblivious to the fact that his regular thrashings of Mustapha were driving him crazy with jealousy.
Meanwhile, the teachers at Krakenbile also noticed Roger's accelerated development in sword fighting and began to see potential for him in other areas. Following his culinary arts teacher's encouragement, Roger put his sword skills to work in his cooking classes with impressive results. He excelled in butchery. He finished his prep work with a speed and panache rarely seen in the kitchen. And he discovered he had a knack for combining different ingredients in new and exotic ways to come up with amazing dishes to share with everyone else at Krakenbile. With cooking, he had found something he enjoyed as much as sword fighting.
And throughout this time, his sword fighting skills continued to be honed and sharpened (so to speak) by Mustapha, who never let him let his guard down. He was constantly jumping out at Roger from every hidden corner of the kitchen and attacking him with everything he had. Roger never knew when a normal meal prep would turn into a harrowing culinary death match, and he was always ready for a duel.
He loved it.
In fact, he managed to incorporate the sword fights into the cooking process, eluding Mustapha's lunges and then chopping up vegetables and meat on the side; parrying Mustapha's blows and then pulling a hot dish off the fire; ducking and then hopping over Mustapha's sword and then garnishing his completed dishes.
Before long, students and teachers began crowding into the kitchen every time Roger was there, hoping that yet another thrilling display of swordsmanship and the culinary arts would break out between Roger and Mustapha.
They were never disappointed.
In time, Mustapha also began to incorporate food prep into his attacks, and their one-sided rivalry developed into a two-sided partnership. They formalized their nightly food fights into a revolutionary new cooking technique called Abu Shakrah. Drawing equally from the thrills and danger of Tunisian sword fighting and more than 500 years of Viking food history, Abu Shakrah changed the way seafarers and landlubbers alike saw food preparation. Whereas cooking used to be what you had to do to make something (barely) edible, Abu Shakrah turned it into theater, excitement, showmanship.
Upon graduation from Krakenbile, Roger and Mustapha opened their own floating restaurant called Crankshankle and Mustapha, where they dazzled customers with their dangerous, death-defying, swashbuckling cooking duels and amazing Viking dishes.
They were incredibly successful. Within ten years, their empire had expanded to five floating restaurants, and by the time they retired 17 floating restaurants were flying the Crankshankle and Mustapha flag: the tragedy and comedy theater masks, with two crossed scimitars beneath them on a black background.
Without the contributions of Roger, Mustapha, and Abu Shakrah, dining today would be considerably different. There would be no dinner theater, no floating restaurants, no Benihana, no celebrity chefs, and no franchises. It all came from them.
And none of it would have happened if Roger had been able to keep a straight face when his pirate school captain said "poop deck."
(Co-written with Misako Goto)
In those days (of yore), you couldn't get an official commission as a pirate without the proper credentials from an officially licensed pirate school, so his parents--both full-time pirates themselves--were very disappointed when they heard the news. They'd had such high hopes for Roger to carry on the family business.
Roger's father, Redbeard Crankshankle called a family meeting to talk about Roger's options; unfortunately, they were as limited as they were unappealing: pulling strings to get an unpaid internship as a cabin boy, waiting until next year to apply to another pirate school, or working part-time at a public house serving grog and venison.
Like many other 15-year-old would be pirates, Roger didn't care much about such serious matters like careers and commissions; his parents, however, wanted a bright future for their son. And (like any set of parents) they knew he was capable of great things. He just needed to apply himself. But how?
Thinking it would give Roger the guidance he needed, his parents enrolled him in Krakenbile, the combination Viking academy, vocational school, and floating juvenile detention center renowned for its harsh disciplinary standards. Although Redbeard's wife Agnes wasn't 100% behind the idea (especially the juvenile detention center aspect), Redbeard was confident it was the right move.
"Roger just needs a swift kick in the pants," he said, and not for the first time.
As for Roger, he wasn't so thrilled about the juvenile detention center aspect of his new school either, but he loved the idea of living on a boat. He told his parents he would do his best, and off he went.
His days at Krakenbile were busy: cleaning and boat maintenance in the mornings; sailing and vocational classes in the afternoon (Roger majored in the culinary arts); swashbuckling practice at night.
Swashbuckling practice was his favorite activity by far because it reminded him of playing pirates when he was a kid. Everyone else at Krakenbile was ultra serious and competitive, but Roger treated it--like everything else in his life--like a game. And it frustrated the others to no end that Roger was one of the best swordsmen at Krakenbile--seemingly without trying.
Roger's roommate Mustapha, a sword fighting prodigy from Tunisia, recognized in Roger an almost innately preternatural talent with swords--a talent he took it upon himself to develop through nightly one on one swordsmanship clinics. Although Roger usually wasn't one for self improvement, he enjoyed sword fighting with Mustapha because he was such a good and challenging opponent. He looked forward to their sessions every day.
Very soon, an unconventional--and one-sided--rivalry developed. Mustapha would tutor Roger in tactics and strategies, and then get frustrated when Roger's mastery of the tactics and strategies he'd just been taught exceeded those of his teacher. This drove Mustapha to work harder and harder, which had the indirect result of Roger's skill improving even faster.
The irony was that Roger wasn't even aware that a rivalry existed. He merely engaged in sword fighting with relish and glee, oblivious to the fact that his regular thrashings of Mustapha were driving him crazy with jealousy.
Meanwhile, the teachers at Krakenbile also noticed Roger's accelerated development in sword fighting and began to see potential for him in other areas. Following his culinary arts teacher's encouragement, Roger put his sword skills to work in his cooking classes with impressive results. He excelled in butchery. He finished his prep work with a speed and panache rarely seen in the kitchen. And he discovered he had a knack for combining different ingredients in new and exotic ways to come up with amazing dishes to share with everyone else at Krakenbile. With cooking, he had found something he enjoyed as much as sword fighting.
And throughout this time, his sword fighting skills continued to be honed and sharpened (so to speak) by Mustapha, who never let him let his guard down. He was constantly jumping out at Roger from every hidden corner of the kitchen and attacking him with everything he had. Roger never knew when a normal meal prep would turn into a harrowing culinary death match, and he was always ready for a duel.
He loved it.
In fact, he managed to incorporate the sword fights into the cooking process, eluding Mustapha's lunges and then chopping up vegetables and meat on the side; parrying Mustapha's blows and then pulling a hot dish off the fire; ducking and then hopping over Mustapha's sword and then garnishing his completed dishes.
Before long, students and teachers began crowding into the kitchen every time Roger was there, hoping that yet another thrilling display of swordsmanship and the culinary arts would break out between Roger and Mustapha.
They were never disappointed.
In time, Mustapha also began to incorporate food prep into his attacks, and their one-sided rivalry developed into a two-sided partnership. They formalized their nightly food fights into a revolutionary new cooking technique called Abu Shakrah. Drawing equally from the thrills and danger of Tunisian sword fighting and more than 500 years of Viking food history, Abu Shakrah changed the way seafarers and landlubbers alike saw food preparation. Whereas cooking used to be what you had to do to make something (barely) edible, Abu Shakrah turned it into theater, excitement, showmanship.
Upon graduation from Krakenbile, Roger and Mustapha opened their own floating restaurant called Crankshankle and Mustapha, where they dazzled customers with their dangerous, death-defying, swashbuckling cooking duels and amazing Viking dishes.
They were incredibly successful. Within ten years, their empire had expanded to five floating restaurants, and by the time they retired 17 floating restaurants were flying the Crankshankle and Mustapha flag: the tragedy and comedy theater masks, with two crossed scimitars beneath them on a black background.
Without the contributions of Roger, Mustapha, and Abu Shakrah, dining today would be considerably different. There would be no dinner theater, no floating restaurants, no Benihana, no celebrity chefs, and no franchises. It all came from them.
And none of it would have happened if Roger had been able to keep a straight face when his pirate school captain said "poop deck."
(Co-written with Misako Goto)
Saturday, August 21, 2010
August 21 - Just This One Thing
Is it really that much to ask? Is it? All I want out of this world--all I want--is to have a cup of coffee and read the new Sport's Guy column in peace. Seriously, that's it. Just this one thing.
I work hard. I take care of this family. I never complain about anything. Could I please just have this one thing? Could I? Just five minutes. That's all it'll take. Five minutes for me to read today's Sport's Guy, have this coffee, and maybe--maybe? possibly?--eat a damn donut in peace for once in my life.
I'm not asking for riches. Not asking for fame, fortune, any of that other crap. I just want a few minutes where everyone leaves me alone so I can read my favorite sports columnist. What on earth is so hard to comprehend about that? It's simple. Every so often, a man needs a few minutes of his own to get his fix of sport commentary mixed with pop culture references he can understand. He needs coffee. He needs donuts. And after a long week busting his ass at the office and at home, he needs to soak his barking dogs in that bubbling foot bath he got from Sharper Image. It's not rocket surgery, people. It's just basic decency. I don't ask for much. But can I just have this?
Why in the hell does this always have to be such a monumental undertaking? Is there anything I don't do for this family? The ratio of what I do and what I ask is freaking ridiculous. If I'm being conservative, I'd put it at 1,000 : .05.
I'm not asking for anything other than a bit of me time. Just me, the Sports Guy, coffee, donuts, my Sharper Image foot bath, and a few extra minutes to put the final touches on my oh so close to being finished Navy F14 Tomcat model airplane--only the baddest assest, best reviewed fully licensed military hardware replica ever produced. Perfect--perfect!--in every way but one: It can't assemble itself. Damn thing's been sitting on my bookshelves--taunting me!--for more than three years. Could I please, for the love of God and all things holy, could I please just have 20 minutes on my own to finish putting it together?
Thank you.
And then when I'm done, I promise I'll help you take your mother to the hospital.
I work hard. I take care of this family. I never complain about anything. Could I please just have this one thing? Could I? Just five minutes. That's all it'll take. Five minutes for me to read today's Sport's Guy, have this coffee, and maybe--maybe? possibly?--eat a damn donut in peace for once in my life.
I'm not asking for riches. Not asking for fame, fortune, any of that other crap. I just want a few minutes where everyone leaves me alone so I can read my favorite sports columnist. What on earth is so hard to comprehend about that? It's simple. Every so often, a man needs a few minutes of his own to get his fix of sport commentary mixed with pop culture references he can understand. He needs coffee. He needs donuts. And after a long week busting his ass at the office and at home, he needs to soak his barking dogs in that bubbling foot bath he got from Sharper Image. It's not rocket surgery, people. It's just basic decency. I don't ask for much. But can I just have this?
Why in the hell does this always have to be such a monumental undertaking? Is there anything I don't do for this family? The ratio of what I do and what I ask is freaking ridiculous. If I'm being conservative, I'd put it at 1,000 : .05.
I'm not asking for anything other than a bit of me time. Just me, the Sports Guy, coffee, donuts, my Sharper Image foot bath, and a few extra minutes to put the final touches on my oh so close to being finished Navy F14 Tomcat model airplane--only the baddest assest, best reviewed fully licensed military hardware replica ever produced. Perfect--perfect!--in every way but one: It can't assemble itself. Damn thing's been sitting on my bookshelves--taunting me!--for more than three years. Could I please, for the love of God and all things holy, could I please just have 20 minutes on my own to finish putting it together?
Thank you.
And then when I'm done, I promise I'll help you take your mother to the hospital.
Friday, August 20, 2010
August 20 - The Interfaith Meeting
John, Aaron, and Yusef sat quietly in the lobby until a young man dressed in khakis and a blue oxford came in and invited them into his office. After they sat down across from his desk, the man smiled at them briefly.
"So. Do you know where you are?"
None of the men said anything, and the man smiled again. He looked at John and read from a file.
"John Bishop. Lawyer from Washington, DC. Married to Stephanie Bishop. Three children. In addition to the work you do for UNICEF, you take on several pro bono cases every year, most of them dealing with refugees' rights. Also, you and your wife started a recycling program in your neighborhood, and you are actively involved at your children's schools."
He looked at Aaron and read from a different file.
"Aaron Goldberg. Pediatrician from New York City. Married to Rebecca Goldberg. Father of two. You spend your vacations doing short term projects for Doctors Without Borders. In addition, you and your wife created a foundation that raises money and awareness for tuberculosis in developing countries, and you are also actively involved at your children's schools."
He looked at Yusef and read from a third file.
"Yusef Abdullah. High school teacher turned assistant principal from Philadelphia. Sponsored three orphaned children from Rwanda and started a scholarship fund that enabled all three of them to get college educations. You regularly volunteer at least five hours a week at Big Brothers/Big Sisters, you developed an incentive program to get other teachers from your school district to participate in Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and you are also actively involved at your children's schools."
He addressed all three of them.
"As you can see, you are all devoted to furthering good and righteous causes. In addition to the works I have just described, you are all excellent role models within your communities, respected and looked up to by all you know, and actively involved in your church, synagogue, and mosque respectively. In short, you are all good men."
He paused for effect.
"And I regret to inform you that you have all been killed in a car accident."
The men shifted in their seats, frowned, murmured disbelief, looked at each other, looked at themselves, looked at the man.
"I'm sure this comes as a shock, to say the least," the man said patiently. "You probably don't remember it happening. Most people don't. You just found yourself first in a lobby and then in this office. You don't remember actually coming here, though, right?"
John, Aaron, and Yusef said nothing. They waited for the man to explain himself.
"Well, as long as I'm filling your heads with notions you probably find to be literally unbelievable, let me add one more. Since you are dead, that would make this place . . . heaven or paradise or the world to come or whatever you choose to call it."
The men looked around themselves.
"Don't worry. It's not all like this. It's actually--," he quickly became more animated and then just as quickly calmed down. "--Well, you'll see."
"Anyway, we usually have our first meetings with new arrivals in settings like these so as not to blow their minds too much too soon. It's important to ease you into the concept of, I'll call it the afterlife, by starting you off someplace familiar. Like an office. Like I said, don't worry. It gets more impressive than this. Trust me."
"I'm giving you a lot very quickly, and I know it's a lot to wrap your heads around, but I'm going to keep on plowing through, if you don't mind."
The men sat quietly, waiting for the man to continue.
"OK. So. Given your respective beliefs, I'm sure on some secondary level, you're probably at least somewhat shocked to see two men from faiths other than your own in the afterlife. According to our records, each of you subscribes to the notion of exclusivity of faiths. That is, that your particular religion is the "right" one, the only one. And all others are false."
The men didn't disagree with him.
"And included within that belief is the idea that only followers of your faith will be able to enter the kingdom of God.
"And by the way, when I use the word 'God', I'm doing so for the same reason why we're having this meeting in an office. You're familiar with it and using it allows us to have this conversation. If I tried to describe 'God' more accurately, we'd be in here forever. So to speak. Suffice to say that the actual 'God' is nothing like you imagine Him to be and also everything like you imagine Him to be. He is unfathomably mysterious and also innately familiar. By the way, when I use the pronoun "He" it's not because He's actually a he, but because that's also what you're familiar with. Sorry to be so parenthetical, but I want to make sure we're all on the same page. Are we OK so far?"
The men indicated that they were.
"John, you're a Christian. Aaron, you're a Jew. Yusef, you're a Muslim. Three different religions, and yet you all adhere to this notion of exclusivity. You believe that only people from your faith will enter," he motioned around himself, "the afterlife."
"I've called all of you in here together to save myself the trouble of having the same conversation three times. Gentlemen, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. As it turns out, all three of you are wrong. 'God' is not Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. 'God' as you conceive of Him is actually a Hindu."
The men looked at each other in disbelief.
"Yeah," he continued. "Hinduism is the horse you should have been betting on. It's a shame, too, because you're all really good guys. Too bad you're going to be spending eternity in," he spoke out of the side of his mouth, "that other place."
He paused again for effect.
"Nah, I'm just messing with you. Sorry, bad joke. But honestly, anyone that would believe in a God that could be so arbitrarily cruel deserves to have his chain yanked at least a little bit."
The men weren't sure how to feel. It was all very overwhelming.
"Look, to put it simply, God--again, I'm using that word for simplicity's sake--is non-denominational. He's not going to exclude someone from the afterlife just because he or she happened to have followed the "wrong" religion for reasons that almost certainly had more to do with his or her circumstances at birth than anything else. He's not some sort of cruel accountant who's going to zing you over which book you followed or which building you worshipped in. He's a bit more reasonable than that. You should give Him more credit. He's more interested in your actions than in what you profess to believe. To put it simply, do you do good things? The other stuff--the symbols, the books, the buildings? I'm not going to say that they're unimportant. Instead, I'll just say that it's what you do that's more important, not which version of the narrative you adhere to. Does this all make sense to you? I understand it's a lot to absorb."
The men nodded.
"And please don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that any one of your religions is wrong or that you should turn your backs on them or what not. Quite the contrary. I think your respective religions are a big reason why you are the good people you are today. Not the only reason, of course, but a big part of it. No, we want you to stay active in your religions."
"Wait," said John. "Stay active?"
"Yeah," Yusef said. "I thought you said we were dead."
"You are," he said. "But you're going to be revived."
"But we've been dead too long," said Aaron.
"Actually, no, you haven't. It only feels that way to you. During the time we've been talking here, less than one second has passed on earth. Time moves much slower there."
He let that sink in and then continued.
"Anyway, when you go back--and you're all going back--don't change anything about who you are or what you do. The world needs more people like you. The only thing we ask is that you urge other people within your faith to abandon this idea of exclusivity. By the way, I hope that this meeting has disabused you of that idea yourselves. Has it?"
The men looked at each other and nodded.
"You're well-respected within your communities. Leaders. People will listen to you. Help them see that people aren't given or denied access to the afterlife based on which faith they follow. Help them see that good people from outside their faiths are going to be welcome here, too. We think your time on earth might go better if you can look at things that way."
"Anyway, that's about it from me. I'm sure you all have plenty of questions, but we can get into all of that the next time you're here. And yes, you will be back. That is, unless you suddenly start doing a bunch of really bad stuff, which I have no reason to believe will be the case."
The men looked at each other and then back at the man.
"Instead, let me just ask you if you 'get' what I've told you today."
The men said that they did.
"OK, then. Well, we're done here. It's about time for you to go back. Thanks for your time. I'll see you again."
The men got up and opened the door to leave.
"Oh yeah, and one more thing, gentlemen."
They turned around.
"Keep up the Good work."
"So. Do you know where you are?"
None of the men said anything, and the man smiled again. He looked at John and read from a file.
"John Bishop. Lawyer from Washington, DC. Married to Stephanie Bishop. Three children. In addition to the work you do for UNICEF, you take on several pro bono cases every year, most of them dealing with refugees' rights. Also, you and your wife started a recycling program in your neighborhood, and you are actively involved at your children's schools."
He looked at Aaron and read from a different file.
"Aaron Goldberg. Pediatrician from New York City. Married to Rebecca Goldberg. Father of two. You spend your vacations doing short term projects for Doctors Without Borders. In addition, you and your wife created a foundation that raises money and awareness for tuberculosis in developing countries, and you are also actively involved at your children's schools."
He looked at Yusef and read from a third file.
"Yusef Abdullah. High school teacher turned assistant principal from Philadelphia. Sponsored three orphaned children from Rwanda and started a scholarship fund that enabled all three of them to get college educations. You regularly volunteer at least five hours a week at Big Brothers/Big Sisters, you developed an incentive program to get other teachers from your school district to participate in Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and you are also actively involved at your children's schools."
He addressed all three of them.
"As you can see, you are all devoted to furthering good and righteous causes. In addition to the works I have just described, you are all excellent role models within your communities, respected and looked up to by all you know, and actively involved in your church, synagogue, and mosque respectively. In short, you are all good men."
He paused for effect.
"And I regret to inform you that you have all been killed in a car accident."
The men shifted in their seats, frowned, murmured disbelief, looked at each other, looked at themselves, looked at the man.
"I'm sure this comes as a shock, to say the least," the man said patiently. "You probably don't remember it happening. Most people don't. You just found yourself first in a lobby and then in this office. You don't remember actually coming here, though, right?"
John, Aaron, and Yusef said nothing. They waited for the man to explain himself.
"Well, as long as I'm filling your heads with notions you probably find to be literally unbelievable, let me add one more. Since you are dead, that would make this place . . . heaven or paradise or the world to come or whatever you choose to call it."
The men looked around themselves.
"Don't worry. It's not all like this. It's actually--," he quickly became more animated and then just as quickly calmed down. "--Well, you'll see."
"Anyway, we usually have our first meetings with new arrivals in settings like these so as not to blow their minds too much too soon. It's important to ease you into the concept of, I'll call it the afterlife, by starting you off someplace familiar. Like an office. Like I said, don't worry. It gets more impressive than this. Trust me."
"I'm giving you a lot very quickly, and I know it's a lot to wrap your heads around, but I'm going to keep on plowing through, if you don't mind."
The men sat quietly, waiting for the man to continue.
"OK. So. Given your respective beliefs, I'm sure on some secondary level, you're probably at least somewhat shocked to see two men from faiths other than your own in the afterlife. According to our records, each of you subscribes to the notion of exclusivity of faiths. That is, that your particular religion is the "right" one, the only one. And all others are false."
The men didn't disagree with him.
"And included within that belief is the idea that only followers of your faith will be able to enter the kingdom of God.
"And by the way, when I use the word 'God', I'm doing so for the same reason why we're having this meeting in an office. You're familiar with it and using it allows us to have this conversation. If I tried to describe 'God' more accurately, we'd be in here forever. So to speak. Suffice to say that the actual 'God' is nothing like you imagine Him to be and also everything like you imagine Him to be. He is unfathomably mysterious and also innately familiar. By the way, when I use the pronoun "He" it's not because He's actually a he, but because that's also what you're familiar with. Sorry to be so parenthetical, but I want to make sure we're all on the same page. Are we OK so far?"
The men indicated that they were.
"John, you're a Christian. Aaron, you're a Jew. Yusef, you're a Muslim. Three different religions, and yet you all adhere to this notion of exclusivity. You believe that only people from your faith will enter," he motioned around himself, "the afterlife."
"I've called all of you in here together to save myself the trouble of having the same conversation three times. Gentlemen, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. As it turns out, all three of you are wrong. 'God' is not Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. 'God' as you conceive of Him is actually a Hindu."
The men looked at each other in disbelief.
"Yeah," he continued. "Hinduism is the horse you should have been betting on. It's a shame, too, because you're all really good guys. Too bad you're going to be spending eternity in," he spoke out of the side of his mouth, "that other place."
He paused again for effect.
"Nah, I'm just messing with you. Sorry, bad joke. But honestly, anyone that would believe in a God that could be so arbitrarily cruel deserves to have his chain yanked at least a little bit."
The men weren't sure how to feel. It was all very overwhelming.
"Look, to put it simply, God--again, I'm using that word for simplicity's sake--is non-denominational. He's not going to exclude someone from the afterlife just because he or she happened to have followed the "wrong" religion for reasons that almost certainly had more to do with his or her circumstances at birth than anything else. He's not some sort of cruel accountant who's going to zing you over which book you followed or which building you worshipped in. He's a bit more reasonable than that. You should give Him more credit. He's more interested in your actions than in what you profess to believe. To put it simply, do you do good things? The other stuff--the symbols, the books, the buildings? I'm not going to say that they're unimportant. Instead, I'll just say that it's what you do that's more important, not which version of the narrative you adhere to. Does this all make sense to you? I understand it's a lot to absorb."
The men nodded.
"And please don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that any one of your religions is wrong or that you should turn your backs on them or what not. Quite the contrary. I think your respective religions are a big reason why you are the good people you are today. Not the only reason, of course, but a big part of it. No, we want you to stay active in your religions."
"Wait," said John. "Stay active?"
"Yeah," Yusef said. "I thought you said we were dead."
"You are," he said. "But you're going to be revived."
"But we've been dead too long," said Aaron.
"Actually, no, you haven't. It only feels that way to you. During the time we've been talking here, less than one second has passed on earth. Time moves much slower there."
He let that sink in and then continued.
"Anyway, when you go back--and you're all going back--don't change anything about who you are or what you do. The world needs more people like you. The only thing we ask is that you urge other people within your faith to abandon this idea of exclusivity. By the way, I hope that this meeting has disabused you of that idea yourselves. Has it?"
The men looked at each other and nodded.
"You're well-respected within your communities. Leaders. People will listen to you. Help them see that people aren't given or denied access to the afterlife based on which faith they follow. Help them see that good people from outside their faiths are going to be welcome here, too. We think your time on earth might go better if you can look at things that way."
"Anyway, that's about it from me. I'm sure you all have plenty of questions, but we can get into all of that the next time you're here. And yes, you will be back. That is, unless you suddenly start doing a bunch of really bad stuff, which I have no reason to believe will be the case."
The men looked at each other and then back at the man.
"Instead, let me just ask you if you 'get' what I've told you today."
The men said that they did.
"OK, then. Well, we're done here. It's about time for you to go back. Thanks for your time. I'll see you again."
The men got up and opened the door to leave.
"Oh yeah, and one more thing, gentlemen."
They turned around.
"Keep up the Good work."
Thursday, August 19, 2010
August 19 - Gentlemen of the Afternoon
Two men in their early 20s sat on a park bench near a pond where couples were paddling around on swan boats.
"Is this where you normally set up?" the younger one asked.
"If the weather's nice, yeah," the older one answered without looking. His eyes were casually scanning the park.
"Where else do you go?"
"On a nice day? Parks are good. I also go to farmers markets, any sort of ethnic festival. If it's cold or rainy? Museums, bookstores, galleries."
"And who talks first?"
"Well, that's kind of tricky. Neither of you, really."
The younger one waited for the older one to explain.
"See, it's kind of a delicate situation. To help save face, you have to be able to maintain an air of plausible deniability. Neither of you can come out and talk openly about what's really happening--at any time, by the way. Not just the beginning."
"So how does it work?"
"Well yeah, you're by yourself and she's by herself, and you both kind of glance at each other and then look away a couple of times. And then maybe she pretends like she recognizes you and asks you something, like if you're meeting someone or if you're so and so's friend or sometimes she has a name for you. And whatever it is, you go along with it."
"OK?"
"And the beginning is the hardest part because you have to figure out who you're supposed to be to this woman, like instantly, and then be that person. Maybe it's a 'blind date', maybe you're a friend of a friend, whatever. But you have to stay in character. The whole time. You can never openly say or even hint that you're a companionship gun for hire. That would ruin the illusion. And the afternoon. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, I guess," he said, mulling it over. "And then you, like, just hang out?"
"Pretty much. Like here, we'd do the swan boats. Maybe grab some ice cream afterwards. Check out some street performers. If it's a museum, we check out the exhibits, get coffee afterwards. Basically, anything a couple would do for a Saturday afternoon date, that's what you do."
"What about, um, sex?"
The older guy shook his head. "Nah. Most women that hire guys like us aren't interested in sex. They just want to do couple type things for an afternoon and then go back to their normal routines afterwards."
"Do they ever try to get anything more, you know, real going?"
"What, this isn't real?" He pretended to be shocked.
"You know what I mean. Like, uncompensated. Real names. Not role playing."
"No, I know. Um, surprisingly, no."
"So what the hell?"
"My guess is that they're just busy. And single. And maybe mostly OK with it or too busy to get a full on relationship going, but every once in a while, they still miss doing couple type things. They just don't have time to have a 'real' relationship. So they get their fix with guys like us for a few hours, get the monkey off their back, and go back to their regular lives. Without feeling like they have to call someone. And definitely without stressing out about the guy not calling them."
The younger one sat quietly, digesting it.
The older one began speaking again. "You think it's weird, don't you?"
"No, not really. If anything, what I feel strange about is that it doesn't feel strange, if that makes any sense. Like, I get it. It's just--what are they paying for? It's not love. It's not sex. I don't know how to explain it."
"I've had it described to me as the commodification of companionship."
He shrugged. "Yeah, that works."
"The idea takes some getting used to. As does maintaining the illusion of it. It's like, both of you know that you're role playing. And you know that the other person knows, and on and on and on. But there's this tacit agreement to keep it going and not openly acknowledge it. It's kind of exciting in a way. Like the next level of improv without a net. And by the way, speaking of which, if you're in the business, this gig is great practice. You can really develop your own basic character type--or character types, you know, since you've got to be tuned in to what your client is into."
"Yeah, that reminds me. How do you get paid?"
"Ah, that. Usually, I do it as a loan type situation."
"What do you mean?"
"Like at the end of our time together--by the way, she pays for everything, of course--I'll apologize profusely and tell her I'm super embarrassed and I would usually never ask her for such a favor, blah, blah, blah, but I need to borrow some money to . . . whatever. Pay a vet bill, get this sweater for my mom I just saw on sale, whatever."
"Do you negotiate the price?"
"Almost never. Most women know the going rate is a buck fifty for three hours."
"Really?"
The older one shrugged. "It's all pretty straightforward. She gives you the money, you both conveniently forget to agree on how you'll pay the money back, and then you go your separate ways."
The younger one raised his eyebrows and nodded. He understood.
"So," the older one said. "You ready to give it a shot?"
"Is this where you normally set up?" the younger one asked.
"If the weather's nice, yeah," the older one answered without looking. His eyes were casually scanning the park.
"Where else do you go?"
"On a nice day? Parks are good. I also go to farmers markets, any sort of ethnic festival. If it's cold or rainy? Museums, bookstores, galleries."
"And who talks first?"
"Well, that's kind of tricky. Neither of you, really."
The younger one waited for the older one to explain.
"See, it's kind of a delicate situation. To help save face, you have to be able to maintain an air of plausible deniability. Neither of you can come out and talk openly about what's really happening--at any time, by the way. Not just the beginning."
"So how does it work?"
"Well yeah, you're by yourself and she's by herself, and you both kind of glance at each other and then look away a couple of times. And then maybe she pretends like she recognizes you and asks you something, like if you're meeting someone or if you're so and so's friend or sometimes she has a name for you. And whatever it is, you go along with it."
"OK?"
"And the beginning is the hardest part because you have to figure out who you're supposed to be to this woman, like instantly, and then be that person. Maybe it's a 'blind date', maybe you're a friend of a friend, whatever. But you have to stay in character. The whole time. You can never openly say or even hint that you're a companionship gun for hire. That would ruin the illusion. And the afternoon. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, I guess," he said, mulling it over. "And then you, like, just hang out?"
"Pretty much. Like here, we'd do the swan boats. Maybe grab some ice cream afterwards. Check out some street performers. If it's a museum, we check out the exhibits, get coffee afterwards. Basically, anything a couple would do for a Saturday afternoon date, that's what you do."
"What about, um, sex?"
The older guy shook his head. "Nah. Most women that hire guys like us aren't interested in sex. They just want to do couple type things for an afternoon and then go back to their normal routines afterwards."
"Do they ever try to get anything more, you know, real going?"
"What, this isn't real?" He pretended to be shocked.
"You know what I mean. Like, uncompensated. Real names. Not role playing."
"No, I know. Um, surprisingly, no."
"So what the hell?"
"My guess is that they're just busy. And single. And maybe mostly OK with it or too busy to get a full on relationship going, but every once in a while, they still miss doing couple type things. They just don't have time to have a 'real' relationship. So they get their fix with guys like us for a few hours, get the monkey off their back, and go back to their regular lives. Without feeling like they have to call someone. And definitely without stressing out about the guy not calling them."
The younger one sat quietly, digesting it.
The older one began speaking again. "You think it's weird, don't you?"
"No, not really. If anything, what I feel strange about is that it doesn't feel strange, if that makes any sense. Like, I get it. It's just--what are they paying for? It's not love. It's not sex. I don't know how to explain it."
"I've had it described to me as the commodification of companionship."
He shrugged. "Yeah, that works."
"The idea takes some getting used to. As does maintaining the illusion of it. It's like, both of you know that you're role playing. And you know that the other person knows, and on and on and on. But there's this tacit agreement to keep it going and not openly acknowledge it. It's kind of exciting in a way. Like the next level of improv without a net. And by the way, speaking of which, if you're in the business, this gig is great practice. You can really develop your own basic character type--or character types, you know, since you've got to be tuned in to what your client is into."
"Yeah, that reminds me. How do you get paid?"
"Ah, that. Usually, I do it as a loan type situation."
"What do you mean?"
"Like at the end of our time together--by the way, she pays for everything, of course--I'll apologize profusely and tell her I'm super embarrassed and I would usually never ask her for such a favor, blah, blah, blah, but I need to borrow some money to . . . whatever. Pay a vet bill, get this sweater for my mom I just saw on sale, whatever."
"Do you negotiate the price?"
"Almost never. Most women know the going rate is a buck fifty for three hours."
"Really?"
The older one shrugged. "It's all pretty straightforward. She gives you the money, you both conveniently forget to agree on how you'll pay the money back, and then you go your separate ways."
The younger one raised his eyebrows and nodded. He understood.
"So," the older one said. "You ready to give it a shot?"
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
August 18 - Jaws
The dental hygienist came in to clean Mary's teeth and she visibly recoiled from the stench of her breath. It hit her as soon as she opened the door.
"How long has it been since your last check-up?"
Mary chuckled sheepishly and pretended to think. "Um, 15 years?"
"Wow," the hygienist said before she could stop herself. Then she told Mary to open wide, took a deep breath, and went to work with the scraper.
The situation was bad from across the room, but so much worse up close. Mary's teeth were the color of milk tea and covered with, well, the hygienist wasn't sure what it was. Cleaning her teeth was like scraping bark off a dead tree with a screwdriver. Every time she took the scraper out of Mary's mouth, it was covered with black gunk. And every time Mary rinsed and spit, there were different chunks of food mixed in with it: broccoli, gristle, popcorn kernels, corn, chipped bits of seashell.
And blood. Thick gobs of blood suspended in spit.
The hygienist was sure that not only had Mary not been to the dentist in 15 years, but it was unlikely that she'd even brushed during that time, much less flossed.
The cleaning took just over two hours, and by the time it was finished the examining room, especially near the sink, smelled like a trash dumpster filled with festering roadkill. The hygienist told Mary the dentist would be right in. Then she left the room to throw up and begin planning a career change.
The hygienist had given the dentist, Dr. Spengler, a heads up about the smell, but it still made him stumble a bit when he came in. He cursed his career choice, told Mary to open wide, and went in for the exam, breathing through his mouth under his mask.
It was like Mary's mouth had been the scene of a shootout using the world's tiniest machine guns. There were holes everywhere. Cavities inside cavities. Her teeth were completely rotted out. There wasn't one tooth in her mouth that was cavity free. Not one.
But it went further than the teeth and even further than the gums, which were rotted beyond hope. The decay extended well into her mandible, and it was clear to Dr. Spengler that it wouldn't be enough to merely pull all her teeth. Her lower jaw would have to go too.
As grim as the realization was, Dr. Spengler was also quite excited. He had been working on an idea for a jaw replacement procedure, and he was confident it would work. The only problem was he had never been able to find a willing volunteer.
Until then.
Mary didn't have dental insurance, so he made an arrangement with her in which he would replace her entire jaw and all her teeth free of charge. All she had to do was agree to go along with it with the understanding that it was an experimental procedure.
She agreed and two weeks later, she left Dr. Spengler's clinic with a new lower jaw made of ceramic and gold, synthetic gums, and a whole mouth full of ceramic teeth. The only remaining member from the original cast of her mouth was her tongue.
Her body rejected all of it less than a month later.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Spengler tried again, this time with a solid gold jaw, and Mary's body rejected it even more quickly.
And that's when Dr. Spengler decided that his worst suspicions about the procedure were probably well grounded. He would need to use a human jaw.
Not exactly an easy thing to come by, but Dr. Spengler was nothing if not resourceful. Earlier in his career, he had helped pay off his dental school loans by serving as the dentist for a number of state correctional facilities. Some serious behind the scenes, off the record, and below the radar negotiations were carried out with the net result of Dr. Spengler getting one correctional facility he had a particularly close relationship with to add jawbone to the list of transplantable organs and tissues to be harvested the next time an inmate was executed.
As it turned out, said inmate was Tom Hopkins.
Also known as the Butcher, Mr. Hopkins was a serial killer from downstate who also dabbled in cannibalism. Not quite Dr. Spengler's first choice for a jaw donor, but he wasn't a superstitious man, he was a man of science. It didn't matter where the jaw had come from and what it had been used for in the past. The important thing was that it was human and it would work. Even still, he opted not to tell Mary about the jaw's past.
The time came, the jaw was harvested and then transplanted, and this time it took. Mary's body accepted it, and all was well.
Following Dr. Spengler's urging, Mary took good care of her new teeth and jaw, and they took good care of her. Dr. Spengler stayed in close contact with Mary over the next several months and monitored her progress, which was good. She was delighted with her new dental works, and he was pleased that the procedure had been a success.
He also had to admit to himself that he was more than a little relieved that she never suddenly developed a taste for cannibalism.
However, after Mary had had the new jaw for close to a year, the whole issue started to gnaw at Dr. Spengler a bit, and he decided he at least needed to give her the option of learning the truth about the previous life of her jaw.
She thought about his offer for a moment and then said OK.
He asked her if the name Tom Hopkins meant anything to her.
"The serial killer," she said almost immediately. "The Butcher."
And he knew the moment she said it that it had been a huge mistake, all of it. The transplant, the donor, telling her about it now.
"Is this--?" She touched her jaw.
What had I been thinking? Of course it wasn't OK. Nothing about it was OK. The teeth that are in her mouth now were the same teeth--He couldn't finish the thought. In the rush to become the first oral surgeon to successfully complete a jaw transplant procedure, he'd lost all sense of ethics and morality. How could I not have told her?
"Oh my God."
"Mary, now listen--"
"Oh my God."
"I--"
Mary grabbed his hands. "Tom Hopkins killed my sister. He--and now I--"
"Oh my God."
"His teeth--" She grabbed at her teeth and started crying.
He started to comfort her, but instead he put his face in his hands and kept it there until he noticed that Mary wasn't crying, she was laughing. He looked up at her.
"Got ya!" she said and then laughed hysterically.
Dr. Spengler's jaw dropped.
"You should have seen your face."
"Jesus, Mary."
"And Joseph. Ha ha ha!"
He shook his head.
"Come on, doc. Don't be mad."
"Right. Good one. I guess now's as good a time as any to tell you that I've decided I'll be charging you for the transplant after all."
"Good one, yourself, doc. You go pulling that kind of stunt on me I just might have to bring the Butcher's jaw out of retirement."
Then she faked like she was going to bite his arm, and they both laughed.
"How long has it been since your last check-up?"
Mary chuckled sheepishly and pretended to think. "Um, 15 years?"
"Wow," the hygienist said before she could stop herself. Then she told Mary to open wide, took a deep breath, and went to work with the scraper.
The situation was bad from across the room, but so much worse up close. Mary's teeth were the color of milk tea and covered with, well, the hygienist wasn't sure what it was. Cleaning her teeth was like scraping bark off a dead tree with a screwdriver. Every time she took the scraper out of Mary's mouth, it was covered with black gunk. And every time Mary rinsed and spit, there were different chunks of food mixed in with it: broccoli, gristle, popcorn kernels, corn, chipped bits of seashell.
And blood. Thick gobs of blood suspended in spit.
The hygienist was sure that not only had Mary not been to the dentist in 15 years, but it was unlikely that she'd even brushed during that time, much less flossed.
The cleaning took just over two hours, and by the time it was finished the examining room, especially near the sink, smelled like a trash dumpster filled with festering roadkill. The hygienist told Mary the dentist would be right in. Then she left the room to throw up and begin planning a career change.
The hygienist had given the dentist, Dr. Spengler, a heads up about the smell, but it still made him stumble a bit when he came in. He cursed his career choice, told Mary to open wide, and went in for the exam, breathing through his mouth under his mask.
It was like Mary's mouth had been the scene of a shootout using the world's tiniest machine guns. There were holes everywhere. Cavities inside cavities. Her teeth were completely rotted out. There wasn't one tooth in her mouth that was cavity free. Not one.
But it went further than the teeth and even further than the gums, which were rotted beyond hope. The decay extended well into her mandible, and it was clear to Dr. Spengler that it wouldn't be enough to merely pull all her teeth. Her lower jaw would have to go too.
As grim as the realization was, Dr. Spengler was also quite excited. He had been working on an idea for a jaw replacement procedure, and he was confident it would work. The only problem was he had never been able to find a willing volunteer.
Until then.
Mary didn't have dental insurance, so he made an arrangement with her in which he would replace her entire jaw and all her teeth free of charge. All she had to do was agree to go along with it with the understanding that it was an experimental procedure.
She agreed and two weeks later, she left Dr. Spengler's clinic with a new lower jaw made of ceramic and gold, synthetic gums, and a whole mouth full of ceramic teeth. The only remaining member from the original cast of her mouth was her tongue.
Her body rejected all of it less than a month later.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Spengler tried again, this time with a solid gold jaw, and Mary's body rejected it even more quickly.
And that's when Dr. Spengler decided that his worst suspicions about the procedure were probably well grounded. He would need to use a human jaw.
Not exactly an easy thing to come by, but Dr. Spengler was nothing if not resourceful. Earlier in his career, he had helped pay off his dental school loans by serving as the dentist for a number of state correctional facilities. Some serious behind the scenes, off the record, and below the radar negotiations were carried out with the net result of Dr. Spengler getting one correctional facility he had a particularly close relationship with to add jawbone to the list of transplantable organs and tissues to be harvested the next time an inmate was executed.
As it turned out, said inmate was Tom Hopkins.
Also known as the Butcher, Mr. Hopkins was a serial killer from downstate who also dabbled in cannibalism. Not quite Dr. Spengler's first choice for a jaw donor, but he wasn't a superstitious man, he was a man of science. It didn't matter where the jaw had come from and what it had been used for in the past. The important thing was that it was human and it would work. Even still, he opted not to tell Mary about the jaw's past.
The time came, the jaw was harvested and then transplanted, and this time it took. Mary's body accepted it, and all was well.
Following Dr. Spengler's urging, Mary took good care of her new teeth and jaw, and they took good care of her. Dr. Spengler stayed in close contact with Mary over the next several months and monitored her progress, which was good. She was delighted with her new dental works, and he was pleased that the procedure had been a success.
He also had to admit to himself that he was more than a little relieved that she never suddenly developed a taste for cannibalism.
However, after Mary had had the new jaw for close to a year, the whole issue started to gnaw at Dr. Spengler a bit, and he decided he at least needed to give her the option of learning the truth about the previous life of her jaw.
She thought about his offer for a moment and then said OK.
He asked her if the name Tom Hopkins meant anything to her.
"The serial killer," she said almost immediately. "The Butcher."
And he knew the moment she said it that it had been a huge mistake, all of it. The transplant, the donor, telling her about it now.
"Is this--?" She touched her jaw.
What had I been thinking? Of course it wasn't OK. Nothing about it was OK. The teeth that are in her mouth now were the same teeth--He couldn't finish the thought. In the rush to become the first oral surgeon to successfully complete a jaw transplant procedure, he'd lost all sense of ethics and morality. How could I not have told her?
"Oh my God."
"Mary, now listen--"
"Oh my God."
"I--"
Mary grabbed his hands. "Tom Hopkins killed my sister. He--and now I--"
"Oh my God."
"His teeth--" She grabbed at her teeth and started crying.
He started to comfort her, but instead he put his face in his hands and kept it there until he noticed that Mary wasn't crying, she was laughing. He looked up at her.
"Got ya!" she said and then laughed hysterically.
Dr. Spengler's jaw dropped.
"You should have seen your face."
"Jesus, Mary."
"And Joseph. Ha ha ha!"
He shook his head.
"Come on, doc. Don't be mad."
"Right. Good one. I guess now's as good a time as any to tell you that I've decided I'll be charging you for the transplant after all."
"Good one, yourself, doc. You go pulling that kind of stunt on me I just might have to bring the Butcher's jaw out of retirement."
Then she faked like she was going to bite his arm, and they both laughed.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
August 17 - The Heckler
There it was again, that crazy monosyllabic laugh.
"HAW!"
And then a few seconds later, "HAW!"
It was almost more of a yell than a laugh: deep-throated, emphatic, and mean. The kind of laugh you'd use if you had to make someone feel really bad and you only had time for one syllable. "HAW!"
Without breaking stride, I looked around but saw no one. Just trees, parked cars, and an empty park. Then I slowed my jog down, turned around, and ran backwards. Nobody behind me either. Just more trees.
A few blocks later it was the same guy. "HAW! HAW!" I stopped immediately and did a complete 360.
Nobody.
I put my hands on my hips and looked around and it was quiet. There wasn't anybody else around.
I got going again.
The next block, I heard him again. "HAW!" He was right behind me.
I stopped and turned around. "OK, whoever that is, could you please knock it off? I'm trying to run here."
I couldn't see him, but I felt his presence.
"Look, I know you're there. Just cut it out."
"HAW!"
I looked up. A crow was perched on a swing set in the park. He looked at me. "HAW!"
"Something funny there, crow?"
"HAW!"
"Shut up!"
"HAW!"
I picked up a rock. "OK, fine. Say it again."
He looked at me and opened his beak.
"Come on, birdy. Let's hear what you got to say."
He held his beak open. Then closed it.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Not laughing now, are you? Are you, birdy?"
He ruffled his feathers a bit, but otherwise didn't move.
I pretended like I was going to drop the rock, and he perched up, ready to cackle. But I didn't drop the rock. Instead I faked a throw, and he flapped away from the swing set and swooped out of sight.
"Yeah, just remember that, Mr. Crow! Just remember that shit next time you come around laughing at me! Just remember I've got this rock and I'm not afraid to use it!" I shouted into the trees.
Then I turned around to run back home and there she was, that really good looking woman with the braids I sometimes see when I go running.
Crap.
From her expression I could tell she'd seen my whole little conversation with the crow. I tried to salvage it with a little laugh and shrug, but she just flashed a split second appease-the-weirdo smile and continued on her way. And after another couple of seconds, so did I.
"HAW!"
I just kept on running. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"HAW!"
"HAW!"
And then a few seconds later, "HAW!"
It was almost more of a yell than a laugh: deep-throated, emphatic, and mean. The kind of laugh you'd use if you had to make someone feel really bad and you only had time for one syllable. "HAW!"
Without breaking stride, I looked around but saw no one. Just trees, parked cars, and an empty park. Then I slowed my jog down, turned around, and ran backwards. Nobody behind me either. Just more trees.
A few blocks later it was the same guy. "HAW! HAW!" I stopped immediately and did a complete 360.
Nobody.
I put my hands on my hips and looked around and it was quiet. There wasn't anybody else around.
I got going again.
The next block, I heard him again. "HAW!" He was right behind me.
I stopped and turned around. "OK, whoever that is, could you please knock it off? I'm trying to run here."
I couldn't see him, but I felt his presence.
"Look, I know you're there. Just cut it out."
"HAW!"
I looked up. A crow was perched on a swing set in the park. He looked at me. "HAW!"
"Something funny there, crow?"
"HAW!"
"Shut up!"
"HAW!"
I picked up a rock. "OK, fine. Say it again."
He looked at me and opened his beak.
"Come on, birdy. Let's hear what you got to say."
He held his beak open. Then closed it.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Not laughing now, are you? Are you, birdy?"
He ruffled his feathers a bit, but otherwise didn't move.
I pretended like I was going to drop the rock, and he perched up, ready to cackle. But I didn't drop the rock. Instead I faked a throw, and he flapped away from the swing set and swooped out of sight.
"Yeah, just remember that, Mr. Crow! Just remember that shit next time you come around laughing at me! Just remember I've got this rock and I'm not afraid to use it!" I shouted into the trees.
Then I turned around to run back home and there she was, that really good looking woman with the braids I sometimes see when I go running.
Crap.
From her expression I could tell she'd seen my whole little conversation with the crow. I tried to salvage it with a little laugh and shrug, but she just flashed a split second appease-the-weirdo smile and continued on her way. And after another couple of seconds, so did I.
"HAW!"
I just kept on running. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"HAW!"
Monday, August 16, 2010
August 16 - Abusing Yourself To Death
The worst thing about accidentally killing yourself while masturbating is that you have to talk about it every time you meet someone new in the afterlife. Seriously, man. Every time. "How'd you die?" is pretty much the "What's your major?" or "What do you do?" of the afterlife, and I can't even begin to tell you how bad it sucks having to tell people the same story again and again and again, especially since the story will never change. You can switch majors or change careers, but you only ever die once.
Here's how the conversation usually goes: I was in Atlanta on business. By myself (duh). And after dinner I felt like having a wank, but not just any wank. I wanted it to be extra intense, so I got myself set up in the closet for the old autoerotic asphyxiation thing . . . right, just like the guy from INXS . . . and anyway things got carried away and I didn't stop in time and . . . What's that? No, surprisingly, I had not been drinking . . . No, I'd done it before . . . A couple of times . . . Yeah, it actually is--was--very intense . . . Yeah, you're right. I probably should have had a spotter . . . No, I'm single--was single . . . What's that? Oh, Angelina Jolie. Tomb Raider was on Skinemax.
The worst is when someone asks you how you died, and you tell them autoerotic asphyxiation, thinking that will be the end of it, but then they don't know what that is and then you have to explain it to them.
The first time that happened was during one of the orientation sessions when I first arrived here. They had about 20 of us in a circle, and we had to take turns saying our names, where we were from, how we'd died, and one of our proudest accomplishments from our time on earth. Anyway, it got to me and I said autoerotic asphyxiation and tried to move on to my proudest accomplishment, but then a bunch of other people in the circle didn't know what I was talking about. And then after I explained it they just kind of looked at me with sympathy. It would've been better if they'd made fun of me or something, but instead they just looked down at the floor awkwardly. I'm pretty sure I heard one of them say something like, "His poor mother."
Yeah, no kidding his poor mother. Speaking of which, I'm guessing that a parent seeing his or her kid in the afterlife is pretty much the definition of bittersweet. Of course it's great to see them again, but, well, they're dead, you know? And of course when I saw my mom we didn't talk about that, but I know she knew.
They've tried to start support groups for guys like me who have died in stupid and embarrassing ways, but nobody ever goes to them. I guess they're all OK with it, the guys who died stupid deaths. There are a lot of them, by the way. You know the Darwin Awards for people that died in the most idiotic ways imaginable? Apparently, those must be really competitive awards, because there are some total morons here. And this is coming from the guy who choked to death while masturbating to (a not even naked) Angelina Jolie.
By the way, I'm pretty sure that's my identity here, because how you died totally defines how people look at you here. Like, I know this one guy who was a fireman. Dude bought it while saving a baby from a fire in some apartment building. Can you believe that? It's like the ultimate hero cliche. And that's the first impression everyone has of him is: hero. The first impression everyone has of me? Incompetent wanker.
Here's how the conversation usually goes: I was in Atlanta on business. By myself (duh). And after dinner I felt like having a wank, but not just any wank. I wanted it to be extra intense, so I got myself set up in the closet for the old autoerotic asphyxiation thing . . . right, just like the guy from INXS . . . and anyway things got carried away and I didn't stop in time and . . . What's that? No, surprisingly, I had not been drinking . . . No, I'd done it before . . . A couple of times . . . Yeah, it actually is--was--very intense . . . Yeah, you're right. I probably should have had a spotter . . . No, I'm single--was single . . . What's that? Oh, Angelina Jolie. Tomb Raider was on Skinemax.
The worst is when someone asks you how you died, and you tell them autoerotic asphyxiation, thinking that will be the end of it, but then they don't know what that is and then you have to explain it to them.
The first time that happened was during one of the orientation sessions when I first arrived here. They had about 20 of us in a circle, and we had to take turns saying our names, where we were from, how we'd died, and one of our proudest accomplishments from our time on earth. Anyway, it got to me and I said autoerotic asphyxiation and tried to move on to my proudest accomplishment, but then a bunch of other people in the circle didn't know what I was talking about. And then after I explained it they just kind of looked at me with sympathy. It would've been better if they'd made fun of me or something, but instead they just looked down at the floor awkwardly. I'm pretty sure I heard one of them say something like, "His poor mother."
Yeah, no kidding his poor mother. Speaking of which, I'm guessing that a parent seeing his or her kid in the afterlife is pretty much the definition of bittersweet. Of course it's great to see them again, but, well, they're dead, you know? And of course when I saw my mom we didn't talk about that, but I know she knew.
They've tried to start support groups for guys like me who have died in stupid and embarrassing ways, but nobody ever goes to them. I guess they're all OK with it, the guys who died stupid deaths. There are a lot of them, by the way. You know the Darwin Awards for people that died in the most idiotic ways imaginable? Apparently, those must be really competitive awards, because there are some total morons here. And this is coming from the guy who choked to death while masturbating to (a not even naked) Angelina Jolie.
By the way, I'm pretty sure that's my identity here, because how you died totally defines how people look at you here. Like, I know this one guy who was a fireman. Dude bought it while saving a baby from a fire in some apartment building. Can you believe that? It's like the ultimate hero cliche. And that's the first impression everyone has of him is: hero. The first impression everyone has of me? Incompetent wanker.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
August 15 - Outlaw Zombie Killers
Sara Robertson and her sister Rebecca were on their way to Cutter's Gulch to begin work as school teachers when their stagecoach was attacked by a mass of flesh eating zombies.
In the ensuing fight, the stagecoach driver, the horses, and all the passengers besides Sara and Rebecca were killed, and they managed to escape from the zombies with only the clothes on their backs.
After three days of wandering through the wilderness, they happened upon the campsite of John Stanford and Edward Hicks, two Civil War veterans. By then the sisters were delirious with hunger, dehydration, and sleep deprivation, and in between ravenous bites of food and gulps of water, they told John and Edward about how a band of crazed murderers had attacked their stagecoach and eaten the flesh of the other passengers. John and Edward had heard--and then immediately dismissed--similar stories before, but they couldn't deny that something had scared the hell out the two women. They took turns sleeping while the other one kept watch.
The next morning, the sisters begged John and Edward to escort them the rest of the way to Cutter's Gulch. The murderers who had attacked their stagecoach were still on the loose, and someone had to warn the town.
At the mention of Cutter's Gulch, the men bristled. Up until two weeks ago, they had been part of a cavalry unit charged with keeping watch on the mining town; however, they'd been run out of town when their commanding officer found out about their "homosexual tendencies" and nobody else in their unit or the town had spoken up for them, despite the fact that they'd been among the best officers in their unit. The prospect of helping those people didn't hold much appeal to John and Edward.
And as far Sara and Rebecca's teaching jobs were concerned, John and Edward said, it was common knowledge that the town regularly lured young women there with the promise of such work only to force them to work at one of the town's brothels once they arrived. The few children who actually lived in Cutter's Gulch were homeless orphans who worked in the mines, and there were no schools there at all.
The four of them then weighed the pros and cons of venturing into Cutter's Gulch to warn the people that had exiled them to the wilderness because of their sexuality (in the case of John and Edward) or conspired to conscript them into sexual slavery (in the case of Sara and Rebecca).
After much deliberation, however, they decided the town had to be warned. Even though the adults may not have merited their help, the children did.
The next morning at dawn, they armed themselves with all the weapons they had and headed back to Cutter's Gulch.
They were too late.
They arrived to chaos; the town was teeming with zombies. The sheriff's office, Cutter's Gulch Bank & Trust, and Sherman's Hotel had all been burnt to the ground. Only smoldering timbers and ashes remained.
The windows on all the other businesses--Tinkerton's Livery, First Church of the Holy Redeemer, Millstone's Dry Goods, and Blackwell's Saloon--were all broken and/or boarded over. Same with the doors. Severed limbs and bloody bodies were scattered throughout the streets, and everywhere they looked zombies lumbered about.
The zombies were slow and uncoordinated. The foursome figured as long as they kept their eyes open and didn't get caught off guard, they would be fine. They worked their way down the main street, dispensing zombies as they went, quickly learning that the more damage was done to the head, the faster they went down. They were versatile and efficient. When a pick axe got stuck in a zombie's head, they switched to a sledgehammer. When the sledgehammer's handle broke after repeated blows, new weapons were easy to come by. The dry goods store had axes, hacksaws, and hammers. The livery had all manner of steel rods, hammers, and tongs. And guns? They were everywhere.
It was a long and exhausting day, but at the end of it, the four of them had put every zombie in Cutter's Gulch out of commission without suffering any injuries. They found no other survivors. Everyone in town had either been killed or turned into a zombie.
Rather than burying the bodies, they burned them en mass. The fire burned so high and bright that it attracted all the other zombies in the region of which there were thousands.
However, the fire also attracted all the other exiles in the area, all those who had been banished from the Cutter's Gulches throughout the Western states. Among the first to join them: a band of railroad workers from China who'd been kicked out of their camp by a zealously religious railroad baron when they refused to renounce Buddhism; a collection of Westernized Cherokees who'd been run out of town after advocating for fairer government treatment of their tribe; and a group of former slaves who had revolted against their owners and been on the run ever since.
Despite their cultural and linguistic differences, these and several other downtrodden societal outcasts banded together and dedicated the rest of their lives to wandering the Wild West and ridding the United States and her western territories of the zombie scourge. In doing so, they saved the country from certain destruction by the walking dead, a fact that gets nary a mention in U.S. history books.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
August 14 - Common Ground
Man on the Street #1: It's a bad situation we're in these days. Gridlock in Washington. Mistrust all around, and the two parties can't find so much as a square inch of common ground. All they ever do is blame each other for everything that's wrong in the world, and this culture of finger pointing runs rampant throughout the entire voting population. If you ask me, this scapegoating is all the Republicans' fault.
Man on the Street #2: Whatever happened to politics? It used to be that the two parties would work together at least some of the time, but it seems that those days are gone. Now all we get are a bunch of loudmouths in Washington blaming the other party for everything that's broken in our country--and it's like that everywhere else you go in this country, too. We're not the United States anymore, we're the Divided States. And I blame the liberals.
Man on the Street #2: Whatever happened to politics? It used to be that the two parties would work together at least some of the time, but it seems that those days are gone. Now all we get are a bunch of loudmouths in Washington blaming the other party for everything that's broken in our country--and it's like that everywhere else you go in this country, too. We're not the United States anymore, we're the Divided States. And I blame the liberals.
Friday, August 13, 2010
August 13 - Friday, the 13th
Rachel Simpson never considered herself a superstitious person, but all that changed on Friday, August 13.
It was a normal Friday until she saw a black cat crossing the street. She had plenty of time before she needed to be at work, so she followed the cat into the alley it skittered down, thinking it would be fun to tell her co-workers, especially Cathy, who was superstitious, that she'd done so. This was also the reason why she followed the cat under a ladder and--perhaps a bit impulsively--broke a mirror she saw leaning against a dumpster along with some other household items that someone had thrown out.
It was immediately afterwards that she saw the guy standing near the dumpster, and she jumped a bit.
"Sorry I scared you," he said. "I always seem to do that. Anyway, I just got your call. Got here as fast as I could." He was blocking her exit.
"Um, I didn't call anyone, and I don't even know you." She backed away from him and furtively checked to see if there was another way out of the alley.
"We might have overlooked the black cat and the ladder," he said, ignoring her, "but there's no way we can ignore something as brazen as deliberately breaking a mirror--especially on a Friday the 13th."
"Sorry, but what on earth are you talking about?"
"Oliver Van Horn," he said offering her his card. She hesitantly took it and read: Universal Cosmological Enterprises, Accounting Division.
"We're the 'maintain the order and balance in the universe' people," he said, using his fingers as quotation marks. "And you've got a serious luck debt you need to balance, Ms. Simpson."
"How do you know my name? Who are you?"
"It's basic cosmological accounting, Ms. Simpson. Find a four leaf clover, rub a rabbit's foot, so on so forth, you get good luck credit and good things happen to you. Have a black cat cross your path, walk under a ladder, break a mirror--again, all on a Friday the 13th--and you incur bad luck debt and bad things happen to you. With me so far?"
He took her silence as a yes.
"Usually we let these things play themselves out in a sort of behind the scenes capacity, but in special cases such as yours, we have to step in and intervene. You see, it's barely 10 in the morning, and you've already racked up well in excess of seven years of bad luck. This can't go on. Now, I'm here for two reasons. One, to tell you to knock it off already. And two, to put you on a cosmological debt repayment plan."
"Wait. What?"
"There are two ways we can do this. One way is you can sign this affidavit agreeing to stop deliberately bringing bad luck upon yourself and accept the consequences of the bad luck that is due you. In your case, we'll call it seven years even."
She let him continue.
"Or you can agree to a luck deferral program in which you pass your luck on to someone else of your choosing. It may surprise you to hear that most people go with option one."
"Wait. First of all, I can't believe I'm even having this conversation, but OK. Secondly, I can just pass my bad luck to someone else?"
"That's right."
"But then what happens to me?"
"You go about your life and try to be a good person."
"And someone else has my bad luck? That hardly seems fair."
"Fair is a pretty relative and subjective term, Rachel. Besides, depending on who gets your bad luck--if you decide to go this route--this person may or may not have already racked up a tremendous amount of good luck. In which case, their good luck and your bad luck cancel each other out and you both go about your lives."
"Yeah, but who would have that much good luck?"
"Probably someone who was really superstitious."
Cathy from work.
The name came to Rachel immediately, and as soon as it did, she had pretty much made up her mind. As superstitious as Cathy was, she had to have banked an enormous amount of good luck credit. Surely it would be enough to offset her debt. And even if it wasn't, Cathy was such an optimistic person, she probably wouldn't even recognize anything bad that happened to her as the results of bad luck. She would just shrug it off and keep going.
Rachel made her decision and signed the necessary papers, including the one which stated that all her bad luck would return to her 13-fold if she ever told anyone about her meeting with Oliver Van Horn. Then she went to work unable to conceal her sly grin, feeling like she'd gotten away with something. But what she didn't realize--what she couldn't have known--was that Oliver's colleagues in the Karma Division of Universal Cosmological Enterprises had witnessed the whole thing. And they never let anybody bargain their way out of anything.
(Co-written with Misako Goto)
It was a normal Friday until she saw a black cat crossing the street. She had plenty of time before she needed to be at work, so she followed the cat into the alley it skittered down, thinking it would be fun to tell her co-workers, especially Cathy, who was superstitious, that she'd done so. This was also the reason why she followed the cat under a ladder and--perhaps a bit impulsively--broke a mirror she saw leaning against a dumpster along with some other household items that someone had thrown out.
It was immediately afterwards that she saw the guy standing near the dumpster, and she jumped a bit.
"Sorry I scared you," he said. "I always seem to do that. Anyway, I just got your call. Got here as fast as I could." He was blocking her exit.
"Um, I didn't call anyone, and I don't even know you." She backed away from him and furtively checked to see if there was another way out of the alley.
"We might have overlooked the black cat and the ladder," he said, ignoring her, "but there's no way we can ignore something as brazen as deliberately breaking a mirror--especially on a Friday the 13th."
"Sorry, but what on earth are you talking about?"
"Oliver Van Horn," he said offering her his card. She hesitantly took it and read: Universal Cosmological Enterprises, Accounting Division.
"We're the 'maintain the order and balance in the universe' people," he said, using his fingers as quotation marks. "And you've got a serious luck debt you need to balance, Ms. Simpson."
"How do you know my name? Who are you?"
"It's basic cosmological accounting, Ms. Simpson. Find a four leaf clover, rub a rabbit's foot, so on so forth, you get good luck credit and good things happen to you. Have a black cat cross your path, walk under a ladder, break a mirror--again, all on a Friday the 13th--and you incur bad luck debt and bad things happen to you. With me so far?"
He took her silence as a yes.
"Usually we let these things play themselves out in a sort of behind the scenes capacity, but in special cases such as yours, we have to step in and intervene. You see, it's barely 10 in the morning, and you've already racked up well in excess of seven years of bad luck. This can't go on. Now, I'm here for two reasons. One, to tell you to knock it off already. And two, to put you on a cosmological debt repayment plan."
"Wait. What?"
"There are two ways we can do this. One way is you can sign this affidavit agreeing to stop deliberately bringing bad luck upon yourself and accept the consequences of the bad luck that is due you. In your case, we'll call it seven years even."
She let him continue.
"Or you can agree to a luck deferral program in which you pass your luck on to someone else of your choosing. It may surprise you to hear that most people go with option one."
"Wait. First of all, I can't believe I'm even having this conversation, but OK. Secondly, I can just pass my bad luck to someone else?"
"That's right."
"But then what happens to me?"
"You go about your life and try to be a good person."
"And someone else has my bad luck? That hardly seems fair."
"Fair is a pretty relative and subjective term, Rachel. Besides, depending on who gets your bad luck--if you decide to go this route--this person may or may not have already racked up a tremendous amount of good luck. In which case, their good luck and your bad luck cancel each other out and you both go about your lives."
"Yeah, but who would have that much good luck?"
"Probably someone who was really superstitious."
Cathy from work.
The name came to Rachel immediately, and as soon as it did, she had pretty much made up her mind. As superstitious as Cathy was, she had to have banked an enormous amount of good luck credit. Surely it would be enough to offset her debt. And even if it wasn't, Cathy was such an optimistic person, she probably wouldn't even recognize anything bad that happened to her as the results of bad luck. She would just shrug it off and keep going.
Rachel made her decision and signed the necessary papers, including the one which stated that all her bad luck would return to her 13-fold if she ever told anyone about her meeting with Oliver Van Horn. Then she went to work unable to conceal her sly grin, feeling like she'd gotten away with something. But what she didn't realize--what she couldn't have known--was that Oliver's colleagues in the Karma Division of Universal Cosmological Enterprises had witnessed the whole thing. And they never let anybody bargain their way out of anything.
(Co-written with Misako Goto)
Thursday, August 12, 2010
August 12 - Dr. Procacelli and Sam
Dr. Suzanne (Susie) Procacelli never would have thought she would meet the love of her life in the rain forests of Borneo, but she did.
His name was Sam, and he was one of several orangutan that were being studied by Dr. Procacelli and the two other zoologists that had accompanied her to Borneo more than two years ago.
They were focusing on interspecies communication; more specifically, gestures and other body language between humans and orangutan. Dr. Procacelli and her team found that the orangutan would mimic the zoologists, moving their heads and using hand gestures to accompany their grunts and hollers. Sam in particular showed an astounding capacity for mimicry. During communication sessions with Dr. Procacelli and her team, Sam would sometimes become distracted by the calculator he always had in his hands. Very often he would tap keys on it at random, a behavior that Dr. Procacelli theorized was meant to mimic the scientists' use of cell phones.
Over the course of their two years together, Dr. Procacelli succeeded in teaching Sam and the other orangutans the meanings of basic gestures, such as thumbs up, thumbs down, OK, etc. This rudimentary education provided a sometimes unwelcome window into the orangutans' true feelings about her cooking which she regularly shared with them. Clearly, the orangutans did not have a notion of white lies.
But knowing that Sam and the others didn't care for her cooking gave Dr. Procacelli a more specific communicative goal for their language project. Through gestures and simple sign language, she would learn what kind of cooking Sam and the others did enjoy and cater to it as much as possible.
This project led to her spending a lot more time working one on one with Sam, who by then had emerged far and away as the star of their class. As they became more comfortable with each other, Sam began joining Dr. Procacelli in the kitchen, and together they developed a cooking style that drew equally from the traditions of Dr. Procacelli's ancestral Tosca and the typical orangutan diet. They called their unique Eurasian fusion "orangtosca cooking"--and it put smiles on the faces of zoologists and orangutans alike.
The more time they spent in the kitchen together, the more Sam and Dr. Procacelli developed their ability to cook, communicate, and--to the giddy shock of both of them--flirt. They always seemed to know what the other was going to say before he/she said it. They often finished each other's sentences. And no matter how many times they teased each other about their mutual lack of rhythm (they usually listened--and danced--to Toots and the Maytalls while they were cooking), they always ended up laughing about it and then looking into each other's eyes for a second or two before breaking off and getting back to work. It was exhilarating to both of them.
Yes, Dr. Procacelli would admit to herself in her journal after several glasses of pinot, Sam is an orangutan. But he's also the kindest, gentlest, brightest and handsomest (in his own unconventional way) male I've been around for ages. And this is not just the wine speaking. And it's not just the fact that I've been in the jungle for more than two years. I like Sam. I mean I like him like him. And I think he likes me, too.
He did.
She was kind, intelligent, and funny, and he was happy when he was with her.
But Dr. Procacelli had mixed feelings about the whole thing for so many reasons. For one thing, there was the ethical can of worms of a scientist developing personal feelings for one of her subjects. For another, there was the fact that they were from different species. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew any relationship they had would be doomed. The world wasn't ready for it.
And so Dr. Procacelli took the lead as she often did. She decided that Sam needed a mate, a female from his own species, and she worked with the other zoologists in her team to select the most suitable prospect.
Sam showed up the next day to find that his cooking partner had been replaced with a rambunctious female orangutan named Roberta. Dr. Procacelli and her colleagues watched the live video feed in the lab.
Sam tried to engage her with gestures, but Roberta ignored him. Instead, she picked through the raw ingredients that had been set out for them, ate her favorites, and discarded the rest.
They tried again the next night and every night for a week, but the results were the same. After a week, Sam stopped trying to communicate with Roberta. After another few nights, he stopped eating.
Dr. Procacelli and the others tried different females with him, but nothing took. None of them had the linguistic capacity that Sam had. Nor had any of them had anywhere near the amount of one on one tutelage that Sam had had during his sessions in the kitchen with Dr. Procacelli.
When it became clear that an intractable divide existed between Sam and the other orangutans, Dr. Procacelli decided to reestablish contact with Sam. She showed up in their kitchen with an armload of ingredients, but Sam didn't respond to her gestures. After several minutes of silence, she put on their favorite Toots and the Maytalls CD and danced around as arrhythmically as she could, but he just looked the other way. Finally, she made their favorite orangtosca dish and set it out for him before leaving him in the kitchen on his own. But when she went back later on to wash the dishes, he hadn't taken a bite.
She tried apologizing to him, explaining why she'd done what she'd done, but Sam was distant and unresponsive. The next morning when Dr. Procacelli and her colleagues went to collect the orangutans for the day's research, Sam was gone. All they found in his sleeping area was a smashed copy of Toots and the Maytalls Greatest Hits. They never saw him again.
As for Dr. Procacelli, she continued her work with the orangutans in Borneo, and she made a lot of progress with interspecies communication. But she never connected with any of them like she did with Sam.
(Co-written with Misako Goto)
His name was Sam, and he was one of several orangutan that were being studied by Dr. Procacelli and the two other zoologists that had accompanied her to Borneo more than two years ago.
They were focusing on interspecies communication; more specifically, gestures and other body language between humans and orangutan. Dr. Procacelli and her team found that the orangutan would mimic the zoologists, moving their heads and using hand gestures to accompany their grunts and hollers. Sam in particular showed an astounding capacity for mimicry. During communication sessions with Dr. Procacelli and her team, Sam would sometimes become distracted by the calculator he always had in his hands. Very often he would tap keys on it at random, a behavior that Dr. Procacelli theorized was meant to mimic the scientists' use of cell phones.
Over the course of their two years together, Dr. Procacelli succeeded in teaching Sam and the other orangutans the meanings of basic gestures, such as thumbs up, thumbs down, OK, etc. This rudimentary education provided a sometimes unwelcome window into the orangutans' true feelings about her cooking which she regularly shared with them. Clearly, the orangutans did not have a notion of white lies.
But knowing that Sam and the others didn't care for her cooking gave Dr. Procacelli a more specific communicative goal for their language project. Through gestures and simple sign language, she would learn what kind of cooking Sam and the others did enjoy and cater to it as much as possible.
This project led to her spending a lot more time working one on one with Sam, who by then had emerged far and away as the star of their class. As they became more comfortable with each other, Sam began joining Dr. Procacelli in the kitchen, and together they developed a cooking style that drew equally from the traditions of Dr. Procacelli's ancestral Tosca and the typical orangutan diet. They called their unique Eurasian fusion "orangtosca cooking"--and it put smiles on the faces of zoologists and orangutans alike.
The more time they spent in the kitchen together, the more Sam and Dr. Procacelli developed their ability to cook, communicate, and--to the giddy shock of both of them--flirt. They always seemed to know what the other was going to say before he/she said it. They often finished each other's sentences. And no matter how many times they teased each other about their mutual lack of rhythm (they usually listened--and danced--to Toots and the Maytalls while they were cooking), they always ended up laughing about it and then looking into each other's eyes for a second or two before breaking off and getting back to work. It was exhilarating to both of them.
Yes, Dr. Procacelli would admit to herself in her journal after several glasses of pinot, Sam is an orangutan. But he's also the kindest, gentlest, brightest and handsomest (in his own unconventional way) male I've been around for ages. And this is not just the wine speaking. And it's not just the fact that I've been in the jungle for more than two years. I like Sam. I mean I like him like him. And I think he likes me, too.
He did.
She was kind, intelligent, and funny, and he was happy when he was with her.
But Dr. Procacelli had mixed feelings about the whole thing for so many reasons. For one thing, there was the ethical can of worms of a scientist developing personal feelings for one of her subjects. For another, there was the fact that they were from different species. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew any relationship they had would be doomed. The world wasn't ready for it.
And so Dr. Procacelli took the lead as she often did. She decided that Sam needed a mate, a female from his own species, and she worked with the other zoologists in her team to select the most suitable prospect.
Sam showed up the next day to find that his cooking partner had been replaced with a rambunctious female orangutan named Roberta. Dr. Procacelli and her colleagues watched the live video feed in the lab.
Sam tried to engage her with gestures, but Roberta ignored him. Instead, she picked through the raw ingredients that had been set out for them, ate her favorites, and discarded the rest.
They tried again the next night and every night for a week, but the results were the same. After a week, Sam stopped trying to communicate with Roberta. After another few nights, he stopped eating.
Dr. Procacelli and the others tried different females with him, but nothing took. None of them had the linguistic capacity that Sam had. Nor had any of them had anywhere near the amount of one on one tutelage that Sam had had during his sessions in the kitchen with Dr. Procacelli.
When it became clear that an intractable divide existed between Sam and the other orangutans, Dr. Procacelli decided to reestablish contact with Sam. She showed up in their kitchen with an armload of ingredients, but Sam didn't respond to her gestures. After several minutes of silence, she put on their favorite Toots and the Maytalls CD and danced around as arrhythmically as she could, but he just looked the other way. Finally, she made their favorite orangtosca dish and set it out for him before leaving him in the kitchen on his own. But when she went back later on to wash the dishes, he hadn't taken a bite.
She tried apologizing to him, explaining why she'd done what she'd done, but Sam was distant and unresponsive. The next morning when Dr. Procacelli and her colleagues went to collect the orangutans for the day's research, Sam was gone. All they found in his sleeping area was a smashed copy of Toots and the Maytalls Greatest Hits. They never saw him again.
As for Dr. Procacelli, she continued her work with the orangutans in Borneo, and she made a lot of progress with interspecies communication. But she never connected with any of them like she did with Sam.
(Co-written with Misako Goto)
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August 11 - This Could Work
Instead of Pimp My Ride, why not Pimp My Bride? Contestants could give their special lady a sluttified upgrade for their Big Day and mack easy knowing that even though all the fly guys in the house would totally want to hit that, at the end of the reception she'd rolling with the groom for some of that extra special prima nocta boom boom.
And Flavor Flav would host--the show, not the prima nocta boom boom. Or actually, hold on. Why not both?
Seriously, why not both?
And Flavor Flav would host--the show, not the prima nocta boom boom. Or actually, hold on. Why not both?
Seriously, why not both?
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
August 10 - First Train
All night, every night for more than six months, like a lottery addict afraid to skip a day because he's sure that'll be the day she wakes up and he won't be there.
The green glow of life sustaining machines, sleep on a bunk fashioned out vinyl cushioned chairs, vending machine coffee on his way out in the morning.
Every night.
The one night he did miss was the longest of his life. Emergency at the office. Just couldn't get away. And when he talked to her doctors the next morning and they assured him that no, she hadn't woken up, what he felt was a sense of relief.
One more reason to hate himself.
The wait for the first train was always the most peaceful part of the day. He was invisible. He'd done all he could do.
Now it was time to go to work.
But first, home. Shower, coffee, change of clothes.
Then work.
Some of the other people on the platform were still up, some were up already. It was easy to tell the difference, but they all had a cell phone in hand.
She was there again that morning.
Ride the same train at the same time every day and you start to recognize people.
She all but collapsed on the seat next to him on the bench.
She took off her heels, and fell asleep almost immediately, hunched over like she'd been shot. Lycra mini skirt. Knees locked together, but legs splayed apart. The candy red toenail polish she was wearing was chipped.
A few other people shuffled in, checked their cell phones.
A recorded announcement said the train was arriving.
A gust of wind blew stray newspapers around and the train whooshed in.
He was about to wake her up, but she woke up on her own.
She got on the train and found a seat. He got on behind her and handed her the shoes she'd left at the bench and she nodded thank you. The doors closed and the train left the station.
The green glow of life sustaining machines, sleep on a bunk fashioned out vinyl cushioned chairs, vending machine coffee on his way out in the morning.
Every night.
The one night he did miss was the longest of his life. Emergency at the office. Just couldn't get away. And when he talked to her doctors the next morning and they assured him that no, she hadn't woken up, what he felt was a sense of relief.
One more reason to hate himself.
The wait for the first train was always the most peaceful part of the day. He was invisible. He'd done all he could do.
Now it was time to go to work.
But first, home. Shower, coffee, change of clothes.
Then work.
Some of the other people on the platform were still up, some were up already. It was easy to tell the difference, but they all had a cell phone in hand.
She was there again that morning.
Ride the same train at the same time every day and you start to recognize people.
She all but collapsed on the seat next to him on the bench.
She took off her heels, and fell asleep almost immediately, hunched over like she'd been shot. Lycra mini skirt. Knees locked together, but legs splayed apart. The candy red toenail polish she was wearing was chipped.
A few other people shuffled in, checked their cell phones.
A recorded announcement said the train was arriving.
A gust of wind blew stray newspapers around and the train whooshed in.
He was about to wake her up, but she woke up on her own.
She got on the train and found a seat. He got on behind her and handed her the shoes she'd left at the bench and she nodded thank you. The doors closed and the train left the station.
Monday, August 9, 2010
August 9 - FAQs
Is that what you're wearing tonight?
Um, apparently not.
Do these pants make me look fat?
Yeah, but I likes me a big ass. Get over here. Rrrr!
Do you think that girl over there is pretty?
God, yeah! Why, do you? Do you think she'd be into a three-way? Because I could ask. Oh, come on. You know I'm kidding.
But seriously, do you?
Do you want to see what else is on?
Not really, no. But I'm going to feel self conscious if I insist on watching WWE Monday Night RAW, so go ahead and change it, I guess.
Which outfit do you think looks better, this one or this one?
Oh, Jesus. I don't know. I haven't been able to figure out your tell on this one yet. Um, the first one . . . right?
Were you planning on keeping this in here forever, or can I throw it away?
What is that, last spring's General Tso's chicken? Yeah, I guess that can probably go, but let me have a moment alone with it first.
What is "West Coast Productions"? It's on our Visa statement.
I don't know. Let me see that . . . Oh, yeah. You know what that is? It's, uh, something I was doing for work. Nothing interesting. Don't worry about.
Who was she?
Oh, her? We work together . . . and we kind of went out for a while. A few times. We went out, um, twice I think it was.
When were you planning on telling me about her?
I'm telling you now.
Right, I can see that. But when were you planning on telling me about her?
I never mentioned her before? Wow, that's weird. Don't worry about her. We're like so over.
Do you think she's prettier than me?
Don't be silly.
Don't be silly why? Because of course she is or of course she isn't?
Silly, because of course she isn't. Come on, you're being jealous and paranoid.
Am I?
Yes, you are. But you're cute when you're jealous. Meow!
Is that a joke? Are you trying to be funny?
I haven't decided yet.
Um, apparently not.
Do these pants make me look fat?
Yeah, but I likes me a big ass. Get over here. Rrrr!
Do you think that girl over there is pretty?
God, yeah! Why, do you? Do you think she'd be into a three-way? Because I could ask. Oh, come on. You know I'm kidding.
But seriously, do you?
Do you want to see what else is on?
Not really, no. But I'm going to feel self conscious if I insist on watching WWE Monday Night RAW, so go ahead and change it, I guess.
Which outfit do you think looks better, this one or this one?
Oh, Jesus. I don't know. I haven't been able to figure out your tell on this one yet. Um, the first one . . . right?
Were you planning on keeping this in here forever, or can I throw it away?
What is that, last spring's General Tso's chicken? Yeah, I guess that can probably go, but let me have a moment alone with it first.
What is "West Coast Productions"? It's on our Visa statement.
I don't know. Let me see that . . . Oh, yeah. You know what that is? It's, uh, something I was doing for work. Nothing interesting. Don't worry about.
Who was she?
Oh, her? We work together . . . and we kind of went out for a while. A few times. We went out, um, twice I think it was.
When were you planning on telling me about her?
I'm telling you now.
Right, I can see that. But when were you planning on telling me about her?
I never mentioned her before? Wow, that's weird. Don't worry about her. We're like so over.
Do you think she's prettier than me?
Don't be silly.
Don't be silly why? Because of course she is or of course she isn't?
Silly, because of course she isn't. Come on, you're being jealous and paranoid.
Am I?
Yes, you are. But you're cute when you're jealous. Meow!
Is that a joke? Are you trying to be funny?
I haven't decided yet.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
August 8 - The Message
Tim opened the door, and the man he saw looked familiar.
"Hi," he said, speaking quickly. "Your name is Tim Rogers. You were born on October 3, 1973, you have a birth mark on your elbow that looks like an elephant, and the first time you jerked off it was to Daisy Duke. Am I right? I'm right, right?"
Tim looked at the man dubiously, and he continued.
"I know all of this because I am you." He showed Tim his left elbow which had an elephant shaped birthmark on it. "I am you 20 years in the future, and I only have two minutes to talk to you. After that I disappear. Do you understand?"
Tim continued to look at the man doubtfully.
The man exhaled impatiently and then continued his machine gun barrage of words. "You're afraid of rats, your favorite book is Watership Down but you tell everybody it's Catcher in the Rye, your earliest memory is when you were jumping on the bed when you were four and you fell off and broke your arm. Look, I'm you, OK? Do you believe me yet? I have something incredibly important to tell you about your future. Our future. It's about--"
"OK, if you're really me in the future, who did I lose my virginity to?"
"You haven't yet."
"OK, so who will I lose it to?"
"Karen Boyle."
He perked up. "Really?"
"Yes. You'll both be drunk. You on Schlitz, her on wine coolers. Seagrams. I think. Next summer vacation. Pool party. Her folks out of town."
"Seriously? Karen Boyle?"
"Yes, now listen--"
"Am I any good?"
"Of course not. Now listen to me. Very carefully."
"Do we do it more than once?"
"No, but don't worry. You do fine in that department once you go away to college."
"Really? Like who with?"
"Tim, seriously. What I have to tell you is far more important than all that. It's a chance to be rich. You want to be rich, don't you?"
"Yes, but come on, man. Just one name."
"Amy Van Martin."
"Who's she?"
"You'll meet her your freshman year. Now look--"
"How will I recognize her?"
"She'll be the one named Amy Van Martin. Jesus, Tim. Listen, we only have two minutes, and after that I disappear."
"Why?"
"Who gives a flying shit why? Complicated quantum physics whose explanations are well beyond the scope of this conversation, OK? That's why."
"OK, if you're really from the future, who wins the World Series this year?"
"Jesus, man! I don't know, and it's for the same reason why you don't know who won the World Series two years ago. It's because we hate baseball. Just accept that I am who I say I am and I'm from where I say I'm from and listen to me. OK?"
Tim was quiet.
"Good. Now, in the future, there will be this thing called the Internet. And it's--I don't have enough time to explain what it is but it's going to be huge. Anyway, a few years after you graduate from college you're going to meet a guy named Jeff Bezos, and he's going to ask you if you want to invest in his company. It'll be called Amazon. Here, write this down. Do you have a pen?"
"I'll remember it."
"No, you won't. Write it down. Amazon. Jeff Bezos. Put every bit of money you have into that company. Seriously, Tim. You'll make millions."
Tim wrote in his notebook.
"Promise me you'll do this."
"OK, I promise."
"Good. I wish we had more time to talk, but my time here is--"
And he disappeared.
It was the strangest thing. For just about two minutes Tim had been talking to this guy who knew a scary amount of trivia about him and then he just disappeared.
Tim looked where he'd been standing and then glanced up and down the street.
Nothing.
Then he looked again at the two names he'd written down in his notebook: Karen Boyle and Amy Van Martin.
He closed the door and went back to his living room, feeling pretty good about his prospects for the future.
"Hi," he said, speaking quickly. "Your name is Tim Rogers. You were born on October 3, 1973, you have a birth mark on your elbow that looks like an elephant, and the first time you jerked off it was to Daisy Duke. Am I right? I'm right, right?"
Tim looked at the man dubiously, and he continued.
"I know all of this because I am you." He showed Tim his left elbow which had an elephant shaped birthmark on it. "I am you 20 years in the future, and I only have two minutes to talk to you. After that I disappear. Do you understand?"
Tim continued to look at the man doubtfully.
The man exhaled impatiently and then continued his machine gun barrage of words. "You're afraid of rats, your favorite book is Watership Down but you tell everybody it's Catcher in the Rye, your earliest memory is when you were jumping on the bed when you were four and you fell off and broke your arm. Look, I'm you, OK? Do you believe me yet? I have something incredibly important to tell you about your future. Our future. It's about--"
"OK, if you're really me in the future, who did I lose my virginity to?"
"You haven't yet."
"OK, so who will I lose it to?"
"Karen Boyle."
He perked up. "Really?"
"Yes. You'll both be drunk. You on Schlitz, her on wine coolers. Seagrams. I think. Next summer vacation. Pool party. Her folks out of town."
"Seriously? Karen Boyle?"
"Yes, now listen--"
"Am I any good?"
"Of course not. Now listen to me. Very carefully."
"Do we do it more than once?"
"No, but don't worry. You do fine in that department once you go away to college."
"Really? Like who with?"
"Tim, seriously. What I have to tell you is far more important than all that. It's a chance to be rich. You want to be rich, don't you?"
"Yes, but come on, man. Just one name."
"Amy Van Martin."
"Who's she?"
"You'll meet her your freshman year. Now look--"
"How will I recognize her?"
"She'll be the one named Amy Van Martin. Jesus, Tim. Listen, we only have two minutes, and after that I disappear."
"Why?"
"Who gives a flying shit why? Complicated quantum physics whose explanations are well beyond the scope of this conversation, OK? That's why."
"OK, if you're really from the future, who wins the World Series this year?"
"Jesus, man! I don't know, and it's for the same reason why you don't know who won the World Series two years ago. It's because we hate baseball. Just accept that I am who I say I am and I'm from where I say I'm from and listen to me. OK?"
Tim was quiet.
"Good. Now, in the future, there will be this thing called the Internet. And it's--I don't have enough time to explain what it is but it's going to be huge. Anyway, a few years after you graduate from college you're going to meet a guy named Jeff Bezos, and he's going to ask you if you want to invest in his company. It'll be called Amazon. Here, write this down. Do you have a pen?"
"I'll remember it."
"No, you won't. Write it down. Amazon. Jeff Bezos. Put every bit of money you have into that company. Seriously, Tim. You'll make millions."
Tim wrote in his notebook.
"Promise me you'll do this."
"OK, I promise."
"Good. I wish we had more time to talk, but my time here is--"
And he disappeared.
It was the strangest thing. For just about two minutes Tim had been talking to this guy who knew a scary amount of trivia about him and then he just disappeared.
Tim looked where he'd been standing and then glanced up and down the street.
Nothing.
Then he looked again at the two names he'd written down in his notebook: Karen Boyle and Amy Van Martin.
He closed the door and went back to his living room, feeling pretty good about his prospects for the future.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
August 7 - Beyond the Rocks
Tiny waves gently slapped the beach and ran up and down my feet, mixing sand around my toes in swirls of clear water. A couple of gulls tucked themselves into the wind so they stayed suspended in the same place. I rested back on my elbows and squinted over at the outcropping of rocks that jutted out from the cliff and into the sea. When I was a kid I'd played around on them a few times, but never went far enough to see what was on the other side.
One time I'd tried to swim around them, but I got freaked out and turned back when the water got too deep to touch the bottom. I think that was in high school.
I looked again. Someone was climbing over them.
It took the person a few minutes to get over the rocks and then a few more to close the distance between us.
When he got close enough to hear me I said what's up and he said not much.
Then I asked him what was on the other side of the rocks, and he shrugged and said more rocks and continued on his way.
One time I'd tried to swim around them, but I got freaked out and turned back when the water got too deep to touch the bottom. I think that was in high school.
I looked again. Someone was climbing over them.
It took the person a few minutes to get over the rocks and then a few more to close the distance between us.
When he got close enough to hear me I said what's up and he said not much.
Then I asked him what was on the other side of the rocks, and he shrugged and said more rocks and continued on his way.
Friday, August 6, 2010
August 6 - Making Amends
I'm not sure which of us feels more awkward about what happened this morning.
Just forget about it, really.
If it were only that easy.
Seriously, just forget about it. Honestly. I have.
I find that hard to believe.
It's true.
If you've really forgotten about it, how do you know we're talking about the same thing?
Just--I've moved on. It happened. No need to dwell on it.
Maybe not for you, but I still feel weird. Your door was ajar, I poked my head in . . .
I know. You've explained yourself. I understand. Seriously, it wasn't intentional. I know I screamed, but that was just out of shock more than anything else. Really, don't give it another thought.
Really.
That's sweet of you, but I can't let it go that easily. I mean, it was only a fraction of a second, but you were . . .
I know.
I mean, not a stitch.
I know. I was there, too.
Full frontal.
Yep.
And I have a photographic memory.
Really, I don't know how else to tell you: Let it go. I know you're trying to make me more comfortable about this, but it's having the opposite effect.
I know, and I apologize. Again. But I think I know why you're uncomfortable.
It's because you're still talking about this after I've told you I don't know how many times to stop.
No . . .
Yes . . .
No, it's because this exchange has been one-sided so far.
Wh--? No. No, seriously.
Yes. The only reason why you can't stop talking about this is because I've seen you, but you haven't seen me.
It's really not. Look, seriously, I'm--
No. Now, listen. I've made up my mind, and you're not talking me out of this. Neither of us is going to be comfortable again until you've seen me naked.
I'm closing my door now.
Not yet, just wait.
Goodbye.
Hold on.
--SLAM--
--Knocking--
Go away.
Not until you open the door.
This is me calling the police.
Look, I'm just as uncomfortable with this as you, but the sooner we get this over with the better off we're going to be.
It's ringing.
OK, I'm ready for my close-up.
. . .
Just one glance and this will all be over.
Yes? Hi, this is Madeline Branford at 17 Lakeshore Drive, apartment 2B. I'd like to report a case of indecent exposure? . . . Male, late 20s, six foot . . . ish. Yes . . . Outside my front door . . . Long story . . . OK, great. Thank you.
They'll be here in five minutes!
This could be over in five seconds if you would just open your door.
Going back to my living room to wait for the police now.
You don't even have to open the door. Just look through the peephole . . . Hello? Are you still there?
. . .
OK, I really think you're being stubborn about this. We could have had this resolved a long time ago, but now we'll just have to deal with it later . . . Hello?
. . .
OK, I'm getting dressed now.
. . .
--Knocking--
Is this the police?
Yes, ma'am. You can open your door now.
Good one. Could you let me know when they arrive?
It's OK, I'm dressed now.
OK.
I'm serious. You can open the door.
OK, I will.
. . .
Hello?
Hi.
I thought you said you were going to open the door.
I will.
I swear to you I'm completely dressed.
Good to hear.
So you can open the door and see.
No, thanks.
You're going to be pretty embarrassed when the police arrive to arrest a fully clothed man for indecent exposure.
No doubt.
Look, I'm trying to help you.
And I appreciate it.
Please, would you just open the door so we can talk about it?
Guess not.
OK, look. Just look out the peephole, OK? You'll be able to see that I'm dressed. Please, I'm starting to feel like a perv out here . . . OK. Tell you what. I'll stand so you can see me from the shoulders up. That way you'll be able to tell I'm dressed.
If I do, will you go away?
Yes.
Promise?
Yes.
OK. I swear to God, if you're lying to me.
I'm not. Seriously.
OK, here I go . . . There. Yes, you're dressed.
You didn't look!
Yes, I did.
No, you didn't.
How do you know? Unless you're not dressed.
. . .
Well?
Shit.
Just forget about it, really.
If it were only that easy.
Seriously, just forget about it. Honestly. I have.
I find that hard to believe.
It's true.
If you've really forgotten about it, how do you know we're talking about the same thing?
Just--I've moved on. It happened. No need to dwell on it.
Maybe not for you, but I still feel weird. Your door was ajar, I poked my head in . . .
I know. You've explained yourself. I understand. Seriously, it wasn't intentional. I know I screamed, but that was just out of shock more than anything else. Really, don't give it another thought.
Really.
That's sweet of you, but I can't let it go that easily. I mean, it was only a fraction of a second, but you were . . .
I know.
I mean, not a stitch.
I know. I was there, too.
Full frontal.
Yep.
And I have a photographic memory.
Really, I don't know how else to tell you: Let it go. I know you're trying to make me more comfortable about this, but it's having the opposite effect.
I know, and I apologize. Again. But I think I know why you're uncomfortable.
It's because you're still talking about this after I've told you I don't know how many times to stop.
No . . .
Yes . . .
No, it's because this exchange has been one-sided so far.
Wh--? No. No, seriously.
Yes. The only reason why you can't stop talking about this is because I've seen you, but you haven't seen me.
It's really not. Look, seriously, I'm--
No. Now, listen. I've made up my mind, and you're not talking me out of this. Neither of us is going to be comfortable again until you've seen me naked.
I'm closing my door now.
Not yet, just wait.
Goodbye.
Hold on.
--SLAM--
--Knocking--
Go away.
Not until you open the door.
This is me calling the police.
Look, I'm just as uncomfortable with this as you, but the sooner we get this over with the better off we're going to be.
It's ringing.
OK, I'm ready for my close-up.
. . .
Just one glance and this will all be over.
Yes? Hi, this is Madeline Branford at 17 Lakeshore Drive, apartment 2B. I'd like to report a case of indecent exposure? . . . Male, late 20s, six foot . . . ish. Yes . . . Outside my front door . . . Long story . . . OK, great. Thank you.
They'll be here in five minutes!
This could be over in five seconds if you would just open your door.
Going back to my living room to wait for the police now.
You don't even have to open the door. Just look through the peephole . . . Hello? Are you still there?
. . .
OK, I really think you're being stubborn about this. We could have had this resolved a long time ago, but now we'll just have to deal with it later . . . Hello?
. . .
OK, I'm getting dressed now.
. . .
--Knocking--
Is this the police?
Yes, ma'am. You can open your door now.
Good one. Could you let me know when they arrive?
It's OK, I'm dressed now.
OK.
I'm serious. You can open the door.
OK, I will.
. . .
Hello?
Hi.
I thought you said you were going to open the door.
I will.
I swear to you I'm completely dressed.
Good to hear.
So you can open the door and see.
No, thanks.
You're going to be pretty embarrassed when the police arrive to arrest a fully clothed man for indecent exposure.
No doubt.
Look, I'm trying to help you.
And I appreciate it.
Please, would you just open the door so we can talk about it?
Guess not.
OK, look. Just look out the peephole, OK? You'll be able to see that I'm dressed. Please, I'm starting to feel like a perv out here . . . OK. Tell you what. I'll stand so you can see me from the shoulders up. That way you'll be able to tell I'm dressed.
If I do, will you go away?
Yes.
Promise?
Yes.
OK. I swear to God, if you're lying to me.
I'm not. Seriously.
OK, here I go . . . There. Yes, you're dressed.
You didn't look!
Yes, I did.
No, you didn't.
How do you know? Unless you're not dressed.
. . .
Well?
Shit.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
August 5 - Inner Monologue of a Bus Driver Driving Portland Metro Bus Route 17 for the First Time by Himself
OK, and away we go. Thursday evening, cruising along Portland Metro route 17. Solo, bitches. This is not a drill, fools. It's game time.
Got a couple Mountain Dews in my cooler. Got my shades. Got my driving gloves. Feeling good.
Yes, sir. Training is over. I'm in the driver's seat. Calling the shots. The man in charge. This is how it's supposed to feel. Passengers get on, passengers get off.
He he. Passengers get off.
Check out all them nasty passengers getting off back there! Ha ha!
Focus! That's what they always used to tell us during training. Stay focused! And it's like, duh. Of course stay focused. Tell me something I don't know, Mr. Big Important Metro Trainer Asshole Guy, aka Mr. BIMTAG.
Just like the song. Mr. BIMTAG. Tell me: Who do you think you are?
Yeah, you like that one? Just came up with it. Mr. BIMTAG. That's freaking good, man. Can't wait to tell Dale and the rest of my training class about that shit. OK, Mr. BIMTAG. I'll be sure to stay focused. On your mom!
And more passengers get on, and more, ahem, get off, and . . .
Crap.
MLK Avenue.
Which way am I supposed to turn here? I seriously don't remember. Wow, this is embarrassing.
Shit, my mind is seriously blanking on me. Wow, this kind of sucks. If I can just get to the light and have it be red and be the first vehicle in line and see both ways, I should be able to see my next stop.
OK, here it comes. Shit. I'm too far back to see anything. Crap, which way do I go? And why do I keep looking back at the passengers? Like I'm going to be able to read 'go right' or 'go left' on their faces. Can I just ask one of them? They take this bus every day, they must know.
No, I can't. Besides, it's right. I definitely turn right.
OK, here it comes. I'm committed now. Turning right. Let's see how they take it.
Hard to read. It looked like a couple of people were looking around, but that could mean anything.
Cruising along MLK now. Nobody seems too panicked. Besides, this feels right. OK, I remember it from training now. It's all coming back to me. Yeah, I remember that Exxon station. And yes, here comes the stop. Thank God. Yep, Portland Metro Routes 6, 9, 19, and 54.
Wait.
No 17? Why isn't 17 on there?
(BING)
Someone signalled for a stop. What do I do now? I don't think this is the right way after all. Or is it? Should I keep going until the next stop? OK, this sucks. This totally sucks.
Mr. BIMTAG, who do you think you are?
Screw it, I'm stopping at this stop.
OK, and here we go. Coming to a stop, and doors open and . . . nothing. Nothing except everybody looking at me because this is not their stop.
Shit.
OK, cover it up. How? Check the map. Check the ridiculously inconvenient, massive foldout map that it's impossible to find jack shit on, and oh God, what does this asshole want? Yes, good question, sir: Why am I going north on MLK? So, I should be going south? That's what he's saying, right? I guess?
God, how on earth am I going to U-turn this boat across four lanes of rush hour traffic? Got an answer for that one, Mr. BIMTAG, you worthless bastard?
Wait, Lincoln Boulevard is up ahead. I can take the on ramp to Lincoln, bust a quick right, and then take the next right onto the off ramp for southbound MLK. Boom. Back in business.
Boom. Isn't that what that jerkweek Monroe always said during training, boom? Take the fare, give 'em the transfer ticket, and then boom, you're good to go. Who the fuck says that anyways? Good to go. Fuck that asshole. Fuck that asshole and his gloves with the fingers cut off. Seriously.
Never mind that, here we go. Back into traffic, taking the on ramp to Lincoln. Passengers definitely wondering what's going on. Fuck them. It'll all be sorted out soon enough, fuckies. Just keep your panties on, daddy's got a plan. Just gotta get past this red light, which is taking forfreakingever to turn green. Everybody's talking back there. Looking up at me. They know this isn't right, but I'm not going to acknowledge them. Just gotta get this light to turn green so I can get this boat turned around and back on track.
All right, green. Let's go, bitches. Let's go. OK, on Lincoln now. So far, so good. And here comes the exit for MLK. Just gotta get over. Come on, asshole. Go or get out of my lane. Jesus, he's on his cell. Move, asshole!
Fuck it, I've got this. If I gun it I can get in front of him.
Fucker! Now he's speeding up? What, do you own that fucking lane? Just let me in! Fuck, here comes the exit . . .
And there it goes.
It's behind me. I missed the turnoff for MLK south. And as a bonus I am now getting onto I-5 south leaving the city. Oh boy, is this not route 17.
Shit.
Oh, shit.
Yeah, I know, people. I know. I screwed up. Big time.
FUCK!
OK, everybody just needs to sit down while I figure this out. Next exit is in . . . what is it . . . seven miles?! Freaking brilliant.
In this traffic.
With these mutinous assholes.
I hate this job.
Mr. BIMTAG! Who do you think you are?
Got a couple Mountain Dews in my cooler. Got my shades. Got my driving gloves. Feeling good.
Yes, sir. Training is over. I'm in the driver's seat. Calling the shots. The man in charge. This is how it's supposed to feel. Passengers get on, passengers get off.
He he. Passengers get off.
Check out all them nasty passengers getting off back there! Ha ha!
Focus! That's what they always used to tell us during training. Stay focused! And it's like, duh. Of course stay focused. Tell me something I don't know, Mr. Big Important Metro Trainer Asshole Guy, aka Mr. BIMTAG.
Just like the song. Mr. BIMTAG. Tell me: Who do you think you are?
Yeah, you like that one? Just came up with it. Mr. BIMTAG. That's freaking good, man. Can't wait to tell Dale and the rest of my training class about that shit. OK, Mr. BIMTAG. I'll be sure to stay focused. On your mom!
And more passengers get on, and more, ahem, get off, and . . .
Crap.
MLK Avenue.
Which way am I supposed to turn here? I seriously don't remember. Wow, this is embarrassing.
Shit, my mind is seriously blanking on me. Wow, this kind of sucks. If I can just get to the light and have it be red and be the first vehicle in line and see both ways, I should be able to see my next stop.
OK, here it comes. Shit. I'm too far back to see anything. Crap, which way do I go? And why do I keep looking back at the passengers? Like I'm going to be able to read 'go right' or 'go left' on their faces. Can I just ask one of them? They take this bus every day, they must know.
No, I can't. Besides, it's right. I definitely turn right.
OK, here it comes. I'm committed now. Turning right. Let's see how they take it.
Hard to read. It looked like a couple of people were looking around, but that could mean anything.
Cruising along MLK now. Nobody seems too panicked. Besides, this feels right. OK, I remember it from training now. It's all coming back to me. Yeah, I remember that Exxon station. And yes, here comes the stop. Thank God. Yep, Portland Metro Routes 6, 9, 19, and 54.
Wait.
No 17? Why isn't 17 on there?
(BING)
Someone signalled for a stop. What do I do now? I don't think this is the right way after all. Or is it? Should I keep going until the next stop? OK, this sucks. This totally sucks.
Mr. BIMTAG, who do you think you are?
Screw it, I'm stopping at this stop.
OK, and here we go. Coming to a stop, and doors open and . . . nothing. Nothing except everybody looking at me because this is not their stop.
Shit.
OK, cover it up. How? Check the map. Check the ridiculously inconvenient, massive foldout map that it's impossible to find jack shit on, and oh God, what does this asshole want? Yes, good question, sir: Why am I going north on MLK? So, I should be going south? That's what he's saying, right? I guess?
God, how on earth am I going to U-turn this boat across four lanes of rush hour traffic? Got an answer for that one, Mr. BIMTAG, you worthless bastard?
Wait, Lincoln Boulevard is up ahead. I can take the on ramp to Lincoln, bust a quick right, and then take the next right onto the off ramp for southbound MLK. Boom. Back in business.
Boom. Isn't that what that jerkweek Monroe always said during training, boom? Take the fare, give 'em the transfer ticket, and then boom, you're good to go. Who the fuck says that anyways? Good to go. Fuck that asshole. Fuck that asshole and his gloves with the fingers cut off. Seriously.
Never mind that, here we go. Back into traffic, taking the on ramp to Lincoln. Passengers definitely wondering what's going on. Fuck them. It'll all be sorted out soon enough, fuckies. Just keep your panties on, daddy's got a plan. Just gotta get past this red light, which is taking forfreakingever to turn green. Everybody's talking back there. Looking up at me. They know this isn't right, but I'm not going to acknowledge them. Just gotta get this light to turn green so I can get this boat turned around and back on track.
All right, green. Let's go, bitches. Let's go. OK, on Lincoln now. So far, so good. And here comes the exit for MLK. Just gotta get over. Come on, asshole. Go or get out of my lane. Jesus, he's on his cell. Move, asshole!
Fuck it, I've got this. If I gun it I can get in front of him.
Fucker! Now he's speeding up? What, do you own that fucking lane? Just let me in! Fuck, here comes the exit . . .
And there it goes.
It's behind me. I missed the turnoff for MLK south. And as a bonus I am now getting onto I-5 south leaving the city. Oh boy, is this not route 17.
Shit.
Oh, shit.
Yeah, I know, people. I know. I screwed up. Big time.
FUCK!
OK, everybody just needs to sit down while I figure this out. Next exit is in . . . what is it . . . seven miles?! Freaking brilliant.
In this traffic.
With these mutinous assholes.
I hate this job.
Mr. BIMTAG! Who do you think you are?
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
August 4 - Transcript From the All Things Considered Story about AWARD
Melissa Block: From NPR News, this is All Things Considered. I'm Melissa Block.
Robert Siegel: And I'm Robert Siegel. You may not recognize their names, but you probably remember their roles: the principal from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, the head of the Cobra Kai in The Karate Kid, and the EPA bureaucrat who shuts down the power grid and unleashes a torrent of ghosts on Manhattan in Ghostbusters.
These are all characters that have been described, perhaps a bit colorfully, as douchebags--characters that audiences love to hate and cheer when they get their just desserts, usually in the form of a humbling defeat or a humiliating dress down from a superior. But as Yuki Noguchi reports, the actors who play these parts are nothing like the douchebag characters they portray. And an unusual support group in Hollywood is helping them understand that they're not alone.
Yuki Noguchi (voiceover): Listen to two audio clips from The Karate Kid featuring two different pairs of actors:
AUDIO CLIP 1
Ralph Machio as Daniel LaRusso: You're the best friend I've ever had.
Pat Morita as Mr. Miyagi: You . . . pretty OK, too.
YN (voice over): OK, and now, the second.
AUDIO CLIP 2
Martin Kove as John Kreese: Sweep the leg . . . Do you have a problem with that?
William Zabka as Johnny Lawrence: No, sensei.
Martin Kove as John Kreese: No mercy.
YN (voice over): Which set of actors would you be more likely to avoid if you saw them at a party? If you're like most people, you probably said the actors in the second clip, William Zabka playing the rich preppie bully Johnny Lawrence, and Martin Kove, playing the sadistic sensei of the Cobra Kai dojo, John Kreese.
Throughout their lengthy careers, both Zabka and Kove have had to deal with a lot of dirty looks, negativity, and downright hostility from strangers that they say stems solely from people's apparent belief that they possess the same contemptible attributes possessed by the characters they portray. Or as Zabka more bluntly puts it . . .
William Zabka: (laughing) People look at the characters we play and just assume we're douchebags in real life, too.
YN (voice over): Think back to some of the more memorable movie, um, d-bags from the past 25 years: Paul Gleason as the incompetent and hot-headed principal from The Breakfast Club and then later as the incompetent and hot-headed commanding officer in Die Hard; Jefferey Jones as the bumbling, incompetent principal from Ferris Bueller's Day Off; William Atherton as the smug, middling EPA bureaucrat in Ghostbusters and then later as the smug, middling reporter in Die Hard. One thing they all have in common is movie audiences' overall negative feelings for them, which range from eye rolling dismissal to sneering contempt--feelings, the actors say, that don't stop after the closing credits roll.
Martin Kove played the Cobra Kai sensei in all three Karate Kid movies.
Martin Kove: Oh sure, especially when the first one came out, yeah, I used to get dirty looks all the time. Hell, a few people even tried to pick fights with me. My wife would always tell me I should take it as a compliment, you know, like my performance was so convincing all these people must have thought I was really like that guy (laughs). But it's like, how do I tell these people that John Kreese and the Cobra Kai are make believe without coming across as totally condescending? But that's the corner they back you into: You're either a douchebag or a condescending jerk.
YN (voice over): It was instances like those described by Kove that prompted him, together with William Zabka, to found AWARD, a support and advocacy group for actors who have had similar experiences with casual fans assuming that in real life they are jerks like the characters they play. Although Kove himself is the first to admit it sounds like something out of a movie, AWARD actually stands for Actors Who Aren't Really Douchebags. And it has helped countless actors cope with the negativity that can come with a convincing portrayal of characters with, shall we say, douchebag tendencies. Thomas Wilson played Biff Tannen, the bully from the Back to the Future movies.
Thomas Wilson: AWARD came along at a time when I really needed it. Playing an iconic douchebag like Biff is really a double-edged sword. Sure it got me a lot of parts and recognition, but it also led to a lot of negative notoriety. It got to the point where I couldn't leave my house without some comedian getting in my face, knocking on my head, and saying, "Hello, McFly!" and feeling like he could do so with impunity because obviously if I played such a character in the movies I must be a bad guy in real life too, right?
And then there you are. You let it go and you feel like a jerk. You say something about it, and the guy feels completely justified. You can't win. But AWARD really helped. Just knowing there were other actors out there going through the same thing really made a difference.
WZ: The whole impetus behind AWARD was to help similarly misidentified actors understand that their situation wasn't unique. There were loads of other actors out there that people made fallacious assumptions of douchebag-dom--if that's even a word--about, based only on the parts they played.
YN (voice over): Over the years, a veritable who's who of character actors who have dabbled in douchebaggery have attended at least a few of AWARD's monthly meetings. Gary Cole, the smarmy manager from Office Space; James Spader, the slimy villainous frenemy of Andrew McCarthy in both Pretty in Pink and Less Than Zero; Billy Zane circa Titanic; the list goes on and on.
What they find at AWARD is a sense of community and mutual support, and a chance to remind themselves and others that they are more than the parts they play.
MK: What you have to remember about a Billy Zabka is that he's been acting for more than 25 years. And for people to just assume he's a douchebag in person because he so convincingly played one on a number of occasions in the 80s is not fair. Billy's one of the nicest guys in Hollywood. Ask anyone.
YN (voice over): I did, and Kove's claim was backed up by virtually everyone I talked to--just as Zabka's was about how Kove is also a kind and generous individual, the complete opposite of the character he played in the Karate Kid movies. In fact, the more people I talked to about AWARD members, the more a pattern emerged. In just about every case, it turned out that the actors playing these characters were almost universally well regarded and respected by their peers, perhaps even more so than non-AWARD members. And I'll contritely admit to being a little surprised by this. As Martin Kove's wife said, it's a testament to their talents that I assumed the worst about them. Here's Thomas Wilson again.
TW: The whole point of AWARD is to help actors through these issues and to try to get Hollywood to cast us as something other than douchebags. But more than that, we want to show the world that we're not who we play in these movies. And the first step in that process is feeling good about who we are. AWARD helps us do that.
YN to WZ: You've been in movies for more than 25 years.
WZ: Yes.
YN: And something most moviegoers may not know about you is that you were nominated for an Academy Award for a short film you directed.
WZ: That's right.
YN: And yet, the role that most people will remember you for is . . .
WZ: Johnny from The Karate Kid (laughs).
YN: How does that make you feel?
WZ: Well, certainly it would be great to be recognized for something other than the archetypal blond 80s preppie douchebag, but I suppose it's better than not being recognized at all. You just gotta keep on doing the best work you can do, and eventually people will see you in a more positive light.
YN (voice over): Words of wisdom from an AWARD winning actor. For All Things Considered, I'm Yuki Noguchi.
(Outro music: You're the Best Around by Joe Esposito)
Robert Siegel: And I'm Robert Siegel. You may not recognize their names, but you probably remember their roles: the principal from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, the head of the Cobra Kai in The Karate Kid, and the EPA bureaucrat who shuts down the power grid and unleashes a torrent of ghosts on Manhattan in Ghostbusters.
These are all characters that have been described, perhaps a bit colorfully, as douchebags--characters that audiences love to hate and cheer when they get their just desserts, usually in the form of a humbling defeat or a humiliating dress down from a superior. But as Yuki Noguchi reports, the actors who play these parts are nothing like the douchebag characters they portray. And an unusual support group in Hollywood is helping them understand that they're not alone.
Yuki Noguchi (voiceover): Listen to two audio clips from The Karate Kid featuring two different pairs of actors:
AUDIO CLIP 1
Ralph Machio as Daniel LaRusso: You're the best friend I've ever had.
Pat Morita as Mr. Miyagi: You . . . pretty OK, too.
YN (voice over): OK, and now, the second.
AUDIO CLIP 2
Martin Kove as John Kreese: Sweep the leg . . . Do you have a problem with that?
William Zabka as Johnny Lawrence: No, sensei.
Martin Kove as John Kreese: No mercy.
YN (voice over): Which set of actors would you be more likely to avoid if you saw them at a party? If you're like most people, you probably said the actors in the second clip, William Zabka playing the rich preppie bully Johnny Lawrence, and Martin Kove, playing the sadistic sensei of the Cobra Kai dojo, John Kreese.
Throughout their lengthy careers, both Zabka and Kove have had to deal with a lot of dirty looks, negativity, and downright hostility from strangers that they say stems solely from people's apparent belief that they possess the same contemptible attributes possessed by the characters they portray. Or as Zabka more bluntly puts it . . .
William Zabka: (laughing) People look at the characters we play and just assume we're douchebags in real life, too.
YN (voice over): Think back to some of the more memorable movie, um, d-bags from the past 25 years: Paul Gleason as the incompetent and hot-headed principal from The Breakfast Club and then later as the incompetent and hot-headed commanding officer in Die Hard; Jefferey Jones as the bumbling, incompetent principal from Ferris Bueller's Day Off; William Atherton as the smug, middling EPA bureaucrat in Ghostbusters and then later as the smug, middling reporter in Die Hard. One thing they all have in common is movie audiences' overall negative feelings for them, which range from eye rolling dismissal to sneering contempt--feelings, the actors say, that don't stop after the closing credits roll.
Martin Kove played the Cobra Kai sensei in all three Karate Kid movies.
Martin Kove: Oh sure, especially when the first one came out, yeah, I used to get dirty looks all the time. Hell, a few people even tried to pick fights with me. My wife would always tell me I should take it as a compliment, you know, like my performance was so convincing all these people must have thought I was really like that guy (laughs). But it's like, how do I tell these people that John Kreese and the Cobra Kai are make believe without coming across as totally condescending? But that's the corner they back you into: You're either a douchebag or a condescending jerk.
YN (voice over): It was instances like those described by Kove that prompted him, together with William Zabka, to found AWARD, a support and advocacy group for actors who have had similar experiences with casual fans assuming that in real life they are jerks like the characters they play. Although Kove himself is the first to admit it sounds like something out of a movie, AWARD actually stands for Actors Who Aren't Really Douchebags. And it has helped countless actors cope with the negativity that can come with a convincing portrayal of characters with, shall we say, douchebag tendencies. Thomas Wilson played Biff Tannen, the bully from the Back to the Future movies.
Thomas Wilson: AWARD came along at a time when I really needed it. Playing an iconic douchebag like Biff is really a double-edged sword. Sure it got me a lot of parts and recognition, but it also led to a lot of negative notoriety. It got to the point where I couldn't leave my house without some comedian getting in my face, knocking on my head, and saying, "Hello, McFly!" and feeling like he could do so with impunity because obviously if I played such a character in the movies I must be a bad guy in real life too, right?
And then there you are. You let it go and you feel like a jerk. You say something about it, and the guy feels completely justified. You can't win. But AWARD really helped. Just knowing there were other actors out there going through the same thing really made a difference.
WZ: The whole impetus behind AWARD was to help similarly misidentified actors understand that their situation wasn't unique. There were loads of other actors out there that people made fallacious assumptions of douchebag-dom--if that's even a word--about, based only on the parts they played.
YN (voice over): Over the years, a veritable who's who of character actors who have dabbled in douchebaggery have attended at least a few of AWARD's monthly meetings. Gary Cole, the smarmy manager from Office Space; James Spader, the slimy villainous frenemy of Andrew McCarthy in both Pretty in Pink and Less Than Zero; Billy Zane circa Titanic; the list goes on and on.
What they find at AWARD is a sense of community and mutual support, and a chance to remind themselves and others that they are more than the parts they play.
MK: What you have to remember about a Billy Zabka is that he's been acting for more than 25 years. And for people to just assume he's a douchebag in person because he so convincingly played one on a number of occasions in the 80s is not fair. Billy's one of the nicest guys in Hollywood. Ask anyone.
YN (voice over): I did, and Kove's claim was backed up by virtually everyone I talked to--just as Zabka's was about how Kove is also a kind and generous individual, the complete opposite of the character he played in the Karate Kid movies. In fact, the more people I talked to about AWARD members, the more a pattern emerged. In just about every case, it turned out that the actors playing these characters were almost universally well regarded and respected by their peers, perhaps even more so than non-AWARD members. And I'll contritely admit to being a little surprised by this. As Martin Kove's wife said, it's a testament to their talents that I assumed the worst about them. Here's Thomas Wilson again.
TW: The whole point of AWARD is to help actors through these issues and to try to get Hollywood to cast us as something other than douchebags. But more than that, we want to show the world that we're not who we play in these movies. And the first step in that process is feeling good about who we are. AWARD helps us do that.
YN to WZ: You've been in movies for more than 25 years.
WZ: Yes.
YN: And something most moviegoers may not know about you is that you were nominated for an Academy Award for a short film you directed.
WZ: That's right.
YN: And yet, the role that most people will remember you for is . . .
WZ: Johnny from The Karate Kid (laughs).
YN: How does that make you feel?
WZ: Well, certainly it would be great to be recognized for something other than the archetypal blond 80s preppie douchebag, but I suppose it's better than not being recognized at all. You just gotta keep on doing the best work you can do, and eventually people will see you in a more positive light.
YN (voice over): Words of wisdom from an AWARD winning actor. For All Things Considered, I'm Yuki Noguchi.
(Outro music: You're the Best Around by Joe Esposito)
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