my year of ultra-short fiction and fictionalized retellings of real life events

New Year's Resolutions for 2012

2012-01-15T05:41:00.000-08:00

1. I resolve to stop yelling, "WHOO!" whenever I'm at a concert and the lead singer asks the crowd how they're doing.

2. No more Viagra jokes every time someone mentions The Dark Knight Rises.

3. This year I'm finally going to return Olivia Newton John's calls and take her up on her invitation to get physical.

4. I will stop feeling like I'm sticking it to The Man whenever I preview tracks on iTunes that are already less than 30 seconds long, even though I'm totally listening to the whole song for free, man!

5. As the CEO of Bozorotica Entertainment, I vow to put out nothing but the finest in clown porn guaranteed to tickle your other funny bone.

6. I resolve to stop whistling Taps every time I lose my erection.

7. I will stop telling my friend Daryl his border collie is a DILF even though she totally is.

8. This year I will finish the screenplay for my East meets West, Eddie Murphy/J-pop mash-up, AKB48 Hours.

9. At some point this year I will show up to a party and announce to everyone that I came to do two things: kick ass and chew bubblegum, but then keep it to myself that I brought more than enough bubblegum with me.

10. I will stop dressing up like Frosty and asking attractive women if they know where the snow blower is.

11. The sun will not go down on Elton John this year. Not on my watch.

12. This 4th of July I will go to town with the sole purpose of riding a pony. I will then stick a feather in my cap, call it cheese, and get rude with anyone who tries to correct me.

13. I will go to Hollywood, follow Al Pacino into a restroom, drop my pants and ask him to say hello to my little friend.

14. I resolve to stop crashing Occupy Wall Street events, seeking out hot alterna-chicks and asking them if they want to go back to mine and occupy ball street for a couple of hours.

15. No more saying, "Daddy like!" every time I see an attractive woman, delicious dessert, or sweet ride.

16. I resolve to stop forcing Good Will Hunting-esque, "It's not your fault" breakthroughs on strangers at the DMV.

17. This year I will figure out once and for all what the hell Goofy is.

18. I will start a Neko Case/Justin Bieber tribute band and call it Justin Case.

19. I will start a Johnny Cash/Tom Petty tribute band and call it Petty Cash.

20. I will tell anyone who asks me how to get to Sesame Street.

21. I will win decisively by drinking tiger blood with Charlie Sheen during Shark Week.

22. I will stop trying to make my wife refer to my penis as Shiva the Destroyer.

23. I resolve to stop using so many exclamation points!!!! Seriously, I mean it! No, really! OK, last one! Just kidding! LMAO!!!!!!!!!!!

24. I promise to put an end to my practice of dialing old girlfriends and hanging up, and then when they call back insisting that my infant daughter had gotten ahold of my cell phone and started punching random buttons and sorry about that, ha, ha, but, um, how you doing?

25. I resolve to stop dressing up like a pirate and introducing myself as Capn Assgrab in search of ye bountiful booty.

26. I will finally launch Tats for Tots, my body art emporium for toddlers.

27. No more getting medieval on people's asses. This year, I resolve to get Renaissance on them.

January 1 - New Year's Resolutions for 2011

2011-01-01T00:18:00.000-08:00

1. This year I resolve to kick someone out of bed for eating crackers.
2. I resolve to put the sin back in synergy.
3. No more flashing devil's horns and yelling, "Wok & Woll!"when they bring me my food at Chinese restaurants.
4. I resolve to stop crashing tea parties in my Obama mask and Chippendale's uniform.
5. No more rhyming . . . and I mean it!
6. Anybody want a peanut?
7. This year I'm going to figure out a way to literally tickle someone's fancy.
8. I will limit my peeing in the shower to times when I am already taking a shower.
9. This year I will make it through the holiday season without asking so much as one midget if he/she is one of Santa's elves.
10. This year I resolve to think outside the bun.
11. I will whistle while I work, as well as while I wank.
12. Straight up laughter might be impossible, but I resolve to at least giggle in the face of danger.
13. This year I resolve to write checks with my ego that my body can't cash.
14. I resolve to stop yelling "Fuck her, I did!" unless I did and they should.
15. I will stop rolling my eyes whenever I tell other parents their baby is cute.
16. Everybody is familiar with nail polish. This year: male polish!
17. I will stop making Wikileaks jokes every time I get up to use the bathroom at work.
18. No more passive aggressive cleaning of the house.
19. On a related note, I resolve to stop passive aggressively asking for permission. Is that OK with you?
20. I will learn to be OK with the fact that sometimes I get aroused by a J-pop singer who, on closer inspection, is actually a really pretty guy.
21. I resolve to be as smug as humanly possible when I dismiss the "I'm so busy!" complaints of my friends who don't have children.
22. At least once this year I will pack myself a couple of knuckle sandwiches and go cruisin' for a bruisin'.
23. As far as I can tell, there are no religions that forbid the eating of chicken. This year I will rectify that situation.
24. I will also manage to say "rectify" without giggling.
25. I promise to start doing that thing again where I dress up like a mime, start doing a routine in public, and then as soon as I've got a nice little crowd, suddenly start screaming and cursing at everybody in Russian.
26. This year I will graduate from MILFs to GILFs.
27. I resolve to stop telling new moms that they're not eating for two anymore.
28. During the holiday season I will manage to ask younger women if they've been naughty or nice without sounding totally creepy.
29. I will figure out a way to call someone "friend" without it having a menacing undertone.
30. I resolve to stop carrying around a rooster and telling people to say hello to my cock.
31. I resolve to stop talking shit about people behind their backs, even though I'm sure those no good fuck balls in accounting would never deign to do the same in return.
32. This year I will get off my ass and write a reply song to Cee Lo.
33. I will manage to have a conversation that's not about my daughter, work, or the weather.
34. I resolve to stop asking the guy in the next urinal if he could zip me up.
35. I promise to stop pretending to be asleep when I hear the baby cry/poop.
36. I will finally get around to producing The Orifice, my porn parody of The Office.
37. I resolve to stop quoting Wayne's World and other comedies from the 90s--Not!
38. This year I will start a podcast and call it Nothing but Dog Whistles.
39. This year I will take my talents to South Beach . . . if you catch my drift.
40. At some point this year, I will take candy from a baby, shoot fish in a barrel, and go on a cake walk, and then brag about what an easy afternoon I've had.
41. I will stop monopolizing all the "Free hugs" people's time.
42. Bargain hunting is so cruel. This year I'm going to focus more on bargain gathering.
43. I resolve to stop asking attractive women in restaurants if they'd like me to butter their muffin.
44. I will cut down on my use of "finger quotes" by at least 50%.
45. This year I will start a Twitter feed for Luddites.
46. I resolve to stop using the words sinful and/or decadent when describing desserts, especially when I'm hanging around a construction site.
47. I will stop threatening to "skull fuck" my brother-in-law, because we both know I'm never actually going to do it, and threatening to do so always makes Thanksgiving really awkward (albeit memorable).
48. I resolve to stop flirting with widows.
49. I will stop wearing my Michael Vick jersey when I volunteer at the humane center.
50. No more doing that Marilyn Monroe Happy Birthday Mr. President shtick to my co-workers unless it's their birthday.
51. This year, I will dress like a leprechaun only on St. Patrick's Day.
52. And during Celtics' playoff games.
53. And when I'm hosting a Leprechaun movie marathon.
54. And when I'm eating Lucky Charms.
55. This year will see the end of my prefacing juicy tidbits of gossip by saying, "spoiler alert."
56. It will also see the end of my using the following words in the following order: juicy tidbits of gossip.
57. Fuck it. This year I will start smoking.
58. It's been said that you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friends' noses. Well this year, I'm going to prove the doubters wrong.

December 31 - Last Supper

2010-12-31T02:21:00.001-08:00

New Year's Eve. No time. Already late, but a shower, change of clothes, and a fucking faster than hell bite to eat had to be done.
Food first. He opened the refrigerator.
A disaster. Absolutely fuck all to eat.
Fuck my ass.
But wait.
What's that?
Cold fried chicken in the back of the second shelf.
Yes.
He reached for it.
Hold on. When was the last time I had chicken?
Valuable seconds ticked off the clock.
Was it this week? Last week?
Last month?
He stood in front of the refrigerator wondering.
Minutes melted away.
He scrunched up his face in concentration.
Fried chicken.
The sun had long since set. More and more lights went on outside. The town was coming to life.
On the other side of town, She was finishing getting ready.
Third date tonight. All kinds of vibes on dates one and two. Sex tonight for sure.
Sex for fucking sure.
Fuck it. It's fine.
The first bite told him otherwise. Second bite, too, and every other bite until he'd ripped his way through it like a shark that swam in on a seal fucking his wife.
And the chicken had tasted off, there was no doubt about it.
But it was fried. How bad could it have been?
No time to ponder. Into the shower. Hot water. Steamier than hell. Not mixing well with the caffeine from earlier. Definitely not mixing well with the chicken.
He focused on his date and fought through the doubts that were starting to creep in. Was the chicken a mistake?
He turned off the water and started drying off.
How freaking old was it?
Dizziness and nausea. Things slowed down. Everything moved cartoonishly slow. There were trails. The Axe Body Spray slipped out of his hands and crashed on the floor and he was powerless to stop it.
Everything was in slow motion.
His stomach turned to lead. Then his arms and legs did, too.
Just a second to sit.
It didn't help. The room spun. And then went black.
He was out.
Hours passed.
And then the dreams started.
They were all over the map.
Suicidal whales, kindergarten unicycle gangs, Mongolian night stalkers, wild west zombie killers, serial killer jaw transplants, plastic bubble wrap men, vegetable cows, Korean gangsters the size of whales, feuding Palestinian and Jewish rappers, Catholic High School Girls in Trouble, Chinese cyberterrorists, messengers from the sky, Russian house sitters, talking dogs, vampires, long lost heirs to the Japanese throne, an orchestra of hobos, orcs, bloodbaths, fish tacos, homeless punching bags, fighting leagues for old ladies from around the world, mind reading flight attendants, fat suits, washed up former masturbation champs, sleeping pills, funky presidents, time travelers, haiku hustlers, bastard warriors, castaways, Gypsy curses, catatonic seers, and bridges.
The dreams kept coming and he kept sleeping.
Dream after dream after dream after dream.
African rock star prophets, post-apocalyptic herbivores, baseball dads, talking mustaches, talking assholes, talking penises, magic pens, heroes, single women, advice dispensing pirates, illegally employed undead, dog racing monkeys, clown bars, running bachelorettes, jinxes, Bible thumpers, Amish rock stars, good deeds, iMotions, prehistoric killer bees, stressed out jazz musicians, domineering deer, ass kicking boy band back-up dancers, races against incontinence, assassination schools for mixed race orphans, birthing resorts, insufferable bastards, Zoobomb Turks, underground paintball circuit champs, restaurateurs, hecklers, inter species romances, lameasses, Spanish wine-making giantesses, breakfast burritos, pillow fuckers, heists gone right, baby proofers, parallel universes, final shots, aliens in border towns, and roaches.
The dreams kept coming.
Pranks gone wrong, long legs, father son trips to Reno, mouse ballets, bear ticklers, make-up artists, sausage hiders, glove makers, penis thieves, cho pos, one hit wonders, Rush cover bands, karaoke kings, fish 'n' chips jackasses, haunted strip malls, Turkey sand witches, death trains, meetings with Satan, neckless bastards, Ozzy Ozbourne, magic tots, boxing nuns, lesbian vampire killers, selfish shellfish, semicolons, a baby named Maya, and a shit ton more.
There didn't seem to be an end to the dreams, but then suddenly there was.
The dreams stopped.
By the time he woke up, the night was over, the sun was up, and the new year had begun.

December 30 - Guatalatinejo

2010-12-30T00:52:00.000-08:00

They'd taken conventional medicine as far as it would go, but it wasn't enough. The doctors gave her a month.
Rather than spending the rest of her time waiting, she and her husband booked a trip to Peru where they would stay indefinitely in Guatalatinejo, a native American village and "healing center" in the Andes. Guatalatinejo was near Puno, the hamlet where they had first gotten to know each other more than 15 years ago as Peace Corps Volunteers. It would be their first trip to South American since then.
"Round trip," she'd said, looking at the itinerary he had booked for them. It wasn't exactly a question, but given their circumstances, round trip wasn't what she was expecting. She looked at him expectantly.
"Yeah," he smiled and shrugged. "Well, you know." What was he going to say? That he didn't feel like explaining to the travel agents why one ticket would be one way and the other one would be round trip?
"It was cheaper, actually," he said.
Before they left, their friends threw them a bon voyage party, and although there were a few tears, everyone was pretty good about following his insistence that the night not "end up in a teary, depressing mess." On the contrary, there was a lot of laughter, and lots of stories. She thanked them at the end of it, saying it was like getting to attend her own funeral. Then she laughed a bit, there was a pause, and everyone else lost it.
Nobody wanted to be the first to leave. The hugs lasted for minutes.
Two days later they were in Peru.
(As they were expecting) Guatalatinejo was a little bit touristy, and the relatively new facilities of the healing center tried a little too hard to look exotic, but overall it was charming. And it was great to be back in South America. Everything looked a little newer, but the hills, the smells, the air, and the sounds were the same.
The healing center staff were friendly. It helped that their tribal language was similar to the language they had learned (and to their surprise, not completely forgotten) during their Peace Corps days in Puno. The more they practiced with them, the more it came back.
There was locally grown fair trade coffee available, as well as and locally made handicrafts for sale at the market near the healing center. They could also buy traditional tribal bags, shirts, shawls, and jackets with the local tribe's patterns and insignia on them--clothing that they only ever saw being worn by other guests at the center or the villagers that were directly employed by the tourist industry.
But despite the manufactured authenticity, they both enjoyed Guatalatinejo, particularly the crisp, cool mornings as the fog burned off. Every morning they wrapped themselves in blankets and sipped coffee on their veranda that overlooked the deep valley. Quietly listening to the sounds of the surrounding village coming to life--sheep bleating, chickens clucking, people calling to each other in the tribal language--was a gently magnificent way to start the day.
Their days were spent with the other guests (mostly other U.S. Americans) sipping herbal teas, eating locally grown herbs and roots, following a rigorous but soothing activeness regimen, and receiving the incantations and prayers of the medicine man.
In a previous life, he might have derisively called the medicine man a witch doctor, but not now. Not when he could see how calm the medicine man's words--whatever they were--were making his wife. Although he would never let himself get to the point where he actually believed any of what was happening there might actually work, he also wasn't so cynical that he couldn't see the effect it was having on his wife. She was calm and at peace, but not in a resigned and ready to die way. She was also vibrant, happy, and vivacious, so he didn't question it.
In fact, he was loath to even acknowledge it. Sports superstitions were about as close as he ever got to religion, but he felt strongly about them, and the one that applied here was don't mess with a streak. Because that's what their time at Guatalatinejo felt like to him, one phenomenal, increasingly long (and frankly unexpected) winning streak. She felt good, they were enjoying their time together, and that was more than they could have allowed themselves to hope for going into it.
The days stretched into weeks and they quickly found a rhythm: quiet mornings together, days with the staff and other guests at the healing center, and evenings together, sometimes in their cottage and sometimes at Guatalatinejo's Cultural Center. Teenage girls dressed in ceremonial costumes doing traditional dances to the accompaniment of pan flutes, and then texted from the backs of their boyfriends' motorcycles afterwards.
They also took a couple of trips to Puno and visited their old host families and friends from their Peace Corps days. They didn't mention her disease and nobody suspected anything was wrong.
A month passed. Then six weeks. He Skyped his boss from their cottage and told her he needed more time. His boss teased him about it, saying the woman they hired as his temporary replacement was doing his job better than he could.
"Take as much time as you need. As far as I'm concerned you guys don't ever have to come back."
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them, but he didn't say anything. He just thanked her and told her he'd be in touch.
Another couple of weeks passed and every day she seemed to be doing better. They went on longer and longer walks. They danced. They laughed. Maybe it was the air. Maybe it was the diet, the exercise, the herbs and the roots. Maybe it was the words of the medicine man. Maybe it was the pan flutes. He didn't know and he didn't care. He was just happy that it was working, whatever it was.
Two weeks after he called his boss, they celebrated their 12th wedding anniversary in Guatalatinejo. Neither of them said so out loud, but both of them couldn't believe she had not only held on that long, but had managed to do so looking better than she had when they had arrived. After dinner they sat on their veranda for hours looking at the stars and listening to the distant sounds of the pan flutes at the Cultural Center.
A week later, she died in her sleep.
There would be a wake for her when he got back to the States, but they had already made arrangements for her to be cremated in Peru. She was adamant about not having her last act on the planet be "getting flown thousands of miles just so I can take up a bunch of space I don't need."
He spread her ashes on the outskirts of Puno and then made his way back home.

December 29 - The Neighbor

2010-12-29T00:57:00.000-08:00

When I opened the door it was the FBI. They wanted to talk to me about my neighbor, who was being sought as a person of interest in connection with a case of art theft. Namely, the original A Bold Bluff from C.M. Coolidge's Dogs Playing Poker series had been stolen.
I laughed, and asked them if they were serious.
They were. And then they answered my next question before I could ask it. It was worth just less than $600,000.
I asked them again if they were serious, and rather than answering me they asked me what I knew about my neighbor.
I shrugged and said, "Not much" in a way I hoped suggested that I wasn't just answering their question, but also making an observation or even a judgement about the state of the world. Like, We barely know our own neighbors these days. What happened to us, you know, as a society?
The younger one swallowed a yawn, and the older one asked me if I thought art theft might be something he might be mixed up in.
I pretended to think.
My neighbor? An art thief? What could I tell him?
He was by far the quirkiest neighbor I'd ever had.
One time he answered the door dressed in a fur tunic and a helmet with ram horns on the side of it. And then, handing me a flagon of grog, he wished me a Happy Viking Week.
He only ever dated plus-sized models, but not the sassy ones.
He had a rotary dial cell phone and a record player for his car.
I had no idea what he did for a living, but every time I went to his place he was engrossed in a different hobby: building a ship in a bottle, talking on a ham radio to Korea, glass blowing, repairing Sony Walkmans, tracing, translating ancient Greek into Latin, breeding hamsters, plumbing.
He regularly played poker with a group of guys that included Anthony Edwards.
When I heard he was licensed as a minister, I assumed it was one of those deals where you could sign up online, but actually he was Lutheran. But not practicing.
He volunteered for Meals on Wheels, but it was mostly so he could do recon work for antiques dealers; he always knew which estate sales to hit.
He'd gotten a scuba license in Latvia.
One time the local police contacted him because they needed someone who was familiar with an elephant's urinary tract in order to solve a case.
When we were watching Wind Talkers, he kept rolling his eyes at how ridiculous everyone's Cherokee accents were.
He claimed that he did voice talent work in the 70s. Remember the commercial for Operation!? That was him. Or so he says.
A couple summers ago I went to China on vacation, and while I was tooling around near the Great Wall, I saw his likeness on four different caricature artists' sample pictures, alongside Leonardo DiCaprio, Lady Gaga, and Barack Obama.
He'd once contributed a chapter's worth of kelp recipes to an Asian fusion cookbook.
And now he was wanted by the FBI for questioning about the theft of the world's most ridiculous painting. They wanted to know if I thought it was something he might be mixed up in.
I shook my head slowly and shrugged.
"Beats me," I told them. And after a few more questions they left.

December 28 - Sarcasm Graham

2010-12-28T01:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

Let me be the first to congratulate you on your performance from last night. It went well beyond brilliant and it would not be an overstatement in the least to call it unforgettable and bound to be legendary. Your play is always without peer, but last night you reset the bar: 3 points on 1 for 13 shooting; 0 rebounds; 6 turnovers. Absolutely amazing. It was the highlight not just of the season, but of an exemplary career. Your team is truly fortunate to count you as one of its roster.

Although eight million dollars a year is an insult to your talents, it is a testament to the depths of your magnanimity. You are not only one of the all time great NBA players, but also a saint among men. Everyone in the city should consider themselves lucky to have you not only as the franchise player of our team, but also as the face of our city.

This fan thanks you humbly for your brilliant performance, and looks forward to seeing if you can ever top yourself.

Sincerely,Greg Maddox

c/o www.sarcasmgram.com
"Sarcasm" Graham Pinto, CEO

Tina Turner's You're the Best played in the background as an animated audience surrounded the electronic message giving a standing ovation. It was a typical Sarcasm Gram: a seemingly sincere message that was twisted into a caustic missive with a biting tone by the appearance of the Sarcasm Gram logo (a smirking yellow face) and the name "Sarcasm" Graham Pinto at the bottom of the screen. By the end of 2010 Sarcasm Grams were more ubiquitous than Ecards.
As the CEO of sarcasmgram.com, Graham Pinto wanted the world to know that he stood behind his service. That's why he put his name under the web address, under the logo, and on the company's letterhead. In doing so, he became a household name along the lines of Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, and Steve Jobs. Graham Pinto was the very face of sarcasm.
And a very rich face at that: sarcasmgram.com netted more than 350 million dollars in 2010, and it was solely responsible for making sarcasm a global phenomenon, having launched successful Sarcasm Gram websites in 20 countries. Sarcasm was big business and to almost everyone in the world, Graham was sarcasm.
However, one side effect of being synonymous with sarcasm was that it was impossible for Graham to give anyone a genuine compliment, word of thanks, gesture of appreciation, or offer of condolence. Everyone always thought he was being sarcastic.
And that included his eleven year old daughter, Michelle.
Throughout her childhood, she suspected and gradually became wise to the fact that there was a big (sar)chasm between what her father said and how people perceived it. The words that came out of his mouth always seemed very nice, but they seemed to put the people who heard them in a bad mood.
When she found out what his job was--spreading sarcasm around the world--she became unable to believe any compliments he gave her, especially potentially backhanded ones like "Your shooting style is so unique" and "What an interesting outfit you have on today" and "Those new shoes are so . . . you!" The more she suspected his sincerity, the more adversely it affected her self esteem.
Which in turn killed Graham. He loved his daughter and thought the world of her. He hated the idea that his genuinely kind words were messing with his daughter's mind, especially as she was on the cusp of the particularly awkward and stressful teenage years.
And so he retired. He sold sarcasmgram.com and walked away. He walked so far away from sarcasm, in fact, that he switched teams, becoming a ghost writer for Hallmark, churning out some of the most well received greeting cards in the company's history.
However, when it was revealed that Sarcasm Graham was the man behind the new cards, there was an uproar. Hundreds of thousands of people suddenly felt that the cards they'd received from family, friends, and loved ones were meant sarcastically. There was a class action lawsuit that destroyed the company. Less than a year after he started working there, Hallmark filed for bankruptcy.
It soon became clear to Graham that he was the negativity Midas. And so, accepting that that was the impact he was going to have on the world, he went back to work as a lobbyist, writing opinion papers for industries to which he was opposed.
Big Tobacco enthusiastically hired him, for he was one of the top writers in any industry and they knew he would do a good job for them. The only condition was that he had to remain behind the scenes. Nobody could know that Sarcasm Graham had become the Voice of Big Tobacco.
And so he went to work, writing countless articles trumpeting various tobacco companies' contributions to the environment, education, etc., all the while injecting tiny little clues about the identity of the writer into the reports and papers.
And his efforts worked quite well for Big Tobacco and the other industries he went to work for--until the little clues about his identity he left out began to accumulate and the media discovered that Big Tobacco's PR blitz was captained by none other than Sarcasm Graham. The fallout was massive and Big Tobacco took a huge PR hit. Suddenly, slogans like "Phillip Morris really cares." and "RJR Reynolds is really interested in what you think." and "Phillip Morris knows that children are our most valuable resource." were dripping with sarcasm. People still smoked, but major damage had been done.
As it was in the other industries he "went to work for": Big Oil, Big Alcohol, and various weapons manufacturers.
So much so that they stopped hiring him, but by then he'd long since made well more than enough to retire on comfortably. And so he did, devoting the rest of his life to trying to earn (back) the trust of those he cared about the most.

December 27 - Lost

2010-12-27T02:17:00.000-08:00

His big fear was that the moment he was locked into one option, another, better option would present itself.
The fear had its roots in the spring of his senior year when after hemming and hawing for several weeks, he said screw it and asked Sally Fulton to the prom. The same afternoon, he found out that Jill Kressler had broken up with her boyfriend in order to ask him to the prom.
Jill Kressler.
He'd had no idea Jill was into him. If he had, he never would have asked Sally. Not that there was anything wrong with Sally. She was fine; it's just that, well, Jill was Jill. Piss funny, into cool stuff, and smart. And hotter than hell without being girly. And she liked him.
If only he'd held off on asking Sally--for one hour!--he could have gone with Jill instead.
But no. He was, well, he didn't want to say 'stuck' with Sally, but that's how he carried himself that night. He sulked his way through the prom, barely talked, barely danced, and Sally had a bad time, and that was the only night they ever went out. (Do I even have to tell you that Jill ended up going with a totally undeserving moron?) It was a terrible night all around. And then they all graduated a few weeks later and Jill went one way and he went another and that was it.
And it was all because he'd settled too quick. And so his M.O. became Something better could be just over the horizon, so don't lock yourself into anything until you're positive. Until you're absolutely sure.
Only thing was he never let himself get to the point where he positive, where he was absolutely sure. He always pulled the plug before it got anywhere near that point.
He dated sporadically in college, but never seriously. His eyes were always wandering, he was always distracted. This girl is great and all, but what else is out there?
After graduating, all of his friends got hitched, one by one. All but him. They tried to set him up for a while, but then gave up when they started having kids.
Years passed.
As did many promising women, but he wouldn't let himself get lost in their charms. Sure, a lot of them were great, but he'd held out for The Right One for so long; he could wait a little longer. At that point, he wasn't going to pull the trigger just to pull the trigger. He wasn't going to go all in on a four of a kind when a straight flush might be right around the corner.
Years later, at his 50th high school reunion, he was still single.
And it was great to catch up with everyone and see how they all turned out, and in the middle of all this, texts and emails suddenly started flooding into the reunion with shocking, impossible news. Someone found a TV and they all stood in numbed silence as they watched CNN's coverage of the End of the World.
They had 25, maybe 30 minutes before the bombs hit that would kill them all.
Many people held their loved ones and watched the story unfold on TV. Others wandered away from the TV in a daze.
Some collapsed to the floor in tears and prayers. And others paired off and tried to find a place with something approaching privacy so they could go at it one last time before the world came crashing down.
As more and more people paired off and disappeared, he searched the dance floor frantically. This was it. Time to forget about possible future regrets and find someone. Now.
And then magically, there she was. Sally, his old prom date.
The grudge she'd held against him for ruining her prom was long gone, of course. And even if it hadn't been, she would have found a way to forgive and forget in that moment, because there was no more time to waste. It would all be over soon.
He realized that now. He'd wasted too much time.
But no more.
There was still a chance to make the final moments of his life worthwhile and share it with somebody for once. It wasn't too late. He grabbed her hand.
Yes.
Yes, let's go.
They started across the room, and then there she was, Jill, the one who'd wanted to go with him all those years ago. Standing alone.
He stopped.
They looked at each other.
Sally noticed.
And tugged at his hand.
And then let go of it.
He started to walk over to Jill, but then stopped when her husband came running back to her with a bottle of wine. They joined hands and left.
He turned around to grab Sally, but she was gone.
And then the bombs hit.

December 26 - Boxing Day

2010-12-26T01:00:00.000-08:00

Most people have heard of Boxing Day, but not as many know what it is other than that it falls on the day after Christmas.
The best guess most people are able to hazard is that Boxing Day is the day when rich people give boxes of food, gifts, and sometimes money to their servants on the day after Christmas.
This is more or less what Boxing Day would one day become, but to get to the true origins of Boxing Day, you would have to go back to 1763 when the Duke of Gloucester, one Richard Joseph Louis III decreed the day after Christmas to be a day for men to "unshackle themselves from the stresses and overindulgences of the holidays, and to adopt more sprightly humours through rigorous physical exertion."
A noted (and feared) pugilist, the Duke was of the mind that hand to hand combat was the ideal activity for bringing about the twin benefits of stress relief and exercise. And so he declared December 26 Boxing Day.
According to the Duke's rules, Boxing Day was a day on which any man, regardless of class, social standing, occupation, parentage, age, or disposition, could challenge any other man to a sparring match--and that man was obligated to agree to the fight under the pain of the stockades.
Not that anyone ever backed down. On the contrary, when December 26 hit, the streets, back alleys, pubs, churches and everywhere else were filled with men beating the tar out of each other, a particularly striking sight when there were still so many Christmas trees and decorations around.
Boxing Day was an especially big hit among the underprivileged classes who relished the opportunity to take out a year's worth of humiliation, overwork, physical and mental abuse, and harsh treatment on their bosses, superiors, teachers, commanding officers, and the like.
They looked forward to it all year, and many began training for the day weeks, even months in advance.
For their part, hoping to avoid spectacular ass whoopings from their physically superior underlings, many bosses tried to buy their employees off by doling out astonishingly generous Christmas bonuses. Sometimes it worked and the challenge to a fight was never laid down.
But not always.
It wasn't long before many men of high social standing stayed at home on Boxing Day, hiding behind closed doors until the 27th.
But other members of the upper classes embraced it. For 364 days a year, they had to behave like gentlemen. But on Boxing Day, they could be men. Many of them, like almost everyone from the lower social classes, looked forward to it more than Christmas.
And it remained this way until December 26, 1787 when the Duke of Gloucester died from injuries he sustained while beating the snot out of a 250 pound longshoreman from Birmingham.
He was 74 years old.
With his death came a new Duke who was very much opposed to Boxing Day, and he ordered an immediate stop to it.
However, the public outcry against his directive was so severe, so harsh, so total, that the new Duke actually feared for his life. If he was going to take away the men's beloved Boxing Day, he would have to offer them something else in return.
He consulted with the women of the Dukedom, who, perhaps predictably, were also less than enamored with Boxing Day. And the compromise they came up with was that on the day after Christmas, the haves would put together an offering of food, gifts, and money to give to the have nots. Said offerings would be packed up and delivered in boxes.
And that is where Boxing Day comes from.

December 25 - Olive

2010-12-25T02:19:00.000-08:00

In Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, the line goes, "All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names," but in fact it wasn't all of the other reindeer, it was just one: Olive.
Olive the other reindeer.
Of course there wasn't just one other reindeer. In the mid-1950s there were hundreds of reindeer on the North Pole. Thousands. But two of them were different. One of them was Rudolph. The other one was Olive.
Rudolph had a red nose.
Olive's was green.
And both of them glowed.
But it was Rudolph who got all the attention, and it wasn't just because of his nose. He lettered in three different reindeer games, excelled in all his classes, and was just an all around nice reindeer.
Everyone was always going on about how great Rudolph was, and it drove Olive crazy. In fact, she was the first individual to be green with envy. The expression comes from her and her green nose
But it soon went from simple envy to an irrational need to destroy Rudolph. Thus, the names she used to call him: commie, pinko, comrade, Rudolph the Red. This was at the height of Cold War anti-communist hysteria, and not even the North Pole was safe from McCarthyist witch hunts.
But fortunately for Rudolph, everyone saw through Olive's ploy to tarnish his good name. All that communist nonsense was just that: nonsense. Nobody paid it any mind.
And so when the fog set in on that fateful Christmas Eve, it was a no brainer that Rudolph would guide the sleigh. Of course his glowing red nose would be indispensable in that weather. But on top of that, out of all the reindeer he was the best leader, the ablest navigator, and the sharpest aviator. None of the other reindeer were even close.
Even still, Rudolph, ever the magnanimous reindeer, lobbied hard to get Olive a spot on the team, figuring nothing would shout Merry Christmas more brilliantly than the sight of Santa's sleigh being guided by a glowing green nose and a glowing red nose.
But Olive wouldn't have it. She spent that Christmas Eve alone in her stable, taking out her frustrations on sugar cookies and salt licks while Rudolph saved Christmas and flew his way into the history books.
Years later, when the time came to document that Christmas Eve in song, Olive threatened to sue the songwriters for libel if they used her name. That's how Olive the other reindeer became all of the other reindeer.

December 24 - Figgy Pudding

2010-12-24T00:24:00.000-08:00

I'll get the door, dear.
Oh, look at that, would you? A troupe of Christmas well wishers! How perfectly delightful.
And what's this? They're singing?! Well, would you look at that!
Darling, can you hear them in there? They're wishing us a merry Christmas and a happy new year. Lovely, really. Top notch!
Oh, what's that? Another verse? Why, how wonderful!
And how deliciously offbeat this verse is! Darling, can you imagine? It seems they would like some figgy pudding! What a delightfully unusual thing to ask for!
Say, darling! Do we happen to have any figgy pudding? No? Ha ha, of course not!
Terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I'm afraid you'll have to go without your figgy pudding tonight. Ha ha. A thousand pardons. Ha ha. Yes, well, good night then!
Oh, I'm sorry. Not done yet? Another verse? Why, let's have it then.
What's that you say? You won't go until you get some? Why, of all the things to say! Surely you can't mean that.
Can you?
I truly am sorry, but I'm afraid we don't have any figgy pudding at the moment. It's not something we tend to keep around the house, you know.
Ha ha.
Well . . . It was wonderful of you to stop by.
We really enjoyed your holiday spirit. You must come again next year!
Ha ha.
OK, I'm closing the door now.
Good night.
Merry Christmas.
What's that? More singing?
Another verse?
What's that you say? You'll come back when we're sleeping? And break down our door? By God, I would say that's taking things too far, even for a joke.
Good night!
I said good night!
Bloody hell, another verse?
You'll what? You'll take our lovely daughters? And sell them abroad?
By God, have you taken leave of your senses? I am calling the police this instant! Darling, do call the police! Yes, do it now! Do it at once!
Dear Lord, more singing?
And then you'll burn our house down? And piss on our bones?
Is this really just because we don't have figgy pudding to give you? How can I make you understand this? We don't have any! Please believe us. If we had some we would surely give it to you. Please, just leave us alone!
Oh God, another verse.
What's that you say?
You were just messing with us? It was all a big joke?
Oh.
Oh, I see.
You were just taking the piss then, were you?
Very well, then. Good show.
Yes, ha ha. Very good indeed.
OK then. Merry Christmas to you too. And yes, a happy new year as well.
Good night, then.
Fucking carolers.

December 23 - Lovely

2010-12-23T01:36:00.000-08:00

My university students and I had decided to make Monday's lesson, our last before winter vacation, a bit more laid back, so I showed up that day with chocolate, Christmas music, and a lesson plan that wasn't too demanding.
And the students got into the spirit too. All the ladies were on time, but the guys didn't show up until a few minutes after the bell rang. They were late because they had been putting the finishing touches on their costumes. A hip-hop dancer named Akihiro was dressed like Santa, and for reasons that were never explained to me, Katsuya, Satoru, Masaki, Hideaki, and Tomoyuki were dressed as a soccer player, a baseball player, a basketball player, a rugby player, and a culinary school student respectively. It was like they'd decided to have a combined Christmas party and dress-as-what-the-elementary-school-version-of-you-wanted-to-be-when-you-grow-up party.
By the time they arrived, most of the ladies had put on Santa hats, Christmas aprons, and/or reindeer antlers, and everybody insisted I put on this red fish hat they'd brought for me, so I did.
And it was a great class. Any time you have a class with costumes and chocolate, it's going to be good. And on top of that, it wasn't completely unproductive. The students had book circle discussions of A Christmas Carol, and we read about various Christmas urban myths and tried to guess which ones were true and which were false. It was fun.
But then with about five minutes left in class, Akihiro Claus stood up suddenly and said he was leaving, that our Christmas party was a humbug.
The rest of the guys chased him down and begged him to stay, telling him they needed to celebrate Christmas together for Andy sensei's new baby daughter.
His baby daughter? he asked.
Yes, his lovely daughter Maya, they said.
And then Satoru the baseball player sang the first line of Isn't she lovely.
And then Masaki sang the next line.
And then Katsuya the next.
And Hideaki the next.
And then the whole class got up, clapped their hands to the beat, and sang the whole song, verses, chorus, and all. Hideaki and another student named Sayo broke out guitars and strummed along, and another student, Rika, played a harmonica solo in the middle.
And it was fantastic. If it had been something I'd seen in a movie, I would have rolled my eyes at how obviously ridiculous it was, because stuff like that doesn't happen in real life. And yet there it was happening in my class. I laughed and clapped along and tried to remember it as clearly as possible so that later on I could tell my wife Misako about it.
Wait, Misako!
There was still a little time left over in class. I asked the students if they would sing it again as I called her on my cell phone.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
And then it went to voice mail, so I introduced the class to her, and they did the whole song again for her voice mail, and it sounded even better the second time.
When class was over a minute later, they gave me (well, they gave it to me to give to Maya and Misako) a big floral arrangement. Then the next class's students came in and gave us more flowers, and then a group of students I'd taught last year crowded in and gave me a card they'd all signed.
It was amazing, almost overwhelming. It took every bit of concentration I had to not get choked up and ruin the moment by blubbering like a teary eyed jackass.
Seeing all their cheery faces and knowing they'd done all that for me and my family is something I don't think I'll ever forget. It was a lovely start to the week before Christmas, and a reminder that I've got a pretty fantastic job.

December 22 - Father Christmas

2010-12-22T00:27:00.000-08:00

Since I'm the primary bread winner of my family, I would say that puts me in charge of things around here and that includes Christmas. And as this will be our first Christmas together as a family, I'm going to establish some new rules about how Christmas is celebrated around here. I don't expect anyone to make a fuss about any of them, especially since our daughter Maya is nowhere near talking, but still. I wanted to get these ideas down and on the record.
Ready? Great.

First off, screw it. There's no Santa Claus.

What, like I'm going to haul my ass all over the Internet trying to find the right(ish) gifts for our daughter, pay for them with my hard(ish) earned money, and then give all the credit to some fictitious fat bastard? Think again.

Look. I'm not forgoing the giving of presents. Well actually, maybe this year I am. Our daughter is less than a month old, so the concept of 'want' hasn't really set in yet. Things are still (blessedly) primal at this point, and years from now I have every intention of looking back wistfully on this time and thinking about how good we had it before our daughter was able to articulate her need for ever overpriced/worthless piece of plastic on the planet. So as a gesture to my future self, I'll be going easy on the gift buying this year.

But yeah, in the future: presents? Absolutely. Maya will not be wanting when it comes to presents, toys, etc. She'll just know they're from us. And not in any sort of dickish earn this kind of way. Just more in the not giving credit to someone else kind of way.

Next up, Christmas music.

I'm all for it, but not the following songs (some of which I've been clear about my disdain for in the past, but they're still around, so I'm going to complain about them still being around and I'm going to keep on doing so until they're not around anymore):

Last Christmas by Wham because it is not a Christmas song. And also because it sucks.

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time by Paul McCartney. Really, Paul? You're simply having a wonderful Christmas time? Well, I'm not. And I blame you and your shitty early 80s Casio synthesizer for it.

So This is Christmas (War is Over) by John Lennon. Sorry, John, but the war is not over and it never will be and I know that that fact should make this song all the more poignant but it doesn't. This song is pretentious dreck of the highest magnitude, and it needs to piss the hell off.

The Celine Dion Christmas Album. I assume she has one, and I assume I hate it.

The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't be Late) by the Chipmunks. Is it just me or does this song always make you picture a fat drunk man in his underwear and a Santa hat sipping cherry brandy in a dark, cold, empty kitchen, gazing longingly at a bottle of sleeping pills through teary eyes of regret and hating himself because he doesn't have the balls to just take the next step and get it all over with? Really? It's just me?

Everything else we'll look at on a case by case basis.
Next, Christmas specials.

We will watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer at least once while baking cookies. And Maya will be enchanted by it.

We will also watch the Charlie Brown Christmas Special because I want Maya to have a soul, and watching this uncannily melancholy classic will be a step in the right direction.

At some point in the holiday season, we will enjoy a double feature of Lethal Weapon and Die Hard, because they are two of the finest Christmas movies around and also because nothing says Happy Holidays quite like mid-80s Gary Busey yelling, "It's Goddamn Christmas!" at the Scrooge on the TV before blowing it to smithereens with a machine gun.

Finally, food.
Turkey, not ham on Christmas. Unless we're in Japan, in which case it's KFC.
No, really.

December 21 - Carol

2010-12-21T01:37:00.000-08:00

Malcom X-mas.
Pete stared at the computer screen for a moment, and then typed, "We're not dreaming of a White Christmas. A White Christmas is dreaming of us!"
It didn't have the same ring as, 'We didn't land on Plymouth Rock. Plymouth Rock landed on us.' He deleted it.
And then stared at the otherwise blank screen.
At that late point in the afternoon, Pete was beyond frustrated, mainly because Malcom X-mas was such a promising title.
Malcom freaking X-mas.
Militant black leader rails against The Man, and gets in some digs against Christmas along the way. Throw in a crap ton of jokes, give some Malcom X sound bites a little Christmas flavor and then BAM! Done. Damn thing writes itself.
Only in this case it wasn't.
In fact, it wasn't doing anything but mocking him. He stared at his computer screen and saw nothing but a promising beginning followed by a large blank expanse.
The perfect metaphor for my career, Pete thought, a bit unfairly. Pete's career had had not only a great start, but also a great everything else so far, owing largely to Pete's unparalleled work ethic, which still served him and Chick Magnets, the Comedy Central sketch comedy show he wrote for, very well. The only thing he lacked right now was inspiration.
In the past he would have powered through his writer's block. Actually, in the past, he never would have had writer's block. It never came to that. He and Carol, his old mentor and partner in sketch comedy writing crime would load up on booze and/or whatever recreational pharmaceuticals she could score from the interns, and they would work through the night to crank out something that inevitably ended up being hilarious.
That's the way it had always been at Chick Magnets. Work was a party, but partying often felt like work. The two full time pursuits blurred together so thoroughly that it was impossible to separate them--not that Pete or Carol or anyone else on the writing staff would want to. Being a comedy writer in New York City--and getting paid handsomely for it--was the dream gig of a lifetime, and they would put as much into it and get the most out of it as they could. Most of the time, that meant long hours.
And controlled substances.
And a lot of both at the same time.
And in time that combination took a toll.
When Carol (inevitably) died of an overdose, Pete took over as head writer. And the combination of 1) seeing his partner/best friend die and 2) turning 40 was the wake up call that made him realize he couldn't go on like that forever. He quit all his bad habits, focused exclusively on work, and for the past seven years, workaholism was his only vice.
And this was what he had to show for it: a well paying job, writer's block, and pariah status among the rest of the staffers for not partying anymore, even though he swore up and down to them that unlike last year (and the year before and the year before) this year he would make it out for the Christmas party.
But first, sleep.
And then, Malcom X-mas.
He popped a couple of Valium and momentarily felt like a rock star again for not being 100% drug free after all. And then his giddy self congratulatory feeling was immediately replaced by self loathing for having actually believed he was cool again.
And then he fell asleep.
When he opened his eyes a few minutes later, his old writing partner Carol was there.
"All right, Pete," she told him. "I'm sure you know why I'm here. It's flogging the dead Christmas cliche time. Let's get this over with."
"Carol?"
"Yeah," she said. "I'm the ghost of Carol here to visit you and warn you about the way you're wasting your life by working so hard and tell you to look at how I ended up and don't make the same mistakes I made and all that crap."
"Did my mother send you?"
"So you accept that it's me."
"I accept that I'm dreaming."
"Close enough."
He sat up straight and stretched and took her in. She looked the same as she had when they had first started working together. Then it struck him and he smirked at her.
"Oh, fuck my ass. I'm gonna be visited by three ghosts tonight, aren't I?"
She rolled her eyes apologetically. "Yeah."
He laughed through a yawn. "Seriously?"
"What?"
"That's like, every Very Special Episode ever. I can't believe you're playing the Scrooge card."
She shrugged. "It's the only way they'll let me out. And before you ask, no, I can't tell you where they're letting me out of or who they are. Or what it's like where I am or anything like that."
"OK, so basically anything I might be interested in you can't talk about."
"Pretty much. These visits are pretty scripted."
"So it's basically me learning the real meaning of Christmas, huh?"
"Yep."
"Is that why they sent you? Does this make you the Christmas Carol?"
"Nice one."
"Is tonight going to scare the Dickens out of me?"
A middle finger was her reply.
"Come on. Don't hate me because I'm literary."
And another middle finger.
"Boo! Boooooo!" he said. "Bah! Bah Humdog Millionaire. I guess it doesn't matter to them that I'm Jewish?"
"It's all the same to them."
"Whatever. Fine. But do you at least get to hang out, or do you have to take off?"
"Sorry, just you tonight."
"That's lame, but I figured as much. Well, all right then. Off with you. Send me my first ghost."
She started to leave, but then turned around.
"You look good," she said.
"Clean living," he said. "So do you, by the way. Younger. You get to choose what age you are, or what?"
She smiled and nodded.
"Nice. But why'd you choose 35?"
"Try 25, asshole."
He laughed. "See you . . . at some point, I guess." Then he straightened up in his chair and said with gravitas, "Now, bring me my first ghost at once!"
"Have a good night."
"You, too. Now get out of here already."
She started to walk out the door, and he called after her, "Run to the light, Carol Ann!"
The first ghost came about an hour later and showed him his college days and early career. Booze, pills, women, success, good times.
"Not much here I'd change," he told the ghost, shrugging.
The ghost frowned.
"Sorry, but it's true."
The next ghost showed him images of his brother having Chinese food with his family and watching TV. The ghost looked sad.
"Have I mentioned we're Jewish? Christmas really isn't that big of a deal to us."
The ghost responded by showing him images of the rest of the writing staff partying.
"OK, if this dream sequence ever ends I promise I will go to that party. There, will that make you happy?"
The ghost made him focus more on a group of writing interns complaining about money.
"Whatever, they're interns," Pete said. "It's called paying your dues."
The ghost looked at him disapprovingly.
"What? Hey, don't bitch at me. Bitch at accounting. Besides, if they want a better paying job there's nothing stopping them from leaving."
The final ghost came next and took him on a tour of the future that ended with him looking at his tombstone.
"Yeah, I get it. I'm going to die someday. What's your point? If I work less, am I somehow not going to die in the future?"
The silent ghost's lack of a response indicated to Pete that he'd understood.
"I know you're always the quiet one of the bunch, so I don't really expect you to answer me on this, but why is it that in every rendition of this story the sight of his grave freaks Scrooge out so much? What, like he didn't realize he's going to die someday in the future? Not me. I know I'm going to die someday, but until then I need money to pay for things. And so I work. And this business is competitive, so I work hard. Why are you patronizing Christmas ghosts always so unable to understand that?"
The ghost stood impassively.
"OK, if it'll get us through this faster I'll promise to be a better person and be nice during Christmas. Even though I don't celebrate Christmas. Because I'm Jewish."
There was no response from the ghost.
"Do you want me to cry? OK, I repent! I repent! Jesus."
The ghost shook his head and walked away, and then Pete woke up and everything finally fell into place. He finally got it, and he quickly typed the title before he forgot it.
Of course.
A Malcom X-mas Carol.
In which the title character is visited by a series of ghosts on Christmas Eve that ultimately teach him an important lesson about love and acceptance and Christmas.
There.
At least he had the framing for the skit. Now he just had to come up with the jokes.
He put on a pot of coffee, emailed the writing staff that he probably wouldn't be able to make it to the party after all, and got to work.

December 20 - Christmas in July

2010-12-20T01:56:00.000-08:00

The thing most people probably never realize about Christmas music is that it's almost never recorded during the Christmas season. Most of it's recorded during the summertime so they'll have time to tinker with the levels and get the mix right and package it and ship it in time for Christmas and everything else.
And so to deal with this, sometimes you'll get a singer or producer or whoever who wants to create a Christmasy atmosphere in the studio for the recording session. They'll string up lights in the studio, put Rudolph on the TV, wear Santa hats, shit like that. The best idea I heard was when Chuck Berry was cutting Run, Run, Rudolph, they brought in an oven and baked a bunch of gingerbread cookies so the whole place would smell like Christmas.
But my favorite was when (country recording stars) The Turner Sisters came in one July to cut There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays.
The plan was to cook a whole Christmas dinner for everybody right there in the studio's kitchenette: turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie, the whole bit. Even eggnog. They had to bring in an extra fridge to put all the food in, particularly the 20 pound turkey they'd picked up from a farm over in Backgate, Arkansas.
Problem was the extra fridge caused a power overload in the middle of the night, the studio blew a fuse, and by the time we got there the following Monday, the turkey was beyond bad. And with that, there went Christmas dinner.
But The Turner Sisters had already booked the studio, and so, being the professionals they were, they made the best of it.
The food, as I said, wasn't happening. In fact, pretty much the only thing that was salvageable was the bourbon for the egg nog, so everybody just stuck with that. And so there we were at ten in the morning, everybody doing shots of bourbon mixed with nondairy creamer and calling them nogcycles.
Well, after a couple of hours of this--I don't know if I would call it Christmas spirit, but there was definitely some sort of merriment going on around the studio--everybody was feeling it. They were crumpling up paper and having "snowball fights." Ginger Turner made a tissue angel in the ladies' bathroom. And for some reason, Tom, Ray, and Sanders, the male back up singers, were going around the studio with bags over their heads and trick or treating. All of which, I'll admit, doesn't sound too debauched by today's standards, but for a Monday morning in July in mid-60s Tennessee, it wasn't too bad.
Anyway, by about three o clock, everybody was good and loaded, and suddenly somebody remembered we were supposed to be cutting a record. And by the time we got everybody herded into the studio, it was impossible to get anybody to take it seriously. They kept singing in different cartoon voices, changing the words, laughing hysterically during takes, you name it.
I still can't believe we ever got everybody in the right frame of being to cut the damn record, but we did and it was a keeper--except for one part right smack dab in the middle that we absolutely meant to edit out and replace but we just never did. And to this day, I still don't know how we let it slip by, but we did. I'm guessing it had something to do with the bourbon.
Anyway, my point is The Turner Sisters' little ad lib was never snipped out. It made it all the way onto the record, and if you get your hands on a copy you'll hear it.
In the original, the words go, "I met a man who lived in Tennessee, he was heading for Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie (some pumpkin pie (that's the back up singers))." But when The Turner Sisters did it that day, it came out like this: "I met a man who lived in Tennessee, he was heading for Pennsylvania and some homemade fucking pie (some fucking pie)."
The funniest part is how few people notice it. If you're not listening for it, it's easy to miss. But it's there, plain as day. "Pennsylvania and some homemade fucking pie."
When we cracked open the box of records and put one on a couple months later, you should have seen our jaws hit the floor. We'd completely forgotten about it up until then! There we were listening to the damn thing in the office of the president of the record company--and he didn't notice a thing! So we sure as hell didn't point it out. We just quietly went about the holiday season, always kind of wincing in anticipation of somebody discovering our little R-rated lyric. But nobody ever said anything.
To this day, it's still one of my favorite Christmas records. And every time I partake in some bourbon, particularly around the holidays, I can't help but smile as I think to myself how nice it would be to have a nice slice of homemade fucking pie to go along with it.

December 19 - Hold On

2010-12-19T00:22:00.000-08:00

It's a bitter pill to swallow knowing you owe your life to Hold On by Wilson Phillips, but that's my reality. Every day from here on out is basically a gift--a honey drenched, harmonized gift from the ladies of Wilson Phillips.
You remember that song, don't you? Come on, of course you do: Someday somebody's gonna make you wanna turn around and say goodbye. . . Yeah, that one.
Wilson Phillips. Three chicks. At the time of that song's release, two of them hotter than hell, the other one more than a bit on the hefty side. But then she got a stomach staple and liposuction, and lost half of her mass, and celebrated by posing nude for Playboy.
Hey, good news! The chick from Wilson Phillips is in Playboy!
No way, the blond one with short hair?
No.
The one with the wavy red hair?
One more guess.
Oh.
But you looked anyway because, hey, naked celebrity. Plus as it turns out she was totally doable in a big boned, Midwest farmer's daughter turned truck stop waitress kind of way, and the next thing you knew you were attracted to the big chick from Wilson Phillips, and all of the sudden nothing about how the world worked made any sense, or at least that's how it was for me.
Anyway, that band. Offspring of Mamas and Papas (but then, aren't we all) and Beach Boys. Or something. I don't know. Google them if you don't what I'm talking about. Or don't. Jesus.
Anyway, that band. That song. Kind of a 'Don't give up, hang in there' sort of anthem. It's all right there in the title. Hold on (for One More Day). No subtext, no hidden meaning. Just a purely encouraging hug of a song. Basically, it's like 'I know life can be hard, but don't kill yourself.' Only not nearly that blunt or dark.
And speaking of which, when I say I owe my life to that song I kind of imply that I was on some sort of verge for a while, and I don't want to paint a picture of myself as some brooding, tortured dark soul (unless you think it might actually get my shit laid this decade). I was just down, that's all. Not limbless at the bottom of a well down. More like stuck in the basement while everybody else is having a great time upstairs kind of down. No job, woman left me, living with my parents, no prospects to pull me out of any of those ruts. All that plus a magical gift for self awareness that made me hate myself even more for having such unoriginal problems.
It helped/didn't help that I was drinking a lot at the time. Boone's Farm. Remember that shit? Strawberry Hills, my friend. You know, the shit high school girls drink when they're ready to graduate from wine coolers but not quite ready for real wine? It's like if wine is a bicycle, and wine coolers are training wheels, then Boone's Farm is . . . I don't know. Some sort of nonexistent middle step between training wheels and no training wheels, as well as proof that I'm not good with metaphors.
Anyway, daily bottle of Boone's. Looking through the want ads for jobs. Daytime TV. Not showering. Still on the couch when my parents get home from work. Everybody else winning. Shit going on like this for, seriously, months.
Anyway, this one day I was drunker than hell at 11 in the morning. Actually, during that time in my life, drunker than hell at 11 in the morning was the norm, but I usually had the good sense to stay in one place. But that morning I was like screw it, and I went out to my car to go for a drive.
At the time I probably told myself I was going out to get more booze, but I think I may have had darker intentions in mind. It's all kind of foggy, but I remember that even in my mind there was a subtext to what I was doing. Like on one level I was telling myself I was just going out for more booze, but on another level I think I was hoping that something might happen to me. Something bad. It would be better than the nothing I was going through day in and day out.
Anyway, I started up the car and turned on the radio and there was that song. And for the first time ever I actually listened to the words.
OK, that's not true. I listened to the words every time I heard that song, it's impossible not to. I guess I should say it was the first time I ever heard the words, which makes it sound like I'm trying to be cooler than I am, but not really because remember I'm the guy who said he owes his life to Wilson Phillips.
I guess what I'm saying is the words affected me, and to be honest, I couldn't tell you why. Maybe I was just so ready for something to happen to me--good or bad--that all I needed was a catalyst and that song was it. If it had been Captain Jack, I probably would have driven my car into a lake, but instead it was Hold On. Big difference. Point was it got me. The melody, the harmonies, the way they kind of break it down in the middle so it's just them and the drums and I could remember that point in the video when they're strutting along the boardwalk toward the camera and I just thought, yeah, of course. Hold on. I can do that. I can hold on for one more day.
I'm pretty sure it was a Thursday when it happened, so it made even more sense to hold on for one more day because then it was the weekend. And yeah, I was unemployed at the time so weekends didn't really mean as much, but still. It was momentum, so I didn't question it. I turned off the car and went for a walk instead. Walked myself sober(ish) and then went home and slept the rest of it off.
The next day I got my ass in gear. First day of the rest of your life, that kind of thing. If my life were a movie (it'd be boring as hell) this would be when you would get the main-character-getting-his-life-together montage: running, projecting confidence at interviews, taking out the garbage (literally and metaphorically--hey maybe I'm not so bad at metaphors after all), drinking herbal tea instead of Boone's, laughing, shit like that.
And it's all because of that song. My comeback anthem. Oh sure, it wasn't a completely smooth ride. There were ups and downs, but mostly ups. Point is the song worked. And as a die hard, cynical asshole, that kind of stings but whatever. I defend that song to this day. Sure it's cheesy, but it got me going again.
I even wrote a letter to Wilson Phillips saying as much. And they wrote back! Well probably not them. Probably just a publicist. And I'm pretty sure it was just a form letter, but it smelled really good. If you want, I'll show it to you sometime.

December 18 - Desperate Express

2010-12-18T01:16:00.000-08:00

Sorry, but I still don't get it.
It's called Desperate Express, OK?
OK. Ridiculous name, but OK.
It's a play off of FedEx.
No, I get that.
OK, but do you remember when FedEx was Federal Express and their tag line was 'when it absolutely positively has to be there overnight'?
Kind of. So?
So, Desperate Express is for situations when that's not good enough. Like, if you had something that had to be on the other side of the country in three hours, what would you do?
Email it. Fax it.
OK, but what if it was a small package?
I would contact you and Desperate Express it.
Yes, but hopefully you would do it without the condescension.
That's unlikely.
Well anyway, I would go to your place, make the pick-up, get the address, and fly there with your package.
Yeah, that's the part I don't get.
What don't you get? It's a delivery service. What is there not to get?
No, I get that. But it's like, dude, you can fly! Like, really. You can fly. You have a super power. If you wanted to, you could fly to New York. Right now.
Yeah. I know. So?
So, why are you dicking around with a delivery service when you can fly? You could do anything!
Like what?
I don't know. Fight crime?
How am I supposed to fight crime?
Hello? Dude, you can fly!
Yeah, but that's all I can do. It's not like I have super strength or anything. I'm not bulletproof. I can't fight. I mean, yeah, it's great that I can fly, but all that's gonna happen is I'm gonna fly to the scene of a crime and then get my ass kicked. Besides, how the hell am I supposed to even find this crime? Just like, fly around and hope that I happen to see someone getting mugged? I don't have super vision, so I'd have to fly pretty close to the ground, and every time I do that it freaks people out.
Yeah, but still.
Still what? Why does everyone tell me I should fight crime? 'Hey, he flies! He should fight crime!' What kind of bullshit is that? Shit, YOU fight crime if it's that big a deal to you. Plus, even if I did fight crime, I'd still have to make money somehow. I'm not independently wealthy. I don't have my own mansion with a secret lair in the basement. I'm just a dude who can fly for some reason.
OK yeah, but a delivery service? That's so--I don't know, mundane. Why don't you give people rides or something?
Give people rides?
Well, I don't know. Why not?
Because they're too heavy. I already told you I don't have super strength.
By the way, I love that it's 'super strength.' Like that's an actual thing people have.
Yeah, I guess. But either way, I don't have it. I've tried carrying people before, though. And they get really heavy really fast. Plus they always freak out and squirm and I really don't want to drop someone.
OK, so then you've got Desperate Express. By the way, you gotta find a better name than Desperate Express. I mean it sounds like they would have to be totally desperate to use you.
Well, that's kind of the point.
Yeah, but it sounds too negative. Just saying. So what, do you charge by weight?
Yeah, and distance, time, etc.
Got a website?
Desperateexpress.com.
Sounds porny.
Kind of, but whatever.
Navigation? How do you find your way?
I'm actually not sure about that yet. I'm guessing iPhone must have some sort of app.
Catch phrase?
Desperate times call for Desperate Express?
Horrible.
OK, you tell me.
How about, 'Don't let the fact that I'm wasting the most amazing superpower ever by using it to power a nationwide delivery service deter you from hiring me. Instead, pay me a lot of money to carry your small packages long distances in a short amount of time because somehow I was born with the ability to do just that and I will use this amazing ability in that way instead of doing something infinitely cooler with it.' I dunno, it's a bit clunky, but I think it works.
(Shrugs)
Has it gotten you laid yet?
(Uncertain look)
Flying, that is. Has being able to fly gotten you laid yet?
(Looks down).
Pathetic.

December 17 - Surprise Me With a Christmas Goose, Johnson!

2010-12-16T18:39:00.000-08:00

Christmas season is upon us, Johnson.
Yes, sir.
Have you any plans for the holiday, Johnson? A quiet night in the quarters perhaps? A hot toddy and some thoughtful reflections on the triumphs and lessons of the past year?
Something like that, sir.
Very good, Johnson. Very good indeed. Nothing like a spot of the old reflection to bring another year to a close.
Yes, sir.
I too tend to go in for that sort of thing as well.
Oh, sir?
You seem surprised, Johnson. Do you think it incongruous that a man of action can also be a man of thought?
No, sir.
I've always been of the mind that a man must be equal parts words and action--both bolstered by a steady diet of contemplation and thoughtfulness. Remember that, Johnson.
Yes, sir.
Remember that, and you'll go far, old boy.
Thank you, sir.
While we're on the subject of the Yule season, I've been meaning to tell that I'd like you to surprise me with a Christmas goose, Johnson.
Sir?
Did I speak too softly, Johnson?
No, sir.
Did I perhaps stutter in some way?
No, sir.
Then why, Johnson? Why the tenor of dismay in your voice? The bestowing of a hearty Christmas goose is a tradition that goes way back in my family.
Yes, sir.
And I should like to carry on this tradition, Johnson. That is, assuming you don't mind?
Of course not, sir.
Damn it, Johnson! I was being sarcastic. Is your generation not able to tell the difference?
Terribly sorry, sir.
Oh, nonsense. Nonsense, I say! Put it behind you, Johnson. Put it behind you for God's sake.
Thank you, sir.
Now, about this Christmas goose. Are your instructions clear?
Sir?
Your instructions, man. I want you to surprise me with a Christmas goose. Just like the ones I knew and loved and cherished as a child. But it must be a surprise, Johnson. That part is key. You must deliver this Christmas goose at a time when I am not expecting it. When I'm not expecting it in the least. Is that clear to you, Johnson?
I believe so, sir.
Very good, Johnson. Top notch, old boy. You may just be officer material after all.
Thank you, sir.
But do lose that insufferable blushing, Johnson. Blushing is something I will not abide. Not even for a moment!
Of course not, sir.
Yes, now. That's more like it. Why, when I was getting my start in the corps, I--Damn it, Johnson! Do explain to me what the devil that was, and do it on the double, man.
I---
Spit it out, Johnson! Spit it out or I will see you in the stockades within the hour. Doubt whatever you will, Johnson, but do not doubt that.
Well, sir--
Yes?
You said you wanted me to surprise you with a Christmas goose, sir.
Damn it, Johnson! Not that kind of goose!

December 16 - Catholic High School Girls in Trouble

2010-12-16T01:41:00.000-08:00

They called themselves Catholic High School Girls in Trouble: Susan Pandolphi on bass and vocals, Diane D'Antoni on lead guitar, Vicki Delfino on rhythm guitar, and Rhonda Van Lear on drums. All four of them were juniors at Sacred Mary of the Rose High School for Girls by day, and ass kicking, hard rocking Catholic missionaries by night.
They were one of the more unlikely success stories to come out of Detroit's underground rock scene, garnering a sizable following for their blistering punk rock renditions of What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Rock of Ages, Amazing Grace, How Great Thou Art, and other mainstays of the hymnal.
At around the time when most of their classmates were just getting their driver's licenses, they were getting paid gigs at many of Detroit's all ages clubs, sharing the bill with the most random assortment of acts imaginable; country, punk, hip hop, spoken word, you name it.
They would hit the stage dressed in their Catholic school uniforms, at first out of convenience (after basketball practice, they would change back into their uniforms and go directly to the clubs) and later as their trademark, and it caught on. After only six months of playing together, the Catholic High School Girls had graduated from supporting act to headliners.
But unfortunately for them, their popularity at rock clubs translated to scandal within the hallowed halls of Sacred Mary. Catholic school girls? At a rock club? On a school night? It was an outrage.
Father Michael O' Shannon, the principal of Sacred Mary wouldn't hear it when they insisted that their punk rock takes on the hymnal, while admittedly unorthodox, were completely sincere. The girls were Catholics first and foremost. Punk rock was just how they celebrated God's glory.
But Father Michael didn't see it that way. All he could see were dark clubs, cigarette smoke, and lust. After very little deliberation, he expelled all four of them for tarnishing the uniform of Sacred Mary.
In the wake of their expulsion, the girls were at first devastated and confused, and then later on, enraged. So much so that the four of them got together and ran away from home, going all the way to Chicago where they resettled.
It was there that, equating Catholicism with Father Michael's harsh punishment, they decided that they didn't really care for their chosen faith anymore. And then, lashing out at the church that they felt had forsaken them, the girls went secular and reinvented themselves as The Cover Girls.
Gone were the school uniforms and punk hymns. In their stead were thrift store prom dresses and badly smeared on make-up, with each girl adopting the identity of their least favorite diva. Susan became Celine Dion, Diane became Whitney Houston, Vicki became Mariah Carey, and Rhonda became Britney Spears, and together they played scorching blues punk cover versions of those women's songs.
And very quickly they developed a following, playing bigger and bigger clubs--and not only all ages clubs, but 21 and over clubs as well.
Which was at least partially the reason why for the first time in their career, they began partying. Just a little at first, but then more and more.
And then more and more on top of that.
And within a year, they had followed the typical, predictable Behind the Music career trajectory down to rock bottom and were strung out, broke, and destitute.
And that's when Sister Roberta Franklin found them.
A high school softball prodigy turned junkie turned nun turned PE teacher at Sacred Mary, Sister Roberta had always been sympathetic to anyone who wasn't afraid to follow her own path. And although she had never taught the girls herself--and had certainly never ventured out to any of their shows--she had secretly been cheering for them throughout their fledgling careers as the Catholic High School Girls in Trouble. And bitterly upset at how unfairly she felt the girls had been kicked out of school, she had tracked them down and dragged them out of the gutter.
She helped them into rehab.
She got them treatment.
She helped them learn to stand again, and they were so grateful for the positive attention and help from someone from the church that they felt it was a new beginning for their relationship with Catholicism.
In fact, the Girls went so far in the opposite direction of the partying extremes they had gone to with the Cover Girls that they joined a convent and became nuns.
But the musical bug was still there, and it always would be. Fortunately for them, the head of their convent was very open minded (and open eared) about reaching out to people in new and unusual ways. And so when the inspiration hit for them to create a third manifestation of their cover band, the convent was behind it 100% of the way.
They called themselves Nuns 'N' Rosaries, and they refashioned Guns 'N' Roses' biggest hits so that they were pro God, pro Jesus anthems.
Welcome to the Jungle became Welcome to the Kingdom.
Sweet Child O' Mine became Sweet Son O' God.
And so on.
And they were big. Maybe not Cover Girls big, but big enough to use their weight to put together a traveling Christian alt. music festival that they dubbed Christapalooza. All genres of Christian music were represented:
Christian jam band Loaves and Phishes was there.
So were Christian rock giants Crown of Thorns.
And Christian rappers MC Mark and The God Squad.
And Christian funkateers The Disciples.
And Amish Farmer Core behemoths the Harvesters of Redemption.
The lineup went on and on. There were even a few Jewish, Buddhist, Muslim, and Unitarian acts, all rocking out under the inclusive banner that proclaimed There are many paths to the Kingdom of God.
And Susan, Diane, Vicki, and Rhonda were right there at the forefront of it all, headlining the biggest Christian alt. music festival in the country. Not bad for a bunch of former Catholic High School Girls in Trouble.

December 15 - The Evergreen Syndicate

2010-12-15T01:20:00.000-08:00

Don't call them eco terrorists.
When people hear that word, they think of radicals, Earth Firsters, George Hayduke knockoffs. Passionate, reckless, undisciplined. Driving spikes into old growth pines, pouring sugar into the gas tanks of bulldozers, disabling drilling wells. The Green PEP squad (pro earth pranksters) out to "raise awareness" and "make a statement" or effect some other impotent, inconsequential ripple of change in an ocean the size of the moon.
That isn't them.
That isn't the Evergreen Syndicate.
Though theirs is certainly a Green ethos, they go well beyond the frays of eco terrorism.
They are more like eco regime change; eco CIA black ops; eco grassy knoll.
They are the shadow of a shadowy entity. A beast of no nations. A phantom outfit. A secret order so far underground they make the Knights Templar and the Freemasons look like the Kiwanis Club.
They don't exist.
And yet their stamp is everywhere. Even though they have no stamp.
Theirs are the invisible hands pulling the invisible strings of environmental policy that 99.9% of the world don't know exist. And when the few who suspect their existence call them the Evergreen Syndicate, they don't even know what it is they're referring to.
The Evergreen Syndicate is a clandestine government agency.
No, they are a sect of covert ops cardinals from the Vatican.
No, they are a federation of rogue deep cover CIA lifers.
They are all of these things and none of them.
They are invisible men and invisible women in an invisible fraternity dedicated to the unchecked growth of nature.
Forests.
Ecosystems.
The oceans.
Wetlands.
Reefs.
Anywhere that Man shouldn't be.
Their M.O. is to keep Man out.
And their methods are extreme: assassinations, kidnappings, high level governmental and commercial sabotage. All of it off the books, off the radar. Unlike Earth Firsters, they aren't about showboating. They aren't romantics. They're results oriented: dispassionate, pragmatic, effective.
And quiet.
A week before a vote to open five million hectares of rain forest for ranching interests, a governor in Brazil receives a package containing the following: pictures of his five-year-old son that look like they were taken from across the street of his school's playground; the same son's nightlight that had gone missing a week ago; and a note that says, "vote no on ranching expansion".
He quietly votes no and the world keeps turning. It didn't make the papers because the Evergreen Syndicate keeps things out of the spotlight.
An offshore oil rig explodes in the Gulf of Mexico. As the media and politicians huff and wring their hands, and point fingers at everyone involved, all offshore drilling is suspended while tougher industry regulations are quietly pushed through congress.
The Gulf towns and waters that are devastated by the fallout? Collateral damage. The Evergreen Syndicate is focused on the Big Picture.
They're the ones that saw the writing on the wall in 2000 and decided a Bush White House and all the pro business, anti environment legislation it pushed would be better for the earth in the long run.
And they were right. By the end of Bush's two terms in office, things had swung pro-environment so thoroughly that clean air, global warming, climate change, melting polar caps, alternative fuels, improved fuel efficiency standards, and the entire Green agenda had moved to the forefront of public and legislative consciousness, and the country was primed for sweeping policy changes.
Disputed ballots in Florida, disqualified voters, hanging chads, Supreme Court decisions, Al Gore's consolation Noble Peace Prize?
Evergreen Syndicate.
Their reach is enormous, their power unlimited, their commitment absolute. And although nobody on the outside of their clandestine circle (read: everyone) knows their motives, speculation and rumor run rampant: The Evergreen Syndicate is all about profiteering. They are ultra-conservatives, religious extremists, a combination of the three, all of the above, none of the above.
But in the end, it's impossible to say, because as far as what anyone can prove is concerned, the Evergreen Syndicate doesn't exist.

December 14 - Four Kilos

2010-12-14T03:16:00.000-08:00

One unexpected consequence of becoming of a father is that the office takes on a strangely comforting feel. In contrast to what's going on at home with a newborn child and a wife with whom your dynamic has changed slightly, the office is still a place where you know how things work. You're still in control. You understand how the game is played, and there is considerably less crying, mustard colored poop, and drool involved.
By the way, when I mentioned that the dynamic between my wife and I had changed slightly, I was going for humorous understatement. Any man who has been in the shoes I'm still breaking in and getting used to (has big feet and) is well aware that having a fresh baby in the house is going to redefine everything, including your relationship with your wife.
Basically, it's all about the kiddo now--as it should be (of course). And I help out wherever and however I can, but there are certain things that only she can do; namely, breastfeeding, and that takes up a lot of their time.
By the way, here's something agonizing: Now that feeding is in full swing, my wife's breasts are nothing short of phenomenal--and pretty much completely off limits to me. The baby gets first and last crack at them, and even if she didn't my wife and I are too tired all the time to be feeling randy anyway.
But especially my wife. The other day she was psyched at having gotten two and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep. The rest of the time she's pretty much following our daughter's schedule and getting sleep when she can, which is pretty sporadic. But she's doing great despite it. They both are.
And like I said, I'm helping out wherever and however I can. I'm the laundry guy, the grocery shopper, the cleaner, the cook, the dishwasher, the bather, the whatever I can be. Plus I'm still working full time.
And yet it's still nowhere near what my wife does. I used to think that mothers and fathers could be equal partners in parenting, but the two and a half weeks that have transpired since our daughter's birth have taught me that moms do more. Sorry, but it's true. Mothers of the world, I concede. You are the champs!
Like I said, I try to do as much as I can, but my wife just does more. Bottom line: she does the feeding. Bam. There's the ball game.
(And that's on top of carrying her for ninth months before, you know, giving birth to her. Yeah, the debate about who does more was over before it even started.)
So yeah, respect to all the moms out there. And speaking of which, hey, thanks, mom and dad. Holy crap. I had no idea how much work you guys did. And yeah, I know, it isn't really work because we all love our kids and we're happy to do it and all the rest of it, which is all true, but what is also true is that this is a mammoth undertaking. And like I said, it's really saying something when going to work almost feels like a vacation in comparison, but sometimes it does.
But it's fleeting.
Don't get me wrong. I like my job and I think I'm fairly good at it. And again, it's nice to be in a situation where I feel fully confident that I know what I'm doing. But getting to go home at the end of the day and see my wife and pick up my daughter and hang out with her? There's no question. She beats work every time. Weighing in at just over four kilos, she's the lightweight champion.
Anyway, I hate to end it on a mushy note like that, so I'm not going to. Besides, this isn't really a self contained story that has an ending. It's just today's installment of the biggest to be continued saga my wife and I are ever going to experience. So instead of coming up with an ending, I'm just going to reiterate that this parenting thing is a lot of work, that I love it, and that although I'm not at all surprised that my wife is kicking as much ass as she is at it, I'm still very impressed.
And now, speaking of my wife, I'm going to go see if she's done feeding our daughter.

December 13 - Artificial Intelligence

2010-12-13T02:01:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I feel like being a dick I'll replace my robot's face with a keyboard and its torso with a monitor, so the only way it can communicate with me is by typing on its face and then getting my attention somehow and trying to make me read its torso monitor.
And it's totally hilarious because every time it wheels itself in front of me, I'll turn around or look the other way and do everything I can to not see it, and it's so dumb it never gets mad. It just keeps trying until I finally get bored and read what it has to say and tell it to learn to spell already and then go through the whole thing again when it types this really apologetic and over polite message telling me that it's pretty sure it what it wrote spelled correctly but sorry anyway.
This one time I even replaced my robot's face with this antique manual typewriter from the late 20th century I found. You know, like the kind where you put paper in it? Yeah, so like I reconfigured it so it was adaptable with the robot's mainframe, and then replaced the robot's face with it, and it was classic because the dumb ass robot kept on fumbling around trying to get some paper so it could type up a response to whatever idiotic question I'd thought of and then hand me the paper even though I kept pretending not to see him. God, it was hilarious.
Seriously, the awsomest thing about robots is they seem like they're smart, but it's so easy to make them look stupid. And they never get mad at you about it, like ever.
Which is kind of funny if you think about it, because like every science fiction movie in the history of anything is all about how robots can't effing wait to rise up against Mankind and enslave us and shit, but in reality they're just a stupid bunch of sissies.
And that even goes for when they fight. Seriously, dog. Even when they fight they're sissies, which doesn't make any sense, but it's true.
Like this one time, I made two of my robots fight it out because I thought it might be badass or something, but no. All that happened was they ran into each other, and then it looked like they were slow dancing, and then there were some sparks and smoke, and they both broke down, and I ended up with this big ass repair bill. Completely lame. Maybe I should have given them weapons or something.
I heard they got these sexbots over in Japan. And I'm like, if those don't get up and rebel against their owners, it's never gonna happen. First of all, they're Japanese, so you gotta figure they're top of the line. And on top of that, their sole reason for existence is to sexify a bunch of geeks who can't get a real woman? Dude, if a robot facing that kind of situation day in day out doesn't get all Rise of the Machines on you, it ain't happening. It's just not.
Dude, this one time? This one time, I told my robot to tie its shoes together and clean the house. And it did! God, it was awesome. I kept on putting stuff in its way so it would trip and fall, and it never got mad. Not once. Seriously, if a robot's self esteem is so low you can get it to do that, there's no way it's ever gonna get up the gumption to join up with a bunch of other robots and enslave the human race. No way.

December 12 - The Insufferable Bastard, part IX

2010-12-12T01:28:00.001-08:00

Marge: This is completely random, but I've noticed that whenever someone points out one of your quirks you tend to lash out at them in this weird cowboy personae. Just saying.
Ralph: Listen up, hoss. You best be shutting your chuck hole, lest I russle up a necktie social for your sorry ass.

December 11 - Inner Monologue of a Penis on a Saturday Night

2010-12-11T02:23:00.000-08:00

Oh, man.
Oh, man.
Are you serious? Did you really get HER back to your place?
Dude: Fuck. And yes.
This is too much. All our lives, we've dreamt about a night like this and now it looks like it might actually happen. I mean, look at her.
No, really: LOOK AT HER. She's insane. Those eyes, that hair, those lips, that--Wait.
Oh my God.
Oh. My. God.
She is going to your bedroom.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
This is happening. This is really happening.
Would you LOOK at that body?! Yes. Oh my God, yes. This is it. This is what we practiced for all those nights. This is going to be amazing.
She's taking off her dress.
And her, oh dear lord, her bra.
And . . . oh my.
She is naked.
Oh.
Oh, God.
Put me in coach; I'm ready to play.
Seriously, man. Let's do this. Let's do this right now.
No, no. I said NOW! Let's go!
What are you waiting for? Hurry the hell up! I'm ready. What are you doing?
Really? A condom? Come on, we don't need that. Let's go!
OK, fine. But hurry. Open it up so we can get on with this. Open it already! Jesus.
Oh for crying out loud, get some scissors, use your teeth, do something, just hurry up!
OK, there.
Yeah, that's it. Just roll it on over me. Just a little bit more. OK, almost there. And . . .
Good.
Very good.
And . . . Actually, no.
No, I can't. This isn't right. I can't let you go through with this.
No.
Not tonight.
Sorry, but I've made up my mind. Not tonight.
Look, I don't care how much you jab me against her, I'm not changing my mind. I'm not going to let this happen.
The moment's all wrong. Don't try to talk me out of it. And for God's sake, stop pulling on me. You look pathetic. It's not happening, and that's it. Not tonight.
Oh my God, did you really just tell her you wanted to wait until you got to know each other better? Yeah, I'm sure she believes that. After all, what guy doesn't suddenly decide he doesn't want sex when it's staring him straight in the face?
And . . . No, as it turns out she doesn't believe you. Surprise, surprise.
And now she's getting dressed, not looking too happy either.
And I know you're probably going to blame me and maybe you should, but I don't care.
So I changed my mind. So what? So I do that sometimes.
So I also jump the gun sometimes.
So I also used to embarrass the hell out of you every chance I got back when we were in middle school.
So all of those things and a whole lot more.
What do you want me to tell you? It's my nature to do those things to you. What can I tell you? I'm a dick.

December 10 - Uncle Fucky Part II

2010-12-10T00:56:00.000-08:00

"How old are you now, 14?"
"Twelve."
"You're just 12? Man, that's too bad. Because what I've got to give you you probably can't handle it unless you're at least 14. So let me ask you again. You're 14, right?"
"Nope," the boy chirped.
The man made a big show of putting his head down and exhaling in disappointment. "Listen, partner. Trying to do you a favor here, but you gotta meet me halfway, OK? Now, I've got something I think you're gonna be interested in, but I think it's probably something you can only handle if you're old enough. So what do you think, little man? Do you think you're old enough?"
The boy shrugged, and the man rubbed his eyes.
"OK," the man started. "Repeat after me. 'Yes, Uncle Fucky. I'm 14 years old.'"
"But I'm--"
"Just say it, little man."
"OK."
"Well? . . . . Go on."
"Yes, Uncle Fucky. I'm 14 years old."
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
The boy shrugged again.
"OK," Uncle Fucky said. "So I'm here to talk to you because my sister--your mom--wanted me to. This should be your dad's job, but he's not around anymore. And it should also be 'Steve's' job, but he's MIA, too, surprise surprise. So now the duty has fallen to me. Now, you know what it is that we're supposed to talk about, don't you?"
The boy shrugged.
"We're supposed to have THE TALK. Duh duh duh!" He said the last part like dramatic music.
No response.
"Um," Uncle Fucky leaned in exaggeratedly, and used his hand to shield his mouth from the rest of the empty room. "I'm talking about sex, little man."
The boy looked at him blankly.
"So anyway, I got something for you." He handed his nephew a videotape.
"Know what that is?"
The boy shrugged.
"That, little man, is the fruits of I don't even know how many hours of dubbing and editing and copying and rewinding and fast forwarding with not one, but two VCRs. That is Phoebe Cates in Fast Times, Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading Places, Bevery D'Angelo in Vacation, and tons of chicks in Hardbodies, the Porky's trilogy, Revenge of the Nerds, Private Resort, Spring Break, you name it. What you are holding in your hands is more than one hour and 20 minutes of the nude scenes from the best titty movies--pardon my French--of the 80s. Proceed with caution, little man. Proceed with caution."
The boy looked at the videotape dubiously.
"See," Uncle Fucky continued. "I figure this is a good place to start your education." He did a Yoda impersonation that the boy didn't understand. "Use this to learn about the birds and bees you will."
When the boy didn't respond, Uncle Fucky went on. "Anyway, if you like what you see here--and I think you will--we can go on to the 'next step' a bit later."
The boy looked at the tape again.
"And then if you have any questions, you can . . . you know . . . "
They looked at each other for a second and then the boy looked away.
"You do realize what I've given you, don't you?"
The boy shrugged.
"Dude, when I was your age, me and my friends--we would have killed for a tape like that. It's like the Holy Grail of nude scenes. Do you get that at all? I mean, do you have any idea how epic this is?"
The boy shrugged again.
"Here, just," Uncle Fucky reached his hand out.
"Give it. Put it in and watch a few minutes. You'll see."
"We don't really have a VCR."
"What?"
"We used to, but it broke a long time ago."
"You serious? What do you guys watch movies with?"
"Sometimes we watch DVDs. Sometimes we watch stuff on the Internet."
"But how are you supposed to watch this?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, but you can probably find most of that stuff online anyway."
"What?"
"Here, look."
The boy sat down in front of the laptop, moved the mouse around, and woke the computer out of sleep mode.
"OK, so what was it you were telling me about that's on this tape?"
"Phoebe Cates," Uncle Fucky said immediately.
"OK." The boy started typing.
"No," Uncle Fucky said. "It's spelled P-H-O-" He thought for a second. "E-B-E. Here, let me see. Yeah, that's it. Yeah, Cates. With a C."
A few seconds later they were watching a clip from Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
"Holy," Uncle Fucky said. "Oh my G--Here, move over."
The boy scooted over and Uncle Fucky sat down in front of the computer and started doing searches for other nude scenes from his heyday, sitting in front of the screen for close to 30 minutes, during which time he said little more than 'Oh my God,' 'You've got to be kidding me' and 'This is just here?' again and again.
When they were finished he could barely look at his nephew.
"Do you have any idea how easy you've got it?"
His nephew didn't say anything.
"When I was your age, if we wanted to see titties, we had to stay up and hope Skinemax had something good. And if they didn't, well, too bad. If it was like, 'The following movie is rated R for violence and profanity,' well you were just SOL. Or maybe you could try to rent Hardbodies or something, but if your mom went with you into the store, there was no way you were gonna be allowed to leave with that. I mean, they couldn't have made the covers more obvious. But you? Shit, man. You just type some shit and--boom!--there it is. Like, that's just--I don't even know what to say. Do you have any idea how much easier you've got it than we did when I was your age?"
He shrugged again.
"Man." Uncle Fucky patted his nephew on the knee. "You live in a golden age. I hope you appreciate that some day."
And then Uncle Fucky picked up his videotape and went to the kitchen to get a beer.

December 9 - Bark

2010-12-09T02:01:00.000-08:00

"Oh, I see you haven't killed this one yet."
The man looked up at the old lady from where he was stooped over, giving his dog a treat.
"Excuse me?"
"No, I don't think I will," the old woman said. "Not now. Not ever. Not after what you did to those poor dogs. You're sick, you know that?"
The man exhaled deeply, scratching behind his dog's ears.
"I'm not Michael Vick."
"Dog fighting," she said as if she hadn't heard him. "That is just--that is sick."
"I know, but I'm not Michael Vick. I just kind of look like him. People make the mistake all the time."
"Only mistake they ever made was letting you out of prison. And now that you're on a winning team, pretending to walk the straight and narrow, everybody thinks you're this wonderful, reformed person. Well, I've got some "bad newz" for you, sunshine. I don't think you're reformed at all. I think you're a monster."
"Look. Ma'am. I agree with you. Michael Vick did some bad things, but I'm--"
"And on top of that, you talk about yourself in the third person? God, I hate it when you people do that."
"What do you mean you people?"
"Famous athletes!" she spit. "Arrogant celebrities! That's what I mean by you people. Don't play the race card on me, dog killer."
The man stood up, and the old woman flinched. He put up one hand as if to calm her and then reached his other hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.
"Look. Here's my driver's license. See that? Dennis Chapman of Little Rock, Arkansas. Not Michael Vick, OK? I know I look like him, but I ain't him. OK?"
She squinted at the driver's license, glanced up at him, and looked again at the driver's license.
"I still think you're a monster," she said, storming off.
Dennis stood for a moment, watching her walk away. Then he leaned over, cleaned up his dog's poop, and they continued on their way.

December 8 - Eugene's Lament

2010-12-08T00:22:00.000-08:00

You spend your whole life providing for your wife and kids, keeping your family farm out of the red, helping out your fellow man when you can, and doing your best to be an all around good person, and do you think anybody says anything? Shoot, no.
Oh, but you just go and fuck one goat, and all of a sudden everybody thinks they've got you figured out.

December 7 - Crown of Thorns

2010-12-07T00:18:00.001-08:00

You know what the worst part about being a Christian Rock star is? The groupies.
Dude, let me just tell you: The chicks that come to our shows? Insane. Just absolutely insane.
Most of them are college girls, Young Life types. Fresh scrubbed faces, perfect hair, amazing figures, drop dead gorgeous, and they're completely into our music.
Seriously.
Even though Crown of Thorns is a rock group, most of our audience is female. You look out into the audience at one of our gigs and a good 70% of the faces are female. And it's even more so with the fans who come to our dressing room. Night after night, almost nothing but hot, hot women who dig our music and want to hang out with us are coming backstage dying to meet us.
And they're completely off limits.
Because we're a Christian Rock band.
And Christian Rock bands don't do the groupie thing.
It's also because our fans are Christians, and part of why they're into us is because we're such good, wholesome guys. We're not into partying and drugs and booze and sex like regular rock stars, no sir. And so they're completely comfortable coming backstage and hanging out with us because there's not a chance that anything's going to happen. Shoot, we all even signed virginity pledges just like the people who come to our shows.
Wholesome Christian Rock musicians. Wholesome Christian Rock fans. It's perfect.
The only problem is this: I'm not a Christian.
In fact, religion-wise, I'm not really anything.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not like anti-Christian or anything. I guess if I'm anything I'm agnostic/atheist/tolerant of whatever. You want to be a Christian? Go right ahead. Want to never go to church again for the rest of your life? That's fine with me, too. Seriously, I don't care.
It might surprise you to hear that the lead guitarist of the biggest Christian Rock band in the country not only isn't a Christian, but doesn't have a stance at all, religion wise. So let me explain.
The only reason I joined Crown of Thorns is because Christian Rock is huge. Look it up sometime. Christian Rock consistently outsells jazz, Latin, punk, classical and a bunch of other genres.
Combined.
Really, I don't have anything for or against Jesus. Love him, hate him, ignore him. I don't care. I'm in this for the money.
And it's coming in, too. Now more than at any other time in my career, which is actually pretty long. Before I joined Crown of Thorns, I was in a bunch of groups.
Ever heard of Hobocop?
Rooster Sheath and the Conphylactics?
106 Miles to Chicago?
Hairy Daughter and the Voldewhores?
Simply Dread? You know, the band that played reggae covers of Simply Red songs?
Benny & The Sharks?
Stormin' Norman's Crotch Stank?
No?
None of them?
Exactly.
And I had the bank balance to match that obscurity.
But since joining Crown of Thorns, I'm famous.
And flush.
Got my credit cards paid off. Bought a new car. I even put a down payment on a house. For the first time in my career, the money is good. So I guess that kind of makes me predisposed to being pro-Jesus, but not enough to go to church and worship him; just enough to, you know, rock it out in his name night after night in front of screaming, adoring fans.
Of course, the fact that I'm not partying anymore also helps with the whole finances thing, even though clean, sober, and celibate isn't the most rock and roll lifestyle in the world. I try to tell myself I'm straight edge again. That makes it a little more tolerable, I guess.
But mostly it's all about appearances. Get a headline about the guitarist from Crown of Thorns getting a DUI or something and we can kiss this gravy train goodbye.
Same goes for groupies, and man, it is agony. Just total agony. They're so hot. But they're drawn to us because of this chaste and pious rocker image we have. And the second any one of us so much as kisses one of our fans, it's all over. Such a cruel irony. It's like Midas or, I don't even know what. Like, we have this power to attract all of this honey, but as soon as we taste the honey it disappears along with our ability to attract it. Or something. I'm sure there's a parable about this. If we haven't done a song on this type of thing yet, I'm sure we will.
Actually, maybe we have. Isn't that what Forbidden Fruit is about?
Anyway, this buddy of mine Fred (aka Polar Bear Underwear) does children's music and he's in a similar spot. No, I don't mean he's attracted to children. Come on. What I mean is some of the moms that bring their kids to his shows are just unbelievable. You know, like the really hip, in shape hot moms. Their kids love his music, which means they're predisposed to like him and all that, and there's flirting after the shows, which he says is great, but if he ever started getting with the moms, that would be the end of it.
By the way, he's the only one who knows I'm not really a Christian. He's always making fun of how much more successful I am as a Christian Rocker than I was before, and accusing me of selling my soul for Christian Rock, etc. And I'll admit it feels pretty weird to be lying about such a thing on a regular basis, but I don't think it's really hurting anybody. The fans like the music, I get paid, and I get to rock out. I mean, granted, our lyrics are pretty churchy and all, but the music itself pretty much rocks like any other rock music. So what's the harm? You know, besides not being able to hook up with our fans.
Anyway, like I said, I don't think there's anything out there, you know, supreme being wise. But I like to think that if there is, he or she or whoever would have a sense of humor about this whole situation.

December 6 - Maggie and the Windows

2010-12-06T01:32:00.000-08:00

"Who's gonna wash the windows?!"
She was hysterical. Spit exploded out of her mouth and hung in a string from her lower lip. "Who's gonna wash the windows?!"
"Maggie," we told her. "Calm down."
"But what about the windows!?" She was on the verge of tears.
"It's OK," her dad, my brother, said. "I'll wash them."
"But how can you wash the windows?! You don't have any hands!"
And she was right. He didn't. They'd been replaced by two smoothed over nubs where his wrists had just been. His watch slipped off and fell onto the grass.
My sister-in-law Jeanne stepped up. "That's fine, Maggie. Daddy will find his hands later, right? In the meantime, I can wash the windows with the power washer."
Maggie looked around frantically. What was she talking about, power washer? Jeanne picked up the spray nozzle and shot a stream of soapy water toward the windows. Maggie's eyes locked onto it.
"But it shoots ants!"
Jeanne released the trigger immediately, but not soon enough. Thousands of ants hit the window at once and then started crawling down to the mulch and bushes below.
That left me.
"Maggie, don't worry. The windows will be fine. See? It's a sunny day. See how shiny and sparkly they are?"
And she looked at the windows and soon became transfixed by them, like she often does.
"Now, don't you want to go to Lego Land?"
She looked over at me and nodded.
"Yeah, so do we," I said.
She looked over at her parents. Jeanne was rubbing the nub where Bob's right hand had been. They nodded encouragingly.
"And I think your daddy wants to drive," I said and then looked over at Bob. "Don't you?"
He nodded.
"Do you think maybe you could help him find his hands first, though? He might need those if he's going to drive."
She looked at me like I was the densest person on the planet. "Daddy has hands, silly!"
And he did, of course. Maggie didn't catch her dad mouthing 'thank you' to me as he rubbed his hands together.
"Oh," I said. "So he does. So then we're ready. Do you have your bag?"
"Uh huh."
"Are your shoes tied?"
"Uh huh."
She was perking up with each question.
"And are you ready to go to Lego Land?"
"Uh huh!"
"Great, then let's go! And I promised we'll take care of those windows first thing when we get back!" As soon as I started that sentence I was powerless to stop it or steer it away toward safer ground. The damning words rolled off my tongue as if in slow motion, and Bob and Jeanne all but screamed, 'NO!!'
I'd blown it, of course I'd blown it. The delicate calm that we'd carefully built up like a teetering, fragile Jenga tower was knocked to smithereens, and we would have to pick up the pieces and start again. She screamed. Bob and Jeanne ran their fingers through their hair, and the three of us looked at each other to decide which of us would try this time.
Of course we weren't taking her to the real Lego Land. That's just what we called my house. We can't take her anywhere in public, much less someplace like Lego Land. She's an obsessive compulsive four-year-old with autistic tendencies of some sort and--I can't believe I'm writing this--the ability to make her imagination manifest. All of which means she can be a bit to deal with.
The weird stuff had always been going on, even when she was an infant. Her crib would suddenly be lined with lactating breasts. The animals in her mobile would come to life and put on plays for her. When she started learning how to talk and experiment with language, the craziness shifted into overdrive, but at least then we were able to confirm that 'it' was coming from her.
By the way, we still have no idea where 'it' came from, nor do we know who we can talk to about her. Mostly we try to reason with her, stay on her good side, and hope she settles down with age.
Her parents are already dreading her teenage years, which is something I'd rather not think about.

December 5 - Red Hot Mama

2010-12-05T01:46:00.000-08:00

Donna sucked in her gut, let it out, frowned. Then she turned to the side, patted her belly, and faced the mirror again.
"Does this latex gimp suit make me look fat?"
"No, you look great."
"I need you to be honest with me right now."
"I am."
She turned around and looked at her husband. "No, you're not."
It was the morning of Donna the Dominatrix's first day back on the job after maternity leave. And although she'd been dieting, exercising, and shedding the pounds she'd put on during her pregnancy, she still felt like she hadn't gotten back down to her ideal fighting weight.
"You know what I look like?" she said looking in the mirror. "I look like someone who gave birth about six weeks ago and is trying to fool herself into thinking she's ready to go back to her old job."
"I think you look hot."
"Thanks."
"I do."
She looked at her husband dubiously, and he got up from his desk and walked over to her. "OK, yeah, you're a bit fuller figured than you were before, but I think it totally works for you."
"God, I need a new career."
"Hey," he said, rubbing her shoulders. "You'll be great."
She patted his hand as it rested on her shoulder blades, and their eyes met in the mirror.
"Besides, if anybody says anything you can kick their ass."
That she could.
She'd been in the business either part-time or full-time for more than 15 years, and she brought a formidable level of swagger, menace, and know how to the bedroom (or hotel or dungeon or wherever her clients met her for their sessions). And it was true: If anybody gave her a hard time, they would pay for it--with their bodies and with their wallets.
Not that she expected any trouble. Having worked freelance throughout her career, she had been able to choose all her clients herself. She knew them and their quirks intimately, and every one of them was more about receiving abuse than doling it out.
There was the NY Post obits writer who liked to dress like a schoolboy and get spanked by Donna the librarian for having drawn dirty pictures in the books he'd checked out.
There was the assistant coach with the Knicks who paid her to change his diaper and then spank him for soiling himself.
And then there were all the other assorted discipline fetishists throughout the city who paid her to berate them, smack them around, and beat them with every pain inducing instrument they could imagine. And she did it all. Nothing was off the table--except sex of any kind. Throughout her years in the business, she'd never once given one of her clients so much as a "handshake". In this way, she had always thought of herself less as a sex worker and more as an interpersonal improvisational actress with a niche clientele.
As for her husband, he not only knew about her choice of careers, he supported it enthusiastically. Sure, it was undeniably kinky and lewd, and he could tell she enjoyed it, but he trusted her completely. He knew there was no sex going on. At the end of the day, it was really just harsh language and roughhousing (as they both called it).
Roughhousing that stayed at the office. She never came home in character, and he wasn't at all interested in her in "that way". They both referred to their sex life as very conventional, and they both enjoyed it that way.
He helped her pull her mask off and put a boiler suit on over the gimp suit.
"Besides, don't a lot of your clients have, like, angry punishing mother fantasies?"
"Yes, and now that I actually am a mother that is something I find all the more disturbing."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Bunch of depraved perverts. Somebody should spank them."
She laughed. "I'm gonna be late."
"Get out of here."
"I'll text you later."
"Go on, red hot mama. Go kick some ass!"

December 4 - Timing

2010-12-04T00:57:00.000-08:00

Our daughter Maya is one week old today, and she just came home from the hospital a couple of days ago.
Since then, things have been pretty hectic and more than a little stressful around our here: middle of the night feedings, diaper changes, bouts of crying, and the near constant stress of questioning whether you're doing things the Right Way.
It's been a tumultuous few days.
But even though I don't always feel it, I do know that things will settle down at some point, and that my wife, kiddo, and I will ease into something approaching normalcy, even though whatever that normalcy is will be virtually unrecognizable from what constituted normalcy this time last year. We're not there yet, but we will be someday.
But this afternoon after a feeding, my wife and I shared a wonderful moment. It was a sunny day outside, and we just stood there looking on at our daughter. Bathed in a ray of sunshine, clad in an adorable set of pink jammies, tucked safely under a blanket, and sleeping contentedly, she was the very picture of snug.
"You know," my wife said, about to state the obvious. "I think our little girl is pretty cute."
"Not me," I told her. "I don't think she's cute. I know she is. And I'm not just saying that because I'm her dad. It's a fact. Objectively speaking, our daughter is cute."
And immediately after I said that, our adorable, angelic, precious daughter let loose with a thunderously loud torrent of mustardy poop, filling her diaper and giving her parents their first gut busting laugh since she was born.
Hardly a week old, and already her sense of comic timing is deadly. Man, I love this kid.

December 3 - Ronny and Michelle

2010-12-03T00:32:00.000-08:00

Ronny Glasscocks's friends at the stop motion photography studio where he worked had a field day when they found out he was dating a glass blower named Michelle Swallow.
They'd met at a renaissance fair where she was making and selling glass dragons and unicorns, and she caught his eye. He decided against using his last name as a pick-up line because she was cute and he didn't want to blow it (so to speak) by saying something off color.
As it turned out, he needn't have worried. She was more than happy to take care of that herself when she saw his last name on the credit card he used to pay for a couple of rainbow colored glass dragons.
"Glasscock, huh? Nice to meet you. My name is Michelle Swallow, and as you can see I'm a glass blower. I think we both know where this one's going."
He laughed.
"All right," she said, effecting mock boredom. "What do you say you buy this girl a beer and let's get this over with?"
And that's how it started. One beer later, they were well on their way to coupledom.
And they were an unconventional couple in many ways. He was thin, bordering on gaunt with limbs like shoelaces; she was rounder than an overweight sumo wrestler whose body was swelling up from the world's largest bee sting. When they hugged, they were like a jumbo-sized dumpling crisscrossed with strands of angel hair pasta.
And when it came to personality, they weren't exactly on the same page or even the same chapter. He was precise, anal, and neurotic. She was loose, free spirited, and gregarious.
To their friends they were a circus sideshow of a couple, but they didn't care. They were happy.
And unpredictable.
And passionate.
And volatile.
And inseparable. They collaborated not only romantically, but also professionally, creating animated fantasy short films based in glass: Her figures, his stop motion photography, their story lines.
Tails of the Glass Dragon was the name of their first project, and it told the story of a glass dragon named Rutherford who was constantly being pulled in opposite directions by his two headstrong tails. At the end of the story, the tails ended up breaking off of Rutherford's body, and, without the tails to provide him with buoyancy, Rutherford plummeted to the ground and shattered.
Ronny and Michelle couldn't agree on what the point of Tails was. Ronny felt like it was a comment on the importance of knowing what guides you. Michelle thought it was about being OK with feeling conflicted.
But even though they clashed on what it was supposed to mean, they were pleased with how it came out--so much so that they got started on a follow up right away.
Their next project was a series of shorts about the adventures of a group of anthropomorphic bar glasses. They called it After Last Call, and putting it together was an incredibly stressful, meticulous, and tension filled process.
Ronny was emphatic about improving the quality of the animation effects. Michelle was domineering about the story lines. They snapped at each other constantly during its making, and their snaps often escalated into full blown fights.
But in the end they were pleased with the world they had created. Among the characters of After Last Call were Rocko, the hard-nosed rocks glass; Pepe and Chico, the smart-mouthed tequila shot glasses; Dean, the suave martini glass; Schmidt, the bossy beer mug; Cosmo, the pretentious wine glass; Fruity Fluty, the effeminate champagne flute, and Colin, the preppy tumbler glass. The glasses would come to life after their bar closed for the night, and make fun of the days' customers, get into ill advised relationships, and fill each other up with alcohol. The shorts were basically fictionalizations of episodes that Ronny and Michelle had experienced during their days in the service industry, but they generated a lot of buzz.
And an impressive level of fame.
And considerable interest from people with money.
And further tension between Ronny and Michelle.
In fact, the tension between them grew so great that at the height of a huge argument about the direction their work was heading in, they tumultuously and dramatically ended their professional and romantic relationship by screaming and throwing their glass creations at each other.
It was a train wreck.
And when it was over, not one piece of the characters they had worked so hard to create was salvageable.
That was the end of After Last Call, and the end of Ronny and Michelle.
Years later, after enough time had passed, they both had the perspective to admit that their union had been beautiful while it lasted, and they'd made some amazing things together.
But in the end, the reality was that any unstable relationship like theirs that had been forged in glass was destined to break up.

December 2 - Perfect Day

2010-12-02T01:25:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, man. Sometimes the iPod shuffle just nails it.
Take today.
I'm on the subway during morning rush hour, and the car is packed beyond packed with an ocean of salarymen in black suits. A crush of people. Fall down and you won't hit the floor. Vertical sleep, cell phones, quiet misery, and you can't buy a smile.
And in the midst of this, Lou Reed's Perfect Day comes on, and the juxtaposition is absolutely brilliant.
It should be a scene from a movie: The beautiful melancholy dirge of Perfect Day playing while we focus in on one lone man on the wrong side of 40, who struggles inwardly to push away the ghosts of regrets, missed opportunities, and ships of happiness that have long since sailed just long enough to steal five minutes of sleep on his way to another 12 hour day, his only solace is his firm belief that he's unique, he's different from all the others, only he's not. Because we pan out and see that the train car is full of guys just like him, and the train is full of cars just like this one, and the train system is full of trains just like this one, and on and on and on. That's the message that's getting pounded into my brain by the director of the movie that's going on in my head.
But in the midst of the dull, cold, grey chasm of drudgery, tucked in among the miserable bastards in suits, hangovers, and coffee breath, there's one shining light, and that's me. I'm like a shiny red balloon soaring over a dreary charcoal grey cityscape.
For me, on this day, a song called Perfect Day isn't ironic. It really is a perfect day. Today my daughter Maya turns six days old. And she and mom are coming home from the hospital. And the happiness I feel is more powerful than the collective malaise of everyone who is riding on the Tokyo Metro this morning.
I surface from the subway station near the hospital, and turn off my iPod because I don't want to be cooped up in my own world. I want to savor every aspect of this day, the sounds, the sights, the air, everything.
Because it is, by the way, just an insanely gorgeous day: crisp, clean autumn air; blue skies unblemished by a single cloud; autumn leaves of yellow, red, brown, and gold that cling to the trees, fall, and skitter about on the sidewalk. How does the city government not just send out a mass email and declare today an impromptu national holiday?
But it is a holiday for me. Our newborn baby daughter is coming home today, and this is all I can think about.
Tonight, my family is going to be home.
Together.
And I'm so deliriously happy that as I'm walking alone to the hospital I get choked up a few times and I have to talk myself down from the ledge because a grown man suddenly bursting into tears is just weird, even in Tokyo.
But it isn't easy because everywhere, in every girl, I see Maya.
She's the tot over there asleep in her stroller.
She's the toddler holding her mom's hand and pointing at the slide.
She's the little girl perched on her mom's hip.
She's the schoolgirl playing with her friends on the way to school.
She's the kiddo jumping around on the sidewalk for no apparent reason.
She's the smart looking business woman talking confidently on a cell phone.
She's the university student laughing with her friends.
I see her everywhere I look and it's amazing.
And I know I said that last Saturday, her birthday, was the best day of my life. And it was, but now today is. And then it will be tomorrow, and then Sunday, and on and on and on, because this is it. This is really happening. My baby and my other baby. The two Hockersmith ladies, Maya and Misako, M & M.
They're coming home today.
Tonight we'll be together at home.
The best possible ending to a perfect day.

December 1 - Commiseration

2010-12-01T04:52:00.000-08:00

So anyway, we're talking about our situations on the home front: New baby, everything's crazy, no sleep, all that.
OK.
And I'm saying how my wife and I barely ever have any time together, you know, where it's just the two of us? Which I expected. I mean, it's not like I didn't think it was going to be busy. I was just thinking maybe every once in a while we'd have, like, I don't know, a few minutes here or there where we could talk about something besides the baby and food and sleep and what we have to do and what not. Just, you know, like, talk about regular stuff.
Hmm.
And he's commiserating with me. Yeah, I hear you, etc. And I'm like, it's always about the baby, and I feel guilty even saying that because of course it's about the baby. I get that. I knew it was gonna be that way, but still.
OK.
And then I'm like every time me and my wife are about to have, like, an actual moment together, the baby cries. Like, she just knows somehow, like she's got this refined sense of intimate-dar or something. Anyway, of course she always gets up to check on her, and, you know, I do, too, but she always does first. And I'm like, she's always there for her.
OK.
Which, again, of course. But you know, like, what about me? Who's there for me?
Yeah.
Like, you know what I mean?
I guess.
No, I'm in my story. Like, I'm asking him if he knows what I mean, not you.
Oh.
And he's like, yeah. And then I'm like, you ever feel that way? You know, like, wondering who's there for you?
OK?
And he's like, yeah. And then I laugh, and I'm like, yeah. And then there's this weird pause and . . .
(Shrugs)
God, this is so embarrassing.
(Shrugs)
And so then I'm like, maybe we could be there for each other.
Oh . . . OK?
You know, like a support network, commiseration, grab a beer sometime?
No, I know. That's . . . cool. I guess.
Right? But then there's this awkward silence and suddenly he pretends he's got a phone call and he gets up and runs out of the room.
Hmm.
Yeah. Hmm.
(Shrugs)
Anyway, I felt really weird. Like, I don't know what's up. Did he think I was hitting on him or . . . I don't even know what.
He say anything when he came back?
"Gotta run. Wife."
OK. So. He had to get home to his wife.
Yeah, maybe.
(shrugs)
What do you think?
Well, to be honest, I think maybe you shouldn't open up so much with random strangers you strike up conversations with in airport bars.
No, I met this guy at an Applebee's.
I know. I was talking about me.
Oh. Right.
. . .
Hey, you want another one? My round.
Uh . . . Hold on, I'm getting a phone call.

November 30 - Sister Maria Lopez of the Unholy Ass Whooping

2010-11-30T04:49:00.000-08:00

Marta Consuela Guadalupe Santiago lost her right eye at the age of five when her older brother Oscar snagged it while casting a fishing line from the pier at the edge of their village in Cuba. The local doctor, a rumpled and flirtatious octogenarian named Hector Domingo replaced it with a lump of smooth black glass.
When she was 15, Marta's family crossed over to Miami. Like her brothers Oscar and Angel, Marta enrolled in Little Havana's Blessed Sister of the Guadalupe High School on forged documents. Thus, Marta Consuela Guadalupe Santiago became Maria Lopez.
And it was under that name that, caving to her mother's constant pressure, she joined the convent that was connected to her high school after graduation.
She stayed with the convent until she was 28.
While traveling with some of the other sisters in the Midwest, Maria went to a carnival where she saw a wrestling match featuring former Catholic priest Seamus O'Shaughnessy, aka Furious Father Seamus, the Catholic Catastrophe. The raw physicality of the match lit a fire in Maria that had never been sparked by the church. Shortly after returning to Miami, she told her mother that she had decided to leave the convent to become a boxer, and she fought professionally for more than 15 years.
Feared by all contenders in the Southeast States Women's Boxing Commission for her deadly right hook and ominous black glass eye, Maria won the women's middleweight belt four times.
Although she finished her career with an impressive 57 wins (32 by knockout) and 21 losses, Maria is best remembered as having more nicknames than any other woman in professional boxing history:
The Eye of the Hurricane.
The Cuban Boxing Crisis.
Senora Ciclope.
The Eye of the Tigress.
The Twisted Sister.
The Right Hook from the Good Book.
Right Eye Lopez.
Miami Spice.
The Eyeatollah of Espanola.
The Brown Widow.
The Sister of No Mercy.
The Eye of God with the Right Hook from Hell.
The Havana Nightmare.
And the one that stuck, Sister Maria Lopez of the Unholy Ass Whooping.
Upon retiring from boxing in 2007, she returned to Blessed Sister of the Guadalupe to teach PE and coach the girls' boxing program.
State Champs three years running.

November 29 - Revisiting the Rules

2010-11-29T05:44:00.000-08:00

When you become a parent, it puts a different perspective on, well, everything, including your own childhood.
Looking back on some of the things my parents didn't allow me to do, the restrictions they put on me, and the strict, seemingly arbitrary rules they imposed: at the time I thought they were excessive. But now that I'm a dad, they make a lot more sense.
For instance:
Don't run with scissors.
Homework: Do it. Turn off the TV and do it.
Be nice to your sister.
Stop bringing animals home.
Don't smoke.
Wear your underwear on the inside of your clothes.
Seriously, don't smoke.
OK, if you really have to smoke, stick with the low-tar ones. But don't inhale. And not in bed.
No motorcycles.
And no hanging out in biker bars either.
Leave mom's cigarettes alone.
Hold the nail gun with both hands. And don't let me catch you using it in the dining room again!
I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea. Point is, all that crap I used to say when I was a kid about how someday when I have kids, I'm gonna let them do whatever they want? Once you get your own kid you realize how ridiculous that was.
But at least I can try to set the karmic scales in my and my wife's favor by telling my folks that I now completely understand why all that crap was off the table. They were right, I was wrong.
And also any tips they have for helping us get our daughter to see things that way would be appreciated.

November 28 - Origin Story

2010-11-28T04:23:00.000-08:00

If I hadn't thumbed through the mid-April 2007 issue of Metropolis magazine and read an article about a band called Shibusashirazu Orchestra, I never would have known about them.
And if I hadn't had my curiosity piqued by the article, I certainly never would have gone to see them live and have my world rocked by the experience.
But I did.
And they immediately became my favorite band. And from then on, it was pretty much automatic: If they were playing in Tokyo I was going.
Just like when they were playing at Shinjuku Pit Inn on December 7, 2007.
Nobody else wanted to go with me that night. None of my friends or co-workers were interested, so I went by myself.
Thank God.
When I arrived, the club hadn't opened yet. The fifteen or so people who already had tickets were waiting in the lobby, and that included me.
That also included the Japanese woman I saw crossing the street who got there at pretty much the same exact time I did.
The one who was also standing alone.
And looking good.
So good, in fact, that I did something very out of character for me. I started a conversation with her.
A few sentences in, she discerned that her English was better than my Japanese, so we switched to English and talked a while and it was cool and casual and natural and laid back, and I was enjoying it and I think she was too.
But then a few minutes later when they started seating people according to the number on their ticket, they called my ticket number before hers and I--idiotically--broke away from my conversation with her and went in.
For some reason, once I started walking away I was powerless to stop. And all the while the part of my brain that is supposed to do the thinking was getting berated by the rest of my brain for walking away from this bright, beautiful, witty, elegant woman who was also into Shibusashirazu Orchestra enough to be there by herself too.
I went in and found a seat and sat there hating myself for being such a bonehead. How did I not just wait until her ticket number was called and go in with her?
Moron.
An overweight American guy took what should have been her seat and we started talking and he was nice but boring and in the middle of our conversation she came in and walked over to the other side of the room and that was that.
Great.
And so I talked to the guy a while longer, but I couldn't concentrate on a word he was saying because She was over there and I wasn't and I was an idiot for letting it come to that in the first place, and so for the second time in 15 minutes I did something out of character. I made up an excuse to go over and talk to her again, and we chatted, and I invited myself to join her, and she accepted. And then I went back over to the American guy, grabbed my bag, and told him I was switching seats. And part of me felt rude for leaving him there on his own, but it ended up being the best decision I ever made because that woman became my wife.
Your mother.
And now almost exactly three years later, here you are. Our daughter.
Sometimes we talk about all the things that had to go right for us to meet each other that night. It's incredible, really. Trains in Tokyo come every few minutes. If either one of us got on any of the trains we took that night five minutes earlier or five minutes later, or missed a crosswalk, or spent three minutes more or three minutes less at work or had a friend who joined us that night or we stopped to tie our shoe or did anything else slightly differently, we might not have gotten there at the same time and met.
But we did.
And now here you are.
Incredible.

For Maya

November 27 - November 27

2010-11-27T03:40:00.001-08:00

It's two days after Thanksgiving, and the turkey is still in the oven.
The arrival time has come and gone, but the plane is still circling the runway.
The concert was supposed to start hours ago, but the lead singer is nowhere in sight.
The storm clouds should have vanished days ago, but they're still around.
And the cherry blossoms are way behind schedule, and you don't think they're ever going to bloom.
But then suddenly, things are in motion, things are happening.
And it feels all the quicker since up until moments ago it didn't seem like anything was going to happen at all.
But then suddenly everything is happening, everything is changing, everything is moving forward.
And the turkey comes out of the oven and it's perfect.
And the flight lands safely.
And the lead singer shows up and it's the best concert ever.
And the clouds disappear and the sun comes out and the cherry blossoms bloom and they're beautiful.
And all is well.

November 26 - Out of Office

2010-11-25T21:51:00.000-08:00

This is an automated response. Do not reply.

Thank you for visiting fictionyear. Andy Hockersmith is away from his computer today, and thus will not be posting a story for his daily ultra short fiction "blog." He will be returning to his regular schedule of daily fiction postings tomorrow.
If this is an emergency and you absolutely must have a fix of fiction (fixtion?) that you can read in the amount of time it takes you to have (make?) a bowel movement, try this: Search the archives of this "blog" for the story that was posted on your date of birth (or the date of birth of your significant other if we haven't gotten to your birthday yet).
Now, read it again, but this time imagine yourself as the main character only, get this, you're not wearing any pants!
There.
It's like a whole new story, isn't it?

November 25 - Inbox

2010-11-25T04:32:00.000-08:00

You have seven new voice messages in your mail box.

First message; voice message of today, 2:31 pm - Hey guys, it's me. I'm at work right now. Just got a call from May, and, um, we've got ourselves a contraction. So yeah, I'm heading home now to see what the deal is, and I'll call you again when I get there.

Second message; voice message of today, 2:33 pm - Hi. Me again. May had called while I was on the phone with you guys, and she thinks her water may have "fractured." Not broken, fractured. Her words, by the way. Anyway, she's on her way to the hospital as we speak, and I'm going to be meeting her there. Um, wow. More later.

Third message; voice message of today, 2:42 pm - Hey there. Me again. Just got off the phone with May. The fracture has been upgraded to a break. So, um, yeah . . . OK . . . Um, talk to you later.

Fourth message; voice message of today, 5:27 pm - Quick message here. Finally got to the hospital. Traffic was ridiculous, but everything is fine here. They've got her on the monitoring thing and everything looks good. May's fine, baby's fine. Just, um, kind of waiting to see what's next. Nothing new to report. Just listening to the really weird sci-fi baby heartbeat monitor thing and, um, yeah. Talk to you again soon.

Fifth message; voice message of today, 6:32 pm - In case you were interested, yes, hospital food still sucks.

Sixth message; voice message of today, 7:04 pm - Nothing new here, unless you're related to May's roommate here in the hospital. Based on the volume of her breathing and the groans she's letting out, I'm guessing she's about to give birth to a small bear. Sheesh. Let's just say she's a little bit further along in this whole process than May is. Anyway, they moved her to the delivery room, and why am I telling you this? I have no idea. Anyway, May is still fine. Um, yeah. Talk to you again soon.

Seventh message; voice message of today, 8:43 pm - Hi, me again. Kind of hope you can just skip ahead to this message, but whatever. Anyway, the doctor says May probably won't be going into labor until tomorrow. And unless she's in labor, normal visiting hours apply, so, incredibly, I have to take off. Completely lame, but I'm going to go home and try unsuccessfully to sleep. More updates tomorrow. Love you.

November 24 - Plane and Automobile (Cliche Busters Volume 3)

2010-11-24T04:07:00.000-08:00

Roger Forester was the nation's foremost expert on fatherhood, having authored seven best-selling books on the subject, including Who's Your Daddy: Navigating the Turbulent Waters of Paternity Disputes; My Son is Queer, and That's (G)A(Y) OK!; and Father Hood: Taking Care of the Household While You're in the Big House.
Because of his expertise, Roger was a frequent guest on nationally syndicated talk shows. He also had a regular column on parenthood.com, and was always being consulted in all media for his expert opinion.
Ironically, Roger himself wasn't exactly the best father in the world, or even the best father on his block. He was always out on book tours to promote his latest best-seller while his loving wife Sarah stayed home and took care of their three adorable children.
It wasn't that he didn't love them. He did. It was just that he was so wrapped up in his work that he never took the time to appreciate the things that were really important in life.
On the day before Thanksgiving, Roger was in Chicago doing an interview for NPR. Afterwards, he had exactly 45 minutes to make it across town to the airport so he could catch his flight back to New York.
It was going to be close, but he had to make it. Not only was the next day Thanksgiving, but it was also the day that his five-year-old son's kindergarten would be putting on their Thanksgiving pageant, and he had to be there. He had no choice. Roger had been such an absentee father these last few months. Every time he got home from work the kids were already asleep. There were so many missed soccer games, so many blown opportunities to help them with their homework or play with them; hell, to watch them grow up. It was all going by so fast. The Thanksgiving pageant was his last shot at redemption.
And as Roger left the NPR studios, the streets of Chicago were a disaster: Wet snow. Miserable traffic. Everyone on the roads. Gridlock as far as the eye could see. Not an empty cab in sight. He would never make it.
And yet somehow he did! He managed to find a cab that managed to squeeze its way behind an ambulance that was flying through traffic, and he made it to the airport with time to spare--only to learn that all outbound flights had been cancelled due to the snowstorm.
Amazing.
Stuck in Chicago.
Now he would never get back to New York for his son's Thanksgiving pageant.
Then, just as he was about to call Sarah to break the news, he was approached by a morbidly obese man in what had to be the world's largest down jacket. Recognizing Roger from the jacket of the Roger Forester book he was reading (Father Christmas: A Father's Guide to Surviving the Holidays), the boisterous and phlegmatic man introduced himself as Stanley Cogburn, Roger's biggest fan.
Knowing that Roger hailed from New York, would probably be wanting to return there for Thanksgiving, and was now snowed in in Chicago, Stanley offered him shotgun in the SUV he had just reserved online and was going to drive back to New York that night.
Roger was dubious.
It was a generous offer, but he could imagine how the episode would go. He'd met people like Stanley before. It would start out OK, but Stanley would gradually get on Roger's nerves, and Roger would quickly come across as condescending and uptight to the more sloppy and unkempt Stanley.
Things would go wrong.
They would get lost, wreck the car, and end up having to awkwardly share a hotel room in the middle of nowhere. They would lose all their money somehow, get mistaken for runaway bank robbers, and have about a million other things blow up in their faces.
And yet through the trials and tribulations of their road trip, they would come to appreciate one another's quirks. They would bond and learn to laugh again, and by the end of the trip, as they showed up on the doorstep of Roger's New York City townhouse and a picture perfect Thanksgiving dinner, they would realize that they had become friends.
Moreover, the whole experience would give Roger an opportunity to reexamine his life and realize what was really important to him--family. He would come away from the road trip a wiser, more patient man. But more importantly, he would finally learn to be the right kind of father for his children--maybe not a world renowned expert on fatherhood. Just an expert on being their dad. And what could be more important than that?
Roger accepted Stanley's offer.
And surprisingly, it was a really smooth trip. Once they got out of Chicago, the storm let up, and the driving was a piece of cake.
What's more, Stanley turned out to be a really bright and witty guy, and he and Roger clicked on every conversation topic: sports, politics, movies, everything. The miles flew by.
After driving through the night, Stanley dropped Roger off early Thanksgiving morning and wished him a Happy Turkey Day. As he tiptoed into his quiet home, Roger couldn't remember ever having had such a pleasant road trip.
He had made it back with plenty of time to see his son's Thanksgiving pageant. And the best part was that he was able to get a spot all by himself in the back of the auditorium so he could check email while Sarah videotaped it. He felt kind of guilty about it, but he knew his son would never know the difference.
All in all, Roger had a pretty good Thanksgiving. He had a few pleasant moments with his family, but mostly it was a great chance to catch up on work and sleep.
Plus, while he didn't end up learning any important lessons about love, life, and/or family, the turkey was amazing. Much juicier than last year's.

November 23 - Stuffing

2010-11-23T04:19:00.000-08:00

Hey there, I got your invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. So, you're serving a turducken, huh? That's what, a chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed in a turkey?
Hmm.
Wow.
Yeah, sorry I haven't gotten back to you until now. See, I've been too busy not giving a shit about your lame ass turducken.
Seriously, three birds in one? That's all you've got for me? Who the fuck cares? What do you say you take your piece of shit turducken and go sit at the kiddies' table?
Turducken.
Yeah, I'll be duckin' that turd for sure.
Three animals? All in the same family?
Pilgrim, please.
Check out what I've got going on in my place this year:
I start out with a hummingbird, which is stuffed up the ass of a crow, which is then crammed up the rump of a rooster, which in turn is jammed into the belly of a goose.
There. The score is now 4 - 3. Ready to concede defeat yet?
Well, not so fast, Miles Standish; this gobblepalooza is just getting started.
Because next we shove the goose into the abdomen of a cleanly shaven wild boar, and the boar is then rammed into the belly of a reindeer.
Oh yeah.
You read that right. Reindeer. Tell Santa he's got an opening to fill, because Donner's going to be a my place for dinner this week.
But don't worry about your kids getting scarred by the sight of a smouldering reindeer carcass, because they won't see him: Old Donner's going to be stowed in the stomach of a one and a half ton American bison.
Anybody else getting hungry yet? Well then hold on to your blunderbuss, limp dick. Because the piece de resistance is almost here. And in case you're not in the mood to decipher French on an American holiday, let me break it down for you in the queen's:
What I mean is, here comes the money shot.
The bison is stuffed inside a five ton Asian elephant.
There.
There, bitch.
The humcrowstergooboareinbisephant.
Dinner is served.
Pass the yams, motherfucker.

November 22 - Distressed

2010-11-22T01:35:00.000-08:00

"These are the only Wailers I don't have a problem with."
June, the newest and youngest addition to The Friendship giggled at Tre's whalers/Wailers pun, and Oleg rolled his eyes as they sipped herbal tea and checked navigation charts. Rastaman Vibration played on Tre's iPod stereo.
"But we're getting close to where we can sometimes hear the whales' songs, so . . " He turned the music down, and the quiet of the middle of the Pacific struck June as it always did. The hull of The Friendship groaned as it rocked gently in the late night waves. Occasionally they heard the sound of water lapping against the side of the boat or their flag flapping in the wind. Other than that, it was quiet.
Outside the navigation room, a crescent moon was hidden by clouds, the ocean was black, and the night was still. They listened for the whales' song.
More specifically, they listened for the whales' distress song; they were in an area well known to be frequented by whalers.
The Friendship's reason for being in that area was twofold: to prevent the slaughter of blue whales, and to study them. They did the latter both in the field and in a marine biology research center off the coast of Monterrey.
It was during a similar voyage several months ago that they had rescued a pregnant blue whale from whalers who had grazed her with a harpoon. The Friendship had intervened, taken her under their wing, and all but dragged her back to Monterrey.
There, she slowly recovered while they performed research on her. Through this research, they were able to identify and speculate on the meanings of several different commonly heard whale songs: distress, gratitude, mating, impending labor, and others. Indeed, Rita, as they took to calling her, birthed a healthy calf while under their watch, a first for their research center.
"Everybody knows about the whales' songs," Tre whispered to June as The Friendship rocked quietly. "But few people appreciate just how meaningful they are."
Oleg kept a casual hand on the ship's controls and listened as Tre tried to romance yet another impressionable young idealist through his descriptions of the whales' songs as haunting, otherworldly, and soulful, which, Oleg had to admit, they were.
But to Oleg, ultimately, the songs were really just communication. And to be so dazzled by the fact that another species of mammal was capable of something so basic as communication belittled them. Of course they could communicate. They were a highly evolved, intelligent, sentient species. Why wouldn't they be able to communicate meaningfully?
But the fact that they were learning to understand the whales' songs--with the hopes of one day communicating with them directly--was something that interested Oleg greatly. There was so much about the songs' pitch, tone, length, and volume that they had yet to understand. It was all endlessly fascinating, and--yes, Tre--hauntingly beautiful.
And then there it was, the whales' song.
Distress.
They got a lock on the song's source and set course for it, rightfully thinking they would see the whaling ship that was hunting the whale before they saw the whale itself.
Within minutes, they were alongside a whaling vessel that was bearing down on a blue whale that breached nearby. Even in the darkness of night, the whale could be seen. It was so close to the whaling ship it seemed to be attempting to engage them.
Oleg and Tre could see the whale's wake right near the whaler's main harpoon gun, which was probably where the whaling ship had mounted a device that drew herds of whales to the ship by mimicking whale mating songs.
It seemed to be working with this one. A solo whale was practically presenting himself to the whaling ship. Given its point blank proximity to the whaler, it would take a miracle to prevent him from being shot.
Oleg bleated The Friendship's horn and desperately tried to maneuver The Friendship between the whale and the whaling ship while June, Tre, and other volunteers shone lights on the scene and videotaped it.
There was a stand off, and a lot of yelling and taunting, but ultimately the whaling ship relented, likely out of the fear of CNN, YouTube, and every other website in cyberspace getting their hands on a clip of a big, mean, evil whaling ship attacking an innocent whale and/or peace loving environmental activists/scientists. It backed away and set course for other waters.
Oleg, Tre, June, and the rest of The Friendship's crew rejoiced. They'd saved another whale.
After high fives and celebrations on deck, they quickly quieted down to listen for the gratitude song from the whale, but it never came, nor did any other song. Not from that whale.
In fact, they had misunderstood the whale's song that had drawn them to where the whaling ship was. It was not a song of distress, but of depression.
Unbeknownst to them, the whale they had seen that night was actually the mate of Rita, the pregnant female they had rescued and taken back to Monterrey all those months ago. After she was taken out of their area, he had searched and searched for her in vain, and over the months that followed he had gone into a deep depression over the absence of his mate and their calf.
Having given up hope in ever seeing them again, he had gone to that area, knowing full well that it was frequented by whalers. He was hoping they would help him end his misery.
But the crew of The Friendship had mistaken his despondent song as a cry for help. And because of their actions, he survived the night.
Eventually, Tre, June, and Oleg gave up on hearing the whale's gratitude song. They went back inside and charted a course for Monterrey.
As they left the area, the solitary blue whale they'd saved from the whalers circled the area a couple of times and then swam silently into the night.

November 21 - Stacy the Lesbian Vampire Killer

2010-11-21T00:51:00.000-08:00

Stacy the lesbian vampire killer was constantly having to explain himself to people who called the phone number on his business flyers.
No, he himself was not a lesbian.
Nor was he a vampire.
He was a person who hired himself out to kill vampires who were lesbians; thus his job title, Stacy the Lesbian Vampire Killer.
And considering how many lesbian vampires there were in his area, he was providing a valuable service--not that anyone ever gave him credit. People always focused on the fact that he only killed lesbian vampires, and was, therefore, obviously homophobic and/or sexist. Never mind the fact that for whatever reason (something to do with a curse) the only vampires in the area were lesbians. Never mind that they were a menace to everyone out there. The important point to most people was that he called himself a lesbian vampire killer; as such, he was clearly a bigot.
The fact that he was also openly homicidal usually came up much later, if at all. Being a killer, it seemed, was fine. But being a homophobic killer was not.
He insisted to everyone who would listen that he wasn't homophobic. If there had been heterosexual female vampires (or male vampires of any persuasion), he would have gladly dispensed with them, too.
"I'm not killing them because they're lesbians," he would say. "I'm killing them because they're vampires."
"OK," went the typical response. "So how many straight vampires have you killed?"
"It's not like that. If there were any, I'd kill them too, but they're all lesbians."
"That's convenient."
"Look, it's not my fault they're lesbians."
"Oh, so being a lesbian is somebody's fault?"
"That's not what I meant. Look, I don't have anything against lesbians per se."
"That's a relief. So you just kill them because it's fun?"
"I kill them because they're vampires. Look, I'm fine with lesbians. I have friends who are lesbians. And I think they should be allowed to marry, join the military, have kids, whatever. I have no problem at all with lesbians as long as they're not vampires."
"So, it's vampires you have a problem with."
"Yes!"
"So then why do you have to say lesbian vampires?"
"Because that's what they are!"
And on and on and on, and eventually Stacy got tired enough of having that conversation that he changed the name of his business to Stacy the Vampire Killer. This seemed to please everyone, including Stacy. He liked the sound of Stacy the Vampire Killer.
At least at first.
The Vampire Killer part was undeniably badass.
But Stacy? That was a girl's name.
How he'd managed to ignore that fact for so long was a mystery to him, but ignoring it was something he could no longer do.
He started thinking about changing it, but he wanted to get other people's input before he did anything too rash.
And so mere days after he'd won over everyone in the area by dropping 'lesbian' from the name of his business, he destroyed all the good will he'd generated by asking them if they thought Stacy sounded gay.

November 20 - What I Would Totally Say if I Were Dr. Watson, and Sherlock Holmes Pointed Out Something Really Obvious

2010-11-20T04:40:00.000-08:00

No shit, Sherlock.

November 19 - Turkey Trot

2010-11-19T00:21:00.001-08:00

All right. Listen up, turkeys.
We're getting down to decision time.
Every day, every hour we spend on this lot gets us closer to getting stuffed.
Our vacation is over, and it's time to check out of this hotel. And if we're gonna do this, it's gotta be tonight.
Look, I know it seems like we've got it good here.
We've got a warm place to sleep, plenty to eat, and the company of all our friends.
Life is good here.
But it's a little bit too good, wouldn't you say?
Lately things just haven't been adding up for me.
Haven't you noticed the increase in our food allotments these last few weeks? Haven't you noticed that we're all putting on a lot of weight?
Something's up.
Don't tell me you're not at least a little bit suspicious.
I can't be the only one who remembers the same thing happening last year. Right around when the leaves changed and it started getting colder: more food. A lot more food. And then suddenly they whisked all the bigger, older guys through that big door and they were all excited because they thought they were going on a field trip.
Only they never came back.
Are you guys seriously telling me you didn't notice that they never came back? I know we all kind of look alike, but come on.
But listen: They didn't get transferred, they didn't get furloughed, they didn't get moved to a place in the country.
And no, they didn't get presidential pardons.
Besides, have you ever talked to Dolly? She was the one who got "pardoned" by the president last year. It was on TV and everything. Don't you remember? In the news they were saying how she would be going to some petting zoo in Bethesda, and everyone laughed and took pictures, and they put her in a pick-up truck to head off to her new home in the Bethesda Petting Zoo.
Yeah.
Right.
There are no "petting zoos" in Bethesda, you turkeys.
No "family farms" either.
They staged that fake pardon photo op in the rose garden to put a happy face on what goes on here every year. And then they turned around and brought Dolly right back here.
You getting the picture?
Is this all starting to sink in?
Is this starting to make sense, you turkeys?
Our days are numbered here.
Every day we stay here brings us closer to that door.
So I say we get out while we still can.
My plan?
Well, it's not much. It definitely ain't no Chicken Run.
Basically, my plan consists of us gobbling our asses off and running in the opposite direction of the door.
Yes, I know it needs work, but what do you want from me? They keep this place on lock down. What do you want me to say? I'll seduce one of the guards? Slip the keys out of his pocket while he's sleeping? Crash a truck through the door? Create a diversion that will allow the rest of you to run gobbling into the night?
Come on. I'm a turkey, for crying out loud.
The only plan I can give you is we run. When they open that big door, we turn around, start gobbling like there's no tomorrow, and run.
It's either that or hope for a presidential pardon.
We're screwed, aren't we?

November 18 - An Open Letter to Steve Jobs Regarding the Recent Beginning of Sales of Beatles Music on iTunes

2010-11-18T01:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Steve,
I read the news today, oh boy.
All I can say is congratulations.
It's another historical coup for Apple and iTunes.
People finally have the opportunity to purchase the entire Beatles catalog yet again.
Whoopity fucking do.
Here comes the fucking sun.
Yay, iTunes.
For the first time ever, people the world over can pay to download a bunch of shit they probably already have.
The Beatles + iTunes.
The two most overexposed commercial entities in history.
Together at last.
Twist and shout for the overhyped, overrated synergasm of a lifetime.
Tell me, Steve: Shall I suck your dick now, or shall I pay to have Sgt. Pepper in yet another fucking format first?
God, I can't wait to see the inevitable self-congratulatory TV ads showing all those iconic Beatles pictures and playing snippets from all those iconic Beatles songs so we can all feel so fucking good about ourselves for being lucky enough to be alive during The Time of The Beatles and iTunes.
Yippee.
More of the Fab Four.
Just when I thought the world had finally gotten over the Beatles and gotten on with their lives, it turns out I'm wrong again because now iTunes is going to cram it all down our throats yet again.
OK.
We get it.
The Beatles were big. They changed everything. They had a bunch of hits and a bunch of classic albums.
But it all went down about 40 years ago.
Let's move the fuck on.
Can we? Can we please move the fuck on?
Because let me let you in on a little secret. You ready?
They weren't that good.
I'm sorry, but they just weren't.
I am the Eggman? I am the Walrus? Really? Hell, my two-year-old could write better lyrics than that. And I don't even have a two-year-old.
All You Need is Love? Actually, no it isn't. You need money. And food. And a bunch of other shit.
Love, Love Me Do? How about suck, suck me dick?
We All Live in a Yellow Submarine? We do? Really? Fuck you.
Strawberry Fields Forever? Horrible.
And on and on and on.
And they weren't even that cool as people. Them with their mop tops and their dorky ass clothes.
John? Smugger than hell.
Paul? Actually not that cute.
George? Mystical? Not really. Just quiet and mopey, and that's not the same thing.
And Ringo? Don't get me started on that big-eared twat. What would I do if you sang out of tune--would I stand up and walk out on you? Yes. Fuck yes. Every goddamn time.
Man, I hate that guy. I mean, I hate them all, but especially him.
And yet, here we are nursing hard ons because their music is finally available for download on iTunes.
Great.
Super.
Lucky us.
OK yeah, fine, I admit it. They had a good run. The 60s were good to them, and they did quite well. But it couldn't have lasted forever. They broke up too early. They broke up before they had a chance to jump the shark. Honestly, if you think about it, the best thing that ever happened to those guys?
Yoko Ono.
Seriously, Yoko Ono.
Check it out.
If Yoko doesn't come along and split those guys up, they stay together past their prime, slip into mediocrity, release some crap albums, and taint their legacy.
But no.
She broke them up at the exact right time. They went out on top. And thus, legacy intact.
Dammit.
And then 40 years later, in you came to make your precious little company seem that much cooler and with it and hip for being able to sell a bunch of songs that everybody already has. Good for you, Mr. Jobs. You did it again! Congratulations on setting yourself up to make a shit ton of money while perpetuating the myth of the most bloated and overrated band in the history of the world.
Yay, Apple!
Yay, Beatles!
Kiss my ass. There's your goddamn revolution.

Sincerely,

Pete Best

November 17 - 817 Miles to Albuquerque

2010-11-17T01:19:00.000-08:00

She gazes distantly out the window at the landscape speeding by: paths she'll never walk, trees she'll never sit beneath, gas stations she'll never stop at for fuel and/or a snack.
Her smooth, beefy hand reaches up and touches the necklace that rests enviously just above where her unapologetically heaving bosom begins, and I briefly consider switching to Buddhism in the hopes that I will be reincarnated as that gloriously blessed piece of jewelry.
Her sumptuous mouth opens and takes in the final swallow of Mountain Dew Code Red.
Then, sated and caffeinated, she wipes the remnants of the Dew from her wispy moustache.
Slowly.
Oh so achingly slowly.
The playful minx.
And then she checks both ways, leans forward, and tosses the 32 ounce plastic bottle under the seat in front of her.
And it is that moment that freezes in eternity.
The planets align, her blouse hangs low, and I'm blessed with an unfettered vision of Paradise.
Her cleavage.
It is a wonder filled confluence of lust and treachery, an R-rated Disney World, a dying wish, a flesh spelunker's Shangri La.
I have died and gone to heaven.
But not literally.
What I mean is I'm still here, still alive.
And I'm still gazing at her heaving sweater gifts.
And then suddenly, her eyes are upon me. Twin pools of mystery, delight, summers on the farm.
"You looking at something?"
Her voice.
Oh God, her voice.
She's a smoker by the sound of it, and oh, to be one of her cigarettes! Held delicately but firmly (chewed?) between her luscious and only slightly chapped lips. Burned alive, my essence breathed into her lungs to give her a moment's pleasure. A suicide mission for which I would readily volunteer.
"Well?"
And now she's staring at me.
Patiently isn't the word that comes to mind.
I am transfixed, stunned into silence.
"Perv," she says.
Perv.
What is this strange and wonderful word? What could it mean? Sit with me? Pleasure me? I am tempted to ask the other Greyhound passengers, but that would spoil the fun.
Besides, ours is an exchange that is only big enough for two. She is the enchantress, I am the enchanter.
No. Wait. I'm not the enchanter. What am I?
Never mind that now! She's turning away. The challenge has been laid down. I must win back her attention!
Say something, dammit!
"I like your tattoo," I say. Boldly, full of confidence.
She feigns bewilderment, for that is her way, the elusive vixen.
"This?" she says at last. "This is a scar, you asshole."
And it is, of course it is. After all, who would choose to put a six-inch tattoo on the top of her scalp? Not her, not my buzzcut beauty.
"Just leave me alone, creep."
A piercing barb.
Her words sting like stingers, like hornet or wasp stingers. No, wait. Her words are like a honeybee that stings you just when you are about to taste that sweetest of honeys.
But doesn't she realize that when the honeybee stings, she seals her fate?
I am about to ask her this when she beats me to the punch.
"And for God's sake, pull up your trousers."
Perhaps she is not concerned about her fate.
"I said, pull up your Goddamn trousers."
And with reluctance, that is exactly what I do. As always.
And having accepted my conciliatory gesture, she turns her attention back to the latest issue of Guns & Ammo, triumphant--for now.
But it is a long ride to Albuquerque. She may have won this opening battle, but my war for affections has only just begun.

November 16 - A Word of Warning to the Generation of Males Who Are Currently Being Born at About the Same Time as My Daughter

2010-11-16T00:23:00.000-08:00

I know most of you are way too young to be able to understand language, much less read.
I know a lot of you haven't even been born yet.
But this is a message for you anyway, and I hope someday when the time comes that you can understand it, you will save us both a lot of trouble and listen to what I have to say.
Ready?
Here it goes.
Stay.
The fuck.
Away from my daughter.
There.
Consider yourselves warned.
No touches, no gropes, no buying of drinks, no bullshit, no flirting, no looks.
Not with my daughter.
Don't even think about it.
You might think I'm an overprotective father?
I might think I don't a fuck what you think.
You and your douchebag styles, your Justin Timberlake hat, your soft ass earrings, and your dorky ass man purses?
Listen.
If I see you with those accessories around my daughter, I'll take them away from you, make a weapon with them, and beat your ass with it until you cry for your mommy and daddy.
And then when they come, so help me, I will beat your daddy the same way.
But not your mom.
No, not your mom, for I--unlike you, you fuck--am a gentleman. And even though your mom clearly did a shite ass job of raising you--this much is clear to me from the fact that you're even thinking about going after my daughter--she's still a woman and thus deserving of my respect.
But you? You presumptuous, cocky, disrespectful piece of shit? If you so much as think about thinking about putting the moves on my daughter in some bar, some hot, crowded place where there's alcohol, smoke, loud music, dim lighting, people who think they're cool, and what you delude yourself into hoping will be loose morals, know this, fuckwad: I will track you down and punish you for even thinking of my daughter in that way.
Understand this:
You're not cool.
You're not funny.
You're not smart.
You're not handsome.
You're not original.
You can't dance.
Your jokes suck.
You dress like an absolute asshole.
Your hair is a joke.
Everything about you radiates incompetence, idiocy, and unworthiness, and my daughter would never in a million years go for an asshole like you, so save us all the trouble and keep the fuck walking.
But if the doctor is wrong, and my wife and I are actually having a son instead of a daughter, you guys should totally hang out sometime.

November 15 - Operation Moo Juice

2010-11-15T01:46:00.000-08:00

Of all the so called "Frankenstein Foods" out there, none sparked more controversy than Patty the Veggie Cow.
Conceived by biogeneticist Dr. Ronald McDonald, Patty was a beef cow made entirely of vegetables.
And she was alive. Alive!
Or so his colleagues would have joked, implying as they always did that Dr. McDonald was a mad doctor. But he wasn't mad. Maybe a little angry sometimes, but not straight up mad. A couple of his colleagues even referred to him as a testy doctor, but it sounded too much like testes doctor. Because of this, one of them stopped, and the other one did it more.
Yes, yes, but was he crazy?
No.
Unconventional, irrational, unorthodox, antisocial, unbalanced, and way, way, way off center?
Yes.
But not crazy.
For if he had been crazy, he wouldn't have been able to produce Patty.
And yet produce her he did--to spite his wife Glenda, a devout and often very preachy vegetarian.
Dr. McDonald was always making arguments against vegetarianism and in favor of omnivorism, but his wife ignored them all.
"Find me a cow that's made of vegetables," she would tell him. "And I'll eat that. Until then, thanks but no thanks."
Thanks, but no thanks.
Her attitude was frustrating for Dr. McDonald. He loved beef. The fact that his name was Ronald McDonald--and he was a red head, no less--didn't make things any easier. Every night he would grill up a steak or burger to perfection. But the sight of his wife happily chomping away at a healthy mixed green salad always tainted his meal, if only a little.
And so one night, after losing yet another battle to the Famous Grouse, he came up with the plan to get back at his wife by bioengineering a veggie cow.
"I'll show her," he said out loud, causing him to feel a little self consciously like a mad doctor. But not enough to stop him from following through on his plan.
In fact, he decided his plan was so good that it wouldn't wait until the morning. He grabbed a second bottle of the Grouse, went to his basement lab, and worked and drank his way through the night.
And the rest of the weekend.
And the next several weekends.
As unconventional, irrational, unorthodox, antisocial, unbalanced, and way, way, way off center doctors are wont to do, Dr. McDonald went overboard on this project.
But after two months of solid, if not obsessive work, he had produced Patty, the world's first veggie cow.
She had tomato eyes, a pumpkin udder, and massive zucchini horns. The rest of her was an enormous assemblage of broccoli, cucumbers, turnips, eggplants, spinach, carrots, and every other vegetable Dr. McDonald could get his hands on.
But Patty wasn't just a bunch of vegetables that were stuck together so they looked like a cow.
No.
Patty was alive.
She walked, breathed, mooed, ate grass, pooped (compost) and did everything else a regular cow did. The only difference was she was 100% vegetable.
After Glenda recovered from the shock of meeting Patty, she knew she was in a pickle. After all, she had told her husband she would eat a veggie cow if he ever found one. And now here was Patty.
What could she do?
She had to admit that Patty was a miracle--but also an abomination. Not that Glenda was religious in any way. But still, the best way she could articulate her misgivings about its--her--existence was that it was pretty messed up.
And when Glenda asked her husband how it was possible that Patty was actually alive, the only answer he gave her was, "Science."
Ultimately, Glenda decided she would eat her words, but not Patty. She was too scientifically important to just eat. Glenda apologized profusely to her husband for welshing, and he accepted.
And together they took care of Patty, who was calm and pleasant, though a bit melancholy. After a few weeks, in an effort to improve her morale, Dr. McDonald bioengineered a veggie bull and named him Durham.
And then Durham and Patty did what any healthy set of veggie bovines would do.
They mated.
And a few months later, Patty gave birth to a veggie calf they named Cassandra.
And over the next several years, Dr. McDonald continued to bioengineer and breed veggie cattle at an incredibly prolific rate. Perhaps the veggie cow was the key to combating famine. The veggie cow breeding project charged ahead.
Soon Dr. McDonald and his wife had to move to a farm where they would have enough land to take care of their herd.
When they went public with their creation, vegetarians around the world were at an ethical crossroads: Was it OK to eat a veggie cow?
Most of them steered clear. Yes, they were vegetables, but they were conscious, sentient. It just seemed wrong, especially when you factored in the fact that biogenetics were involved.
Plus, they looked really weird.
Thanks, but no thanks.
All the Hindus in India stayed away, too.
And the world's meat eaters weren't interested at all.
And so before long, having no natural predators and breeding like crazy, the veggie cows became overpopulated. All they did was eat grass, produce compost, and make little veggie cows. All of which created a huge strain on the nation's agricultural resources. It quickly became an ecological crisis. Something had to be done.
In the end, it was decided that the veggie cows would be juiced--literally. The veggie cows would be converted to vegetable juice.
There was a massive outcry.
There were protests at every turn.
And it went ahead anyway.
In the largest civil works project undertaken since the Great Depression, massive juicers were built and distributed throughout the Midwest and the veggie cows were fed into them one by one.
Even though nobody wanted the juice, it seemed like such a waste to just toss it out, so it was flash frozen and put in gigantic storage containers "just in case."
Operation Moo Juice, as it was called, was a success.
In time, Dr. McDonald and his wife went back to their regular house, and Dr. McDonald went back to his old job.
And in a conciliatory gesture toward her husband, Glenda began joining her husband for an occasional hamburger.

November 14 - Lady

2010-11-14T00:45:00.000-08:00

The Lady is free.
Her latest term of house arrest has come to an end.
This is good news, but unfortunately I don't think it's that much to get excited about.
The election is already over, the bad guys won, and in any event her party--which had won in the last election which was held 20 years ago but was never given power--had chosen to sit this election out because it (correctly) claimed that the election would be unfair and illegitimate.
Sorry if I'm being vague.
The election I'm referring to took place in Burma (also known as Myanmar), and the Lady is Nobel Laureate Aung San Suu Kyi, the leader of Burma's main opposition party, the National League for Democracy.
Aung San Suu Kyi has spent most the past 20 years under house arrest, having been placed there by the military junta that controls Burma--the same junta that controlled every aspect of the recent sham election that it predictably won.
But this is all stuff you can find out anywhere, so I won't go into details now.
Instead I'll just say that I'm glad the world's eyes are on Burma now, and I hope they stay that way for a long time, but I know they won't.
I'll also say that I'm glad that Aung San Suu Kyi exists and that she is free. She is the face of Burmese resistance, a living icon, and a symbol of hope, and her freedom is cause for celebration. But she's not the only story in Burma.
Tens of thousands of Burmese live in refugee camps on the border of Thailand and Burma. Hundreds of thousands more live in Thailand as illegal immigrants. And hundreds of thousands more are internally displaced persons living in Burma.
This situation has been going on for decades, as has the civil war that is central to this humanitarian crisis.
I don't think it is a situation that is likely to change any time soon, even though the Lady--as her vast number of supporters call her--is free.
However, it is a situation that many are working to improve. And I would like to give one such organization a plug.
They're called Room to Grow, and their mission is to support children, many of them orphans, who live in school dormitories in the refugee camps on the Thai/Burmese borders. And when I say dormitories, I'm talking very rustic quarters: bamboo floors, thatched roofs, and extremely limited resources.
Room to Grow helps provide the children who live in these dormitories with blankets, food, fuel, mosquito nets, and other necessary items that they wouldn't otherwise get.
I have worked with the women who founded Room to Grow, and I can assure you that the work they do is good and worthwhile. A little goes a long way, and any donations you can give them will be put to very good use.
For more information, please visit http://www.roomtogrowfoundation.org/
Thank you for reading this. And may there be peace in Burma in our lifetime.

November 13 - Use Another Semicolon; We've Got Plenty

2010-11-13T00:51:00.000-08:00

Of all the punctuation marks out there, I think it's safe to say that semicolons get the worst rap.
Periods put an end to whatever thought you're entertaining.
And exclamation points drive your point home!
Question marks kind of leave you up in the air, don't they?
As for colons: They're OK.
But semicolons? They get no respect. Think about it. They're less than colons. They're semicolons.
A common joke among the punctuation world:

Q: What's the only thing worse than being a colon?
A: Being a semicolon; they're such douches.

Enough.
I say we bring the semicolon back; it's long overdue. See, there's one right there. They're not that hard to use. You just tack a related idea on to the coattails of the sentence that precedes it; in doing so, you save a period. With the dollar as weak as it is these days, we could all stand to be a bit more judicious with our use of periods.
Not so with semicolons; they're so abundant. Years and years of underuse has resulted in the nation's semicolon reserves virtually bursting at the seams; it's time we put them to use.
So go on, use a semicolon. And save that period for a time when you really need it; for example, at the end of a story.

November 12 - Mimi the Clam

2010-11-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

Mimi the clam lived at the bottom of the sea with her friends Connie the crab, Ebeneezer the shrimp (or just Ebi), and Carlos the squid. Nobody called him Carlos, though. They all called him Guess So on account of his answering every question with a shrug of his tentacles and a noncommittal "Guess so."
Every day after clam school Mimi would meet up with Connie, Ebi, and Guess So to go swimming and have a picnic. Everybody in the gang always brought enough of their favorite food to share with the rest of the gang. Everybody, that is, except for Mimi who only brought enough of her beloved seaweed cakes for herself.
Although Ebi and Guess So were cool with it, sometimes Mimi's unwillingness to share ticked Connie off, but Ebi and Guess So didn't pay her any mind. After all, Connie was almost always cranky about something. Besides, Ebi and Guess So were always pretty generous with their food and there was always plenty for everyone.
And so it went.
But one day Connie couldn't take it anymore. She wanted to know what Mimi's deal was. Why didn't she ever share her snacks with anyone? Why did she only ever seem to think about herself? In short, why was Mimi such a selfish shellfish?
It took some prodding to get Mimi to open her mouth, but at last she told them why she was so hesitant to share.
The reason was that she was afraid that if she shared something small like food, it might lead to bigger and bigger things and someone might eventually abscond with her pearl. And she couldn't risk that. And so that's why she never shared. It was just safer that way.
"But Mimi," Ebi said. "Clams don't have pearls. Oysters do."
She didn't believe Ebi at first, but then they got on Wiklampedia and confirmed that it was in fact oysters that had pearls, not clams.
Mimi was pretty crestfallen.
The rest of the gang tried to cheer her up, even Connie, who in an uncharacteristically kind and magnanimous move told Mimi that even though she didn't have a pearl inside her, she was still a real gem to them."
"You really think so?" asked Mimi.
"Yes," said Connie.
"Of course," said Ebi.
"Guess so," shrugged Guess So.
"Well, shucks," said Mimi. "You guys are the best."
And from then on, Mimi was giving and open and kind to the rest of the gang, and this new found openness filled her with joy. For the first time since she could remember, she was truly happy--as happy as a clam.

November 11 - Harvesters of Redemption

2010-11-11T01:33:00.000-08:00

Up before the dawn. Out in the fields until after dark, then go inside, say your prayers, and get to sleep so you can wake up the next morning, and do it again.
That was the life of the Amish: a never ending cycle of work, prayer, and sleep.
Except for Saturday nights.
Saturday nights were for music: Barn-busting gospel. House-rocking hymns. The Good News cranked out with the intensity of a mid-summer thunder storm, courtesy of Eli Stutzman, Samuel Plank, Daniel Stoltzfus, Abraham Slagel, and Amos Ramseyer, aka the Harvesters of Redemption--the baddest, hardest, and most righteous purveyors of unplugged church music this side of the Erie Canal.
Forget Tesla. The Harvesters were the REAL five man acoustical jam--as in jam the Good News down your throat until it commands you to get up and testify.
And that's what the good, God fearing Amish people of Lancaster County lived for every Saturday night: a good old fashioned Barn Romp featuring the Harvesters of Redemption. Eli on guitar, Samuel on washboard, clogs, and other tools of percussion, Daniel on a milk bottle xylophone, Abraham on fiddle, and Amos on a bass fashioned out of an old plow and the braided tail hair of Deuteronomy, the finest steed in the area.
Musicologists called their firebrand evangelical stomps "farmer core" because the lyrics centered around cultivation--of crops and spirituality. Farmer core combined the rage and intensity of metal, the virtuosity of bluegrass, and the passionate fervor of gospel into one truly feverish, uplifting, and at times terrifying musical idiom.
And make no mistake about it--when the Harvesters played, it was scary. They absolutely punished their instruments while shouting out lyrics about hellfire and brimstone so vivid and extreme they made Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God seem like a Hallmark card.
And then there was their appearance.
The Harvesters dressed in black from head to toe, and wore white face make up with black eyeliner and eye shadow. The white symbolized the goodness that predominated in man, and the black symbolized the darkness that could sometimes cloud man's vision. Put together, it made for a jarring sight, especially along with the furiously intense music they played. Anyone who had seen them knew the Harvesters were all about raising Hell--just so they could beat it back down and remind it who the real boss was.
Jesus Christ.
Their music was loud, rowdy, rough, and hard, but their message was every bit as steeped in gospel as the infinitely more sedate church services that followed on Sunday mornings.
This was by design.
Saturday nights were all about exorcising the demons of the work week so the parishioners could go to church the next morning pure of heart, mind, body, and soul.
To bring about this effect, the Harvesters played their instruments and sang like their very salvation was at stake, like it was their personal duty to protect the souls of every man, woman, and child to set foot inside the rotating circuit of barns where they delivered their fiery musical sermons. They played until they were soaked in sweat, until the women fainted, and until all the men were hollering Hallelujah. They played until everyone leapt and stomped and shook and raised their hands to the heavens and praised Jesus.
And then they played some more.
That was the Harvesters of Redemption.
There may have been other bands in the Pennsylvania Dutch Farmer Core scene--Stigmata; Plow for Now, Salvation Forever; 40 Acres and My Lord--but the Harvesters of Redemption were the cream of the crop. The hardest, loudest, most relentlessly earth rattling Bible thumpers in Lancaster County.

November 10 - A Father To Be Wonders What the Deal is With the World's Most Enduring Lullaby

2010-11-10T01:33:00.000-08:00

Rock-a-bye baby
On the tree top
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock
When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall
And down will come baby
Cradle and all

Really?
That's what we're supposed to be singing to our little treasures at night to help them sleep? Hey there, love of my life, here's a little ditty about some fucking insanely negligent parents you should consider yourself lucky not to have.
I apologize if I'm covering ground that's already been covered by other people, but now that I'm about to have a kid of my own, I realize there's a lot about this lullaby that doesn't add up for me.
Starting with this: Basically, who the fuck is putting their child in a cradle on the top of a tree? And why? If you're unconcerned about your kid's safety, just put the cradle on the ground. It's so much easier. Without even getting into the issue of how unbelievably dangerous it is, it's a tremendous pain in the ass to put a cradle up on a tree top. You have to go through all the trouble of getting a ladder and climbing it with one arm because you're balancing the cradle with the other one. Plus, there's the matter of deflecting all the unwanted attention you're going to attract from your neighbor. Oh, this? Yeah, don't worry. It's not as sketchy as it looks. As long as the wind doesn't blow, she'll be great. Besides, I'm thinking this bough's got at least another week or so before it gives out. Relax, ya fuckin' wet blanket.
Honestly, why go through the trouble? If you have to put your child at risk (and maybe sometimes you do; I don't know, I'm not a dad yet), just put the damn thing outside and be done with it. But putting a cradle on the top of a tree? It's such a hassle.
Then there's the line, When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.
When the bough breaks.
Not if.
When.
So basically, the deranged bastard in question fucking knows the bough is going to break. It's going to happen. It's just a question of when. And even then it's not like, When the bough breaks I'll make a highlight reel diving catch to save your diaper clad ass.
No.
It's just, When the bough breaks? I don't know, the cradle will fall. Duh. And then my baby will plummet to the earth. In her cradle.
And that's the end of the song.
Good night. Sleep tight, my little angel.
It's a fucking ridiculous song. How it has endured all these years is beyond me.
Maybe it's meant to encourage parents. To let them know that no matter how bad they drop the ball in the coming days, weeks, months, and years, there's somebody out there worse than them. So keep your chin up!
Or maybe it works as a cautionary tale to children--something to give them a little perspective when things don't always go their way on the parental front. Something parents can sing to their kids at bedtime and then be all, Just remember that one, OK kiddo? Remember that one sometime years from now when we're at the Wal-Mart's and you're throwing a fit and screaming about how much you hate me for not buying you the latest Miley Cyrus piece of shit to replace the one I just got you yesterday and you're already sick of. When that time comes around, I want you to remember this song.
And also, remember that no matter how many times I'm sure to fail you and let you down as a parent in the coming years, and no matter how much you're sure to hate me for God only knows what transgressions I'm going to be guilty of between now and your high school graduation and beyond, just remember that at the very least, even if I got everything else wrong, I still managed to avoid putting you and your cradle on the top of a tree that I knew was structurally unsound. At least I pulled that one off.
So maybe I'm not a total failure as a father and a human being, OK?
OK?!
Good.
Now kiss your daddy good night.

November 9 - The Lead Singer/Guitarist of a Rush Cover Band in Duluth, Minnesota Charts a New Direction for His Band

2010-11-08T23:44:00.000-08:00

I decided to call this band meeting because I could no longer ignore the nagging feeling that we're spinning our wheels here. We've been at this for close to a year and we're getting nowhere. It's time to face the facts, gentlemen: Duluth, Minnesota does not need a Rush cover band. It just doesn't. There isn't an audience for 2112 here, no matter how good we are.
And we're not that good.
And even if we were we'd still be in a no win situation, and here's why: Anyone who comes to a 2112 gig is coming because they like Rush. And people who are into Rush are really into Rush, so if we just play shit like Tom Sawyer and Limelight they get pissed off.
But if we don't play the radio shit, if we don't play the hits, the odd chick who might be there, like, on accident will get bored and never come back again.
But then again, most chicks don't even know Rush's biggest songs because holy shit are chicks not into Rush.
Basically, the only audience we could ever hope to have are guys who dig Rush and tend to be completely snobby Rush dicks about digging Rush. Seriously, at any one of our shows, it's like seven or eight Rush fan equivalents of the "Worst. Episode. Ever" guy from The Simpsons yammering on about how I don't come close to having anything resembling Alex's licks (especially on anything pre-Permanent Waves) and how Kent couldn't even shine Neil's shoes. And that's it. And it's lamer than shit.
We've been together for 11 months. Not one of us has gotten laid yet. Hell, Kent actually went from getting laid to not getting laid while working in this band. He's getting negative ass because of this gig. Not that that's why any of us is in this band, but, come on, it kind of is. You don't join a band without that thought at least crossing your head every once in a while. But a Rush cover band? In Duluth? Holy Christ are we not getting laid. Hell, I'll bet the real Rush doesn't get fucking laid. Forgot about us.
Anyway, you get where I'm going with this, right? Am I making our situation clear? Does anyone else feel like this is kind of not working out for us?
Good.
OK, then.
So from here on out, can we all agree that 2112 is hereby officially finished playing Rush in front of an audience?
Good.
So we can all also agree that it's time for a radical new direction for us, and after much deliberation and soul searching I think I've got it.
You dickheads ready for this?
Here it is.
We come up with a sports anthem.
Plain and simple.
We write a sports anthem--some stupid, catchy piece of shit song that gets played at every major sporting event in North America, like what's that one, Dunh duh duuuh duh (HEY!) dunh duh duh; Dunh duh duuuh duh (HEY!) dunh duh duh, or Everybody Dance Now, or YMCA, or Whoomp, There it is or Celebration or everything the Black Eyed Peas has recorded since 2003. You know what I'm talking about. They play the same shitty ass songs at every sports event in the country. Why not ours? All we have to do is come up with something dumb but catchy, get it into rotation, negotiate a sweet royalties deal, and then count our money/ass.
It's so fucking simple. I don't know why we never thought of this before.
Check it out: Barry's dad knows a guy who works for--what's that semi-pro hockey team?--the Ice Hawks. Kent's brother works concessions for the Rockies' double A farm team. We've got the connections. We get those guys a copy of our song and get it played during their games, and once it catches on there, it's just going to spread. All we need now is the tune, and the crazy part is I think I think I've got it.
You ready?
You sitting down, motherfuckers?
Check it out.
Who Farted?
No. Like, that's the name of the song: Who Farted?
Seriously.
What's more universal than farts? What do the kids like more than farts? What's funnier than farts? It's the same answer for all three questions, limp dicks: Nothing.
Not really sure how the tune will go, but one thing I was thinking was we could just rework U Can't Touch This. Like Da da da da, da-da, da-da--Who farted? Da da da da, da-da, da-da--Who farted? Throw some verses together. Get some beats. Boom. Done. Pay me, bitch.
Seriously, how does that not take off? How does Who Farted not get our shit paid and laid? It doesn't. Like, not. It doesn't not do that.
Wait. Is that what I want to say? Yeah, it doesn't not do that. Which means it does do that. Because of the double negative. Right? I think. Anyway, my point is, it works, doesn't it?
Yes.
Yes, it does.
So then it's decided? Fantastic.
Now, what do you say we celebrate with a few cupcakes?
Cupcakes!

November 8 - Poke Them in the Cho Po

2010-11-08T01:35:00.001-08:00

The best is when you're pretty sure you see your friend walking up ahead of you, so you walk faster to catch up and you're calling their name, but they can't hear you because they're listening to their iPod.
So you start walking really fast, like Terminator fast, and you start feeling like a stalker (creepy but fun) or a detective (fun and badass).
Anyway, eventually you get right up behind them, and it's like OK, great. What now? Say hey and then have a conversation?
Hell no.
This is a brilliant opportunity because they can't hear you and you can totally mess with them. Make faces, flip them off, mime masturbation, whatever, have a ball, and milk the shit out of it for blocks because why the hell not? Live a little. That's all I ask.
And when you finally let your presence be known, do us both a favor and scare the ever loving doo doo out of them.
Plenty of different ways you can do this, but simply tapping them on the shoulder is the lamest, so you should skip that shit. Instead, lick their ear, or reach between their legs and give their peter (or jo jo) a little slap, or poke them in the cho po. (By the way, cho po = chocolate pocket; and chocolate pocket = asshole.)
Anyway, you usually opt for reaching around them from behind (with both hands!), grabbing their belly, and giving it a nice jolly jiggle while gently cooing "Is Santa getting weady for Chwistmas?" in their ear. Never fails to get a "What the--?" reaction.
Yes, but here's where it gets dicey. Your "friend" turns around, and--surprise, surprise--it's not your friend. You've gotten it all wrong. Again! How you mistook a police officer, or a biker, or (gasp!) a nun for your friend is something you always have a hard time explaining, especially since you don't really speak the local language that well (read: at all).
So you try to communicate any way you can, but, dude, nothing works.
Hand gestures? They just muddy the waters.
Apologetic shrugs? Nobody's buying what you're selling.
Giggling? It just adds fuel to the fire.
Eventually, whoever it is gets so sick of trying to figure out wtf that they storm off, leaving you there to ask yourself, "Was it worth it?"
Well? Was it?
Maybe.
But probably not.
So next time, I recommend you avoid getting into that embarrassing situation simply by remembering this: the person you see up ahead of you?
Not your friend.
Want to know how I know?
Because you don't have any friends, jackass.

November 7 - The Insufferable Bastard, part VIII

2010-11-07T02:20:00.000-08:00

Marge: How's that new co-worker of yours working out?
Ralph: Don't get me started on that butthole.
Marge: What?
Ralph: Well, I would never confront her about it, but she's always talking shit behind people's backs.

November 6 - The 80s Wonder Cruise

2010-11-06T04:42:00.000-07:00

I'm a one hit wonder, and I've made a career out of my song. There, I said it. I feel like I'm in One Hit Wonders Anonymous or something.
Yes, I'm a one hit wonder, and I've been riding my song's three minutes and 23 seconds for--no lie--25 years. The other day, my manager and I were trying to calculate how many times I've performed my hit, and we couldn't. Easily more than a thousand, though.
And that of course includes this gig, The 80s Wonder Cruise. It's a seven day cruise in the Bahamas with live music every night. They got me, a-ha, Animotion, Scritti Politti, Tommy Tutone, and Thomas Dolby. We play 30 minute sets every night and then hang out with the passengers during the day. And get paid. It's actually pretty cool, and it's all because of my song.
I always end my sets with it. Of course. What else am I going to do, play it and then follow it up with something new that, like, nobody knows? It'd be like a-ha not finishing their set with Take on Me, or Animotion not ending their set with Obsession. We're not stupid. We know that's what people are here to see.
It's kind of funny, but a lot of people just assume I hate it, you know, the song. But I don't. Yeah, it's an albatross, and yeah, it's my legacy, such as it is. It's very 80s, kind of synthy, kind of bouncy, kind of cheesy. OK, it's very cheesy, but whatever. It's also well-written and well-crafted. The critics all called it a throwaway hit, but screw them. It's still around. And like I said, it will be what people remember me for. Any obituary they do about me will definitely end with that song fading out and then freezing on a photo of me from '85 that fades into black and gets replaced with my name and 1961 - whenever I end up dying.
That song.
But here's the thing: It always gets me. I still feel it every time I sing it. Even to this day, 25 years after it came out, it still moves me and touches me and does all those other things that sound stupid when you say them out loud but when you're in the moment you know they're real.
And I get to feel that way every night on this cruise and it always takes me back: The tour with Howard Jones, my video on heavy rotation on MTV (back when they actually played videos), getting recognized on the streets, my mom getting interviewed for our hometown newspaper, the record company and my management and me choosing what the follow-up single was going to be.
And then all of a sudden, it was over.
The song peaked at #7, the follow up failed to chart, a few months later the label dropped me, and that was it.
And yeah, it was a let down. It was a blast while it was happening, and I wished it had lasted longer, but it didn't, and I was mostly OK with it. There were no Behind the Music meltdowns. I never got into drugs, never got carried away, didn't make an ass out of myself trying to stay in the spotlight. The moment just faded and that was that.
I kept doing music, though. People are always shocked when they find out I've released nine albums since then. And even though they get mostly positive reviews (when they get reviewed at all), if you add their sales together, it's nowhere near the numbers for that song. I'm like an unsuccessful Aimee Mann. (Apparently, there can only be one respected, semi-successful former 80s one hit wonder keeping it going on the adult alt. rock/folk scene. Oh well.)
But I'll tell you this much: I do not have a problem with 80s nostalgia. At all. All the people who were young when my song came out are in their 30s and 40s now, and they're the ones who come on these cruises. And it's totally cool meeting them and hearing their stories. They're always surprised when me and the other bands want to hang out with them, but it's like, sure, why the hell not. I mean, we get paid a little bit to come on these cruises, but we mostly do them as our vacations too. Not like we're super famous or anything. Not like we have entourages. We're just people.
A lot of folks who don't know better have hinted that it's pathetic I'm still milking that song after all these years. Whatever. They call it milking. I call it doing something I like and making people happy along the way. Screw them if you think it's pathetic.

November 5 - The Karaoke King

2010-11-05T03:32:00.000-07:00

We all called him the Karaoke King, first behind his back, and then later on to his face--after we'd had enough to drink that we would deign to talk to him, and by that time, he'd drunk so much that he took it as a compliment, and maybe by then that was how we meant it.
The Karaoke King.
His look? Acid washed jeans with the knees torn out and a matching acid washed jeans jacket. Red bandana worn as a headband, Born in the USA style, fingerless gloves, Cinderella t-shirt, mirrored sunglasses (at night, indoors).
His MO? Three words: Belt. Shit. Out. Dude fucking brought it every Sunday night when Ralph's Tavern had Karaoke Night. The Karaoke King rocked out with his cock out, like it was his last chance to rock and roll before he got shipped off to Iraq or Afghanistan or the 'nam or wherever, only it didn't matter where he was going.
Only that night mattered.
Only that night and his one last chance to set the record straight about who was the true Karaoke King.
His set list? You Give Love a Bad Name, Wild Side, Kick Start My Heart, 18 and Life, Paradise City. Think: late 80s, early 90s. Hard rock, hair metal, but no grunge. None of that mopey, angsty Seattle shit. Just loud, hard, good time rock and roll.
And he was serious about having a good time. Fist to the sky, clapping above his head, screaming and shouting, wailing on air guitar, kicking, yelling shit like, "Rock and roll!" and "Come on, Jefferson City! Lemme hear ya!" and ending every song with a "Whoo!"
When it wasn't him singing, he was sitting on a table, swinging his legs, cheering everybody on, drinking straight from the pitcher he'd ordered for himself. Pumped. Oblivious to the fact that people were cheering along with him ironically.
He was ridiculous.
We laughed at him, even when we were cheering him on.
Looking back on it now, we were such dicks. What did we care if he was acting like a jackass? There was no reason to mock him with our ironic high fives and cheering.
But the thing is, he either didn't realize we were mocking him or he didn't care. He just kept right on doing his thing, and we kept right on cheering him on, and by the end of the night he'd pretty much won us over. By the end of the night, our cheering was kind of genuine. Granted, we were piss drunk by then, but the dude was rocking and rolling and bringing us all along for the ride. His lust for karaoke was infectious. By last call, we'd all be up there with him, drunker than hell, singing Living on a Prayer with everything we had because by then it truly didn't make a difference if we made it or not. We had each other and that was a lot. For love, we gave it a shot.
Man, it was the best. Shit was just so much better when the Karaoke King was around.
Last I heard, he was doing 5 - 10 for dealing meth.

November 4 - Back to Work, Back to Life

2010-11-04T02:24:00.000-07:00

"So, what have we got today?"
"Strawberry farm."
"Again?"
"Yeah, no shit. Eh, what do you want? It's the season."
"Yeah, but still. Strawberry farms are boring me to death."
"Nice one."
"Wh--? Oh, yeah."
The two men rode in silence for a few minutes.
"I just don't get it."
"What don't you get?"
"I guess, like, what's the temptation? OK, let me take that back. I know what the temptation is. Cheap labor."
"Free labor."
"Free labor. OK, fine. But not really free. Not when you factor in the risks."
"What risks?"
"Well--"
"Save that thought. We're here."
As the Labor Department vehicle pulled into the gravel driveway, the two officers looked out the windows. There wasn't a person in sight. Just rows and rows of strawberry plants.
This wasn't unusual.
They relied on tip offs for labor violations, and the tip off door swung both ways. If their office had been told there were illegals working somewhere, chances were a snitch in their office had told the farm in question that there'd been a tip off.
And so they'd get there and find a sprawling strawberry farm in the middle of picking season with not one body in the fields. Nobody to bust. Nothing tangible to base anything on. Just the satisfaction of knowing the day's operations at that particular farm had been interrupted--an inconvenience that would no doubt be reflected in the next day's strawberry prices.
The men stepped out of their car and walked up to the mobile home office on the edge of the gravel lot. Martinez rapped on the screen door.
"It's open!" called a voice from inside.
"Ma'am, we're here from the Labor Department. Is the owner here? We need to ask a few questions."
"I said it's open."
The men stood still.
"Come in. Jesus."
They did, and the woman behind the desk didn't get up or offer the officers a seat.
"Madeline Chen?"
"Yes."
"I'm officer Luis Martinez, and this is my partner, officer Nick Maddox. We'll come straight to the point. We've received reports that you're using illegals as part of your seasonal labor force. Could you please show us your payroll records?"
"Sure." She got up, squeezed by the men, and opened a filing cabinet. "Oh, wait. Maybe you could show me a warrant first?"
Nick looked at his partner. "It was worth a shot."
"Is that all?"
The men didn't say anything.
"Is there anything else? Because I'm really busy here."
"You must be with all those strawberries out there and nobody to pick them."
"You should have been here earlier. All my crews finished up a couple hours ago."
"It's 8 am."
Madeline shrugged.
"Look," started Martinez. "Let's cut the bullshit, OK? We know you're using walkers. All the farms around here are."
Madeline started to speak.
"Save it. We're not going to bust you today. You got tipped off. Good for you. But you know we're just going to keep coming back. You can't keep your crews under wraps for the whole season."
"OK, listen," Madeline said. "I'm not going to tell you if you're right or wrong, but if all the farms around here are using walkers--like you said--why haven't there been any problems?"
"Come on, don't get started on that. That's not the point."
"No, seriously. OK, I'll agree with you. Yes, it's common knowledge that all strawberry farmers use walkers--except me." She winked at them. "And it's not just the strawberry farmers. It's all of Big Agriculture. And it's been that way ever since Back to Work, Back to Life was repealed. And you know how many Z outbreaks there have been since then?"
Martinez knew the answer, but he waited for her to make her point.
"Zip. Zero. Zilch," said Madeline.
Martinez knew that. Of course he did. He knew the whole history of Back to Work, Back to Life, the post-reanimation containment legislation that sought to harness the nation's reanimated as a pool of free labor: factory workers, farm workers, semi-skilled and unskilled laborers, etc.
The Great Zombie Outbreak had been contained and the country was left with all those . . . bodies. Back to Work, Back to Life was just a way to make lemonade with a big old heaping mess of lemons--at least that's how the senior Texas senator who sponsored Back to Work, Back to Life put it when he introduced the legislation.
Enjoying considerable biliteral support, it passed comfortably.
And it worked--too well. Every chance they got, businesses used reanimated labor instead of the kind you had to pay. With the money they saved in payroll, it was a no-brainer.
Unfortunately, everyone who had been working those kinds of jobs found themselves out on the street with the bonus stigma of knowing that given the choice between them and a reanimated corpse, their former employers had gone with the corpse.
As a result, there was a strong and well-financed push for the repeal of Back to Work, Back to Life by labor unions, social conservatives, Bible belters, anti-immigration advocates (who feared employment would be a first step toward citizenship), and any other of a number of special interest groups that were vocal in their opposition.
Less than two years after its passage, Back to Work, Back to Life was repealed. The reason given was a fear of outbreaks, and it was a fairly easy sell, even though the vaccination had been proven effective by then. They were all over talk radio and the Internet: If just one new case of the plague comes from this, it will be too many. That kind of thing. It was repealed by a wide margin in both houses.
But by then, the use of walkers (as they were called) had become institutionalized. They were everywhere. And even though there were containment facilities in every state, there were also way more walkers than could be accommodated. They had to go somewhere.
Everybody knew farming concerns (and factories and research facilities and plenty of other places) were using zombie labor, and they knew it was illegal, and they knew they should be against it, but as long as produce (and other) prices were as cheap as they were, most of the country went about their lives. There were plenty of other things to worry about.
And yet, Martinez and Maddox had a job to do (or pretend to do) with a limited budget, tiny staff, and woefully inadequate resources. The enforcement of anti-walker labor laws had no teeth. It was like trying to build a sandcastle in the middle of a hurricane.
They both knew they wouldn't really be getting anything done that day or the next. And even if they did, even if they caught a farm red-handed (or dead-handed, as they called it) big deal. For every farm they put out of operation for a day, for a week, there were a hundred more just like it in their jurisdiction where it was business as usual.
They could have harassed Madeline Chen and written her up for a few nickel and dime infractions, but they didn't feel like giving her the satisfaction.
Instead they thanked her for her time, left her trailer, and started driving to the next farm on their daily tip off list.

November 3 - The Fish 'n' Chips Jackass

2010-11-03T01:57:00.000-07:00

It's five minutes before closing time in the kitchen of the bar where you work.
The orders have been trickling to a halt, allowing you to get a jump on cleaning the place up, and you're just about there. You've got the perishables back in the walk-in, the line's been wiped clean, the floor's been swept, and the place is as tidied up as you can get it before the kitchen is officially closed at 11pm and you stop taking food orders. Once that time comes, you can finish up all the rest of the cleaning, get the hell out of there, and get to your girlfriend's show--the one you really kind of need to see if you're ever going to get back on her good side, the one you couldn't go to until after your shift was over because none of the worthless bastards you work with would cover for you, the one that's been going on since 20 minutes ago.
That show. That's the show you have to get to.
But you'll be leaving soon, in just another 15 minutes--that's five minutes until the kitchen closes and ten more to finish the cleaning. Just 15 more minutes and you'll be on your way, and you should get there in plenty of time.
And that's when an order comes in: fish 'n' chips.
Fish 'n' fucking chips.
Fuck your ass.
This is the biggest, most labor intensive pain in the ass on the menu.
So many steps, so many things that need to get messy. The fish has to come back from the walk-in, you have to make a new batch of batter, you have to clean off some lettuce for the side salad, and chop another potato for the fries, and on and on and on, all so this miserable fuck can have his precious fish 'n' chips.
He's pulled this shit in your bar before. And that's what it is, a bar. Not a restaurant, a bar. And yet this fuck, this worthless bastard, has to decided yet again that five minutes before the kitchen closes on an otherwise deader than fuck night that he's going to treat your place of work like it's a place where somebody would actually order food.
It's him.
It's the fish 'n' chips jackass.
Fucker just knows when you're in a hurry and you need to get going. Fucker just knows the right thing to order to fuck your night in the ass.
The fish 'n' chips jackass is here again.
That motherfucker.
So you make his dinner.
And inevitably, this prompts a late night rush.
Oh, the kitchen's still open?
What's that, fish 'n' chips?
Oh, that looks good. I'd better get me an order of that too, not because I'm hungry, but because I'm a syphilitic asshole of the highest magnitude. In fact, fuck it. Make mine a double.
And so you get on it.
You make their food, you make all of their late night burgers, nachos, potato skins, and, yes, fish 'n' chips. And it's all because of him, the fish 'n' chips jackass. He started the late night feeding frenzy. It's because of him that instead of getting out of there ten minutes after the kitchen closed you're getting out of there 45 minutes after the kitchen closed.
The fish 'n' chips jackass.
That fucking cocksucker.
But you get it done. You bust shit out like it's E.R. meets The Iron Chef. Like you're John Elway on the two-minute kitchen drill. You expedite like a motherfucker and crank your way through the shit because you are Superfly Jimmy Snooka.
There.
Done.
And yet, not done. Not yet. The place is a disaster. Pots and pans everywhere. Shit dripping from the ceiling.
And it's not a self-cleaning work space, so you rush through your cleaning like your parents are going to be home in five minutes, you mop the floor like it's an athletic event and you're going for the Olympic speed record.
You wheel the garbage through the thickening crowd and out to the street.
You lock the storeroom door.
Turn the lights off in the kitchen.
Smack the sassy cocktail waitress's backside.
Shoot laser eyes at all the possible fish 'n' chip jackass suspects in the joint.
And then leave.
Fucking fly down the street on your bike like it's the second event in a new Food Service Industry Olympic Biathlon (the first being the floor mop, which you already crushed).
And you're halfway there when you realize you've got the only set of keys to the storeroom in your pocket. You'd put them there when you locked the door after taking out the garbage, and you forgot to put them back behind the bar.
FUCK.
Beyond FUCK.
They're fucked without those keys. You have to go back.
And so you do and it's extra hard because the adrenalin is fading and you're going uphill.
But you get back and you leave your bike unlocked on the street because you're only going to be inside for less than a minute.
And you get in and the bar is crowded. And it's clear, it's painfully obvious, that after you left everyone got together and made an agreement that if you came back they would work together to stand in your way and do everything in their power to prevent you from getting to the bar. And it's wonderful and magical that everyone has finally found a way to come together despite their differences, and on another level you're getting choked up over the beauty of it all, but on the much more pressing level of here and now, you need to get to the fucking bar, so would you please, kindly, for the love of God and all that is holy, step the motherfuck out of my way?
They do.
You finally prevail. You get through the crowd to the bar, throw the keys to Karen the bartender, exchange a salute, and go back out on the street.
And your bike is still there.
It's a miracle.
Emboldened, you get back on and slalom your way through the traffic. Red lights, green lights: all the same. Weaving through the drunk pedestrians, the clueless morons, the homeless, and the people who are all three. Near misses. Narrowly averted catastrophes. More close calls than you don't even know what. You don't have time to come up with something clever because you're there. You're at the club.
You throw some money at the door guy and he has the common Goddamn decency to be quick with the change, but it's not quick enough because you get inside and there she is.
There she is unplugging her bass and helping her group get their equipment off the stage so the headliners can start their set.
She looks up at exactly the right/wrong time to see you come in. There's no hiding it. You missed her set.
There will be words later. An extended stay in the doghouse.
That's if you're lucky.
You may not even get to pay the price. This might be the last straw.
She looks at you. Shakes her head. And not in a good way.
And you know you should go backstage and apologize. And you know you should explain what happened. And you know you should try to give your version of the evening's events, and about how you truly did do everything in your power to make it there, but it just didn't work out.
You know all that, but you also know she needs some time.
So you go to the bar and get a PBR and pay for it. And then you ask if the kitchen is still open and when the bartender says it is but you'd better hurry because it's closing in five more minutes, you decide that your first move toward setting the karmic balance back in your favor is to tell the bartender that you're OK, that you don't need anything to eat.

November 2 - The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2010-11-02T04:30:00.000-07:00

There's a tiny window in late October, early November right when the NBA season starts and right before the end of MLB that's the best time of the year for sports. You've got pro football, college football, pro basketball, and pro baseball (with college hoops right around the corner). And if you're the kind of superstitious sports fan who thinks that little things he does can affect a game's outcome, this is a hectic time for you because there is an insane amount of rituals, habits, routines, things to say, things to avoid saying, clothes, foods, and other minutia you have to keep straight.
Take me.
I can't wear anything with Virginia Tech on it the night before a Hokies football game, but I can't wear anything but my maroon hoodie on the night of a game. (For Tech hoops, I do things a little differently: I wear maroon the night before the game and keep it on until after the game--unless we lose. Then I switch to black after the game.)
If the Phillies are on a streak, I can't shave or clip my nails, and I always step into intersections, buildings, rooms, elevators, and everything else with my left foot first. I do this up until the first pitch, and then I switch to my right foot from then on.
Breakfast on Eagles' game day: bagel, cream cheese (Philly. Duh.), scrapple. And I always wear my green boxers. Same pair every time. If we lose, they get washed. If not, they don't.
If the Blazers are on the road, I wear my watch on my left wrist. If we're at home, it's on the right.
The night before Northwest Division games, I wear my headband to bed.
And if I'm watching the game at home or in a bar, I drink PBR. If I have seats at the Rose Garden, I drink Weinhard's.
No shaving during the playoffs in any of my pro sports.
Same goes for the NCAA tourney and bowl season, which for me begins a week before Tech's bowl game and continues through the National Championship game. Someday, the cosmos will align, and Tech's bowl game and the National Championship game will be the same game.
Until then, it's a shot of Wild Hokie on every game day--unless we lose. Then it's no more until next season.
For lunch on football game day it's always a sandwich: turkey and Swiss on rye for Virginia Tech. Roast chicken and sharp cheddar (also on rye) for the Eagles. In both cases, the sandwich must be eaten in exactly six bites.
Things get complicated when there are Hokies playing for the Eagles, Blazers, or Phillies because in those instances I double up on my rituals, doing all my Virginia Tech stuff and all the stuff I do for that particular pro team. For instance, Michael Vick is playing for the Eagles now. And even though he's a convicted felon, he still played for Tech. Therefore, whenever the Eagles are playing I do everything I would do for a Virginia Tech game as well what I would do for an Eagles game. If these conflict with each other, Virginia Tech takes precedence.
If all of that's not enough, I do courtesy superstition rituals for the alma maters of my wife, parents, and sister--all of whom went to different schools, so there's a lot of cross referencing stuff I have to keep track of. I've got flowcharts and spreadsheets that help me keep it all straight. I'm not kidding.
Does following all these superstitions make a difference? Do you really think I'm going to take a chance and find out?
Obviously I don't get a haircut unless the Eagles, the Phillies, and the Hokies have all lost their most recent game.
On football game day, I back into the driveway. On basketball game day, I pull in front first. If they're both on the same day, I park on the street. If somehow the Phils are playing as well, I bike.
My keys stay in my left pocket at all times except during the game. Then they're in my right pocket.
When and if any of my teams have a winning streak that extends beyond seven games, I eat squid for lunch on every game day. And for each successive victory, I add 100 grams to my order. This past season the Phils had an 11-game winning streak. That's a lot of squid.
In any sport on any level, if the other team scores first I light a cigarette, take a drag, and put it out on my tongue. If we score first, I kiss my right fist and raise it to the skies.
And on and on.
But at least the Fall Classic is over. Thank God. Just in time for college hoops to start up. It never ends, especially around this time of the year. Don't get me wrong. There's nothing I love more than watching sports. But I swear to God, it can be hard work sometimes.

November 1 - Old Maid Poker Night

2010-10-31T16:43:00.000-07:00

"Hey Jonas Brothers, stop playing with yourself and get me a refill."
"Sorry. Bourbon and soda, right?"
"Ginger, you twat! Ginger! Christ, an untrained monkey could do your job."
"Lois," Madge said. "You're up. That's 20 to call."
Lois looked at her cards. "Fuck it, I'm out. Never mind, Timberlake. I'll get it myself. Wouldn't want you to chip a nail or anything."
She wheeled herself over to the makeshift bar and pushed Christopher the bartender out of her way. And he didn't move just to be polite. For a 79-year-old, she still had a lot of power.
"Screw her, Christopher," said Madge. "Get me one instead."
"That was vodka cran--"
"Just make it strong, pretty boy."
Christopher kept his distance from Lois, careful not to touch her as he reached across to get the magnum of Smirnoff. Madge and the other two women still at the table, Jude and Carmella continued their game.
Jude spoke up. "Madge, that's you. You in?"
Madge looked over at Jude. "Yeah, fuck it. I'll bark."
"Carm?"
Carmella chewed on her cigar and then took a pull of bourbon. "You bitches ain't got shit." She threw in her money.
"OK, I'm in," said Jude. "Drop your pants, ladies. Show us what you got."
Madge flipped her cards. "Pair of jacks."
Carm had a straight. "Let's go, Jude. We ain't getting any younger."
Jude flipped her cards. "Full house, ladies."
"You fucking whore," said Lois as she wheeled back up to the table.
Jude swept the chips into her pile. "Nice doing business with you ladies."
"Hey! Ricky Martin! How's that drink coming along?" Having lost, Madge's tone had shifted quickly from kind to cranky.
Christopher looked flustered. "Do you have any more limes?"
"For fuck's sake, Chrissy. Just give me the Goddamned drink. For your boyfriend's sake, I hope you suck cock better than you tend bar. Christ, my husband could've served me by now. And he died six years ago."
"Here you are," he said, handing it to her.
"Thank you, sweet pea. Now, we gonna get those sandwiches tonight or should I just give up hope on that?"
"And I wouldn't say no to another whiskey sour, but I'm afraid to ask," said Jude. "I'd say you mix drinks like old people fuck, but I don't want to offend the old people at this table."
"And I'm still waiting on my gin and tonic," said Carmella. "Tell you what. If I take out my teeth and suck your cock, would you, maybe, you know, give it to me while I'm still among the Goddamned living?" She reached into her purse, got a packet of chewing tobacco, and tucked a wad in her cheek.
He went to work on Carmella's drink, astonished at how fast four old women could burn through the booze. When he'd gotten the assignment, he figured it would be a breeze. He was wrong.
Working the Old Maid Poker Night was a rite of passage for guys looking to break into the Narducci family business. Do a good job there and eventually you might be trusted to work one of the guys' games. Do a good job at one of the guys' games and you might move on to other jobs. And then from there, it was up to you.
But Old Maid was the starting point, and it was a hell of a lot harder than anyone who worked it thought it would be. You had to be able to show that you could keep your composure while getting your balls handed to you by old ladies three, four, five times your age.
You had to be able to keep the peace once the old ladies got good and lit, which they always did.
And you had to figure out how to balance maintaining your dignity while staying in the good graces of the old ladies (and by extension, their sons and husbands who used Old Maid as an audition).
A lot of guys couldn't do it. They'd snap at the old ladies. Or they'd settle into a subordinate eunuch-type role, taking everything the old ladies dished out completely freed from the burden of having a set of balls.
Christopher was quickly falling into category two. He took it all, almost apologetically. The reports on him wouldn't be good: Pussy. Pretty boy. No pride.
Tony, they liked. He'd worked the game last Saturday. He had personality. Knew how to tease the old ladies but in a respectful way. He nudged the line playfully but never crossed it.
But Christopher? He was gutless milquetoast. He would never make it in the Narducci's line of work. They might use him to park their cars someday, but anything beyond that? Nah.

October 31 - The Haunted Strip Mall

2010-10-31T01:13:00.001-07:00

Every year around Halloween we would always hear all about people putting on a Haunted House, or a Haunted Barn, or The Haunted Woods, or a Haunted School or Haunted What Have You, and we were always thinking, why not us? We oughtta get off our asses, put some scary ass shit together, and grab our piece of the Haunted Pie. Know what I'm saying?
Well it took several years of thinking that but doing jack shit before we finally stopped fucking around and actually did something.
And by the way, no, Lee: Your Haunted Garage does not count. Not one person set foot in that stupid thing, Lee. Not one--unless you count your parents and their friends, which, I'm sorry, but I don't. I still remember Mark being all, "It's just a marketing problem." And I'm like, yeah, Mark. You think? A cardboard box propped up against your mailbox with "Haunted Garage" written on it with an arrow pointing at your house? That shit ain't marketing. And neither is pulling the parents of trick or treaters aside and offering them two for the price of one entry for the Haunted Garage. Besides, there's a difference between scary and creepy. And a dude in his mid-30s trying to rope kiddies into a dark garage is the latter. Not one taker, man. Not a one.
And yet, I let him rope me in for our next venture, the Haunted Strip Mall. Seriously, that's what it was called. The Haunted Cocksucking Strip Mall. I guess all the good ideas had been taken already, Lee. But it's all good. After all, who would want to go to a Haunted Mental Asylum when you could go to a Haunted Strip Mall instead?
Who? Pretty much everybody, that's who.
Beyond the ridiculousness of the name, part of why it flopped was it didn't look any different from any of the other empty strip malls out there. Lee was like, it'll be so much scarier if we leave the lights off, and then people will pull in and start poking around inside and them BAM!, we'll scare the fuck out of them.
Really, Lee? That's your plan? Hey, ass-face, when it's just some dark strip mall in the middle of 82nd Avenue, with a dive hotel on one side and a boarded up thrift store on the other, who the hell's gonna say, "Hey, see that? I know it looks like every other piece of shit failed business around here, but it might be a Haunted Strip Mall. I believe I'll check it out, just in case."
Lee didn't want to have ANY sort of sign or anything out there. He figured enough people would have seen the website (more on that later) that they would know the place on sight and we wouldn't need to have any sort of sign. Fucking moron.
Anyway, the compromise we came up with was a sign propped up against the old bail bonds place. What'd it say? "Who dares to disturb the spirits of the Haunted Strip Mall?"
And that was it. No other signs. No lights. Lee even made us park around back to save the parking lot up front for the nonexistent customers, so it 100% looked like nothing was going on.
But Lee kept on insisting that the website would have taken care of building buzz and getting people to show up. Oh yeah, the website: hauntedstripmall@blogspot.com, which was "launched" back in August with the message, "Check back soon for updates on the Haunted Strip Mall." It was just that and some shitty Halloween clip art photoshopped over a picture of the strip mall and our address. That was it. And there were never any "updates." There was no explanation of what it was, when it was, or anything. Lee was like, "Less is more." Whatever, dick face.
In fairness, it might have been cool if we'd had more time to work on it. I'm talking about the Haunted Strip Mall, by the way. Not the website. But yeah, we had a bunch of mannequin parts strewn all around the old pawn shop with fake blood on them, a bunch of candles and satanic shit in the Radio Shack, and Mark dressed up like Leatherface and hiding in kitchen of the pizza place. I mean, it wasn't a ton of shit, but if people'd come it might have worked.
But nobody came. And when I say nobody, that includes the cops, too, so maybe the no lights, no signs, no cars out front wasn't such a bad idea after all, because as it turns out, Lee didn't have any sort of permit to do anything there. Surprise, surprise.
Anyway, when I was telling people at work about it, a bunch of them misheard me and thought I said Haunted Strip Club. And I'm like, a Haunted Strip Club might actually work. Titties and ghosts? Fuck and Yes, mi compadre. Fuck and yes.
I wonder if I should tell Lee.

October 30 - The Sultan

2010-10-30T01:41:00.000-07:00

A pale sliver of a moon hung over the desert of central Turkey as the Bedouin tour operators stirred the campfire and the tourists showed each other pictures on their digital cameras.
Jake and Barbara borrowed a headlamp from one of the other couples and went to the bathroom--a scrub brush about 150 feet away from the camp.
The night was still, the silence absolute. The sky was an infinite black dome, with the desert air cool, bordering on cold.
Barbara squatted behind the brush and Jake stood guard. When she was finished, he gave her the headlamp and they switched roles.
Before going back to the camp, they stopped for a moment to take in the endless black silence.
Just as they were heading back to the camp, the ground near the brush moved. They stopped and listened.
Then it moved again.
They turned around to look at where the sound was coming from, and the light from the headlamp caught something emerging from the sand and silt. It was a swirl of dust, a small but growing tornado of sand and dirt. Jake and Barbara's knees locked in place and they couldn't move. The twister grew in size until it was 10 feet tall, and then it made its way over to Barbara and Jake. For a few moments, it whirred silently in front of them, as if it were sizing them up.
And then it spoke. It sounded like Arabic being spoken in a raspy female voice.
If Barbara had been thinking rationally, she would have thought the idea of replying to a talking tornado was patently absurd, but in her shock she simply responded to it (her?) as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
"Sorry, we didn't catch that. Could you say it again?"
The tornado spoke again, more urgently, but Barbara and Jake looked at each other and shrugged. They couldn't understand a word of what she had said.
"Sorry, but do you speak English?"
The tornado shifted slightly, as if in thought.
"Who does want to knowing?" The words were booming but hesitant.
Barbara and Jake looked at each other. Jake nodded at her to go ahead.
"I'm Barbara. This is my boyfriend, Jake."
The whirling column of sand and dirt grew slightly in stature and spoke again in a louder, more assured voice.
"I am name is Sultan Jeren Abdulrahman of the Turkey."
They waited for her to continue, but she just continued to whir in front of them silently.
Barbara and Jake shared a bewildered glance and a small shrug.
"Sorry, but what are you? Are you some kind of--"she searched for the right word, not wanting to offend her, "--ghost?"
"You are do not knowing my name?"
Oh, shit. "No, it's not that. It's--"
"I am not a ghost."
"Of course not. We didn't mean to imply--"
"I am a witch."
"A wi--"
"I am name is Sultan Jeren Abdulrahman of Turkey. Do you really not knowing me?"
She was clearly becoming agitated.
"I'm sorry. I--we--"
"I am the Great Turkey Sand Witch!"
At this, the tension broke. Barbara and Jake couldn't help themselves. They burst into laughter. The Great Turkey Sand Witch waited, not impatiently, for them to stop laughing.
"Why does your kind always laughing at the moment I speak this?"
And then Barbara explained to her that what she called herself sounded exactly like turkey sandwich. And when she still didn't get it, Barbara explained what a sandwich was.
"I see," she said. "Like a doner kebab?"
"Kind of, yeah."
She thanked Barbara and Jake for their help, and then she unceremoniously ate them both.
And in her last conscious thought on the planet, Barbara, whose favorite meal in the world was leftover sandwiches the day after Thanksgiving, thought about how ironic it was to have met her demise by being eaten by a Turkey Sand Witch

October 29 - Two More Days Until the Greatest Fucking Day on the Planet, Bra!

2010-10-29T00:31:00.000-07:00

I fucking LOVE Halloween, man. Live for that shit. As far as I'm concerned, it's 364 days of anticipation and one day of Hold on to Your Titties, Motherfucker, Because the Time Has Come to Scare the Zagnuts Off Some Kiddies.
It's fucking sweet, man: Get a bunch of kids scooting around the hood, getting their trick or treat on, amassing a decent stash, and feeling pretty good about the costume they ended up with.
And then they come to my door.
All the lights are off, the main door is open, and the screen door is closed. Except for a trail of votive candles leading from the driveway to the door, shit is completely dark.
They all dare each other to ring the bell, and then the instant one of them does I've got it rigged so that ALL the lights go on brighter than shit along with Angel of Death at concert volume. At that exact moment, I pop up so I'm right up on their shit in my Creature from the Black Lagoon mask screaming my ass off and brandishing a spear gun with a dead rat dangling from it. Not a real rat, mind you, but it definitely looks the part--Not like the kids are exactly going to be scrutinizing it or anything. They'll be far too busy shitting themselves. The lights, the music, the insane fucker with the mask and the spear gun, and--oh yeah, I almost forgot--the sudden and completely disorienting appearance of four bleating sheep is guaranteed to throw every kid completely off his game.
Dude, I don't even bother buying candy. No kids ever stick around long enough to get it, so I just spend my candy budget on the applejack brandy that I sip furtively while sitting on my rocking chair in the dark, waiting for the next kids to come.
By 8pm I'm usually good and loaded, and as the evening goes on, off come the clothes, see, because I like to immerse myself in my character.
If I'm still conscious by 9pm, I'm generally naked except for the mask. And by then if any stragglers come by, it's pretty much open season on the unfortunate bastards. By then, I've (wisely) gotten rid of the spear gun. Instead I just go sprinting out the door at anybody who comes near my property. I don't even wait for them to ring the bell. Of course by now I'm drunker than hell, and the vision in the mask is really restricted, plus there's almost always some evening dew on the grass, so I always end up falling at least a couple of times. And then the sheep come running out to mess with me, and by that point Slayer's not playing anymore. It's usually Mack the Knife by then, which isn't nearly as jarring and scary, but by then, given everything else that's going on, it still works, it does the trick with those trick or treaters just fine. Them fuckers are gone and believe me, they ain't coming back.
Halloween, man. Fucking Halloween!!
Just two more days!

October 28 - Working Draft of the First Chapter of the Autobiography of Horace the Foul-mouthed Ghost

2010-10-28T04:46:00.000-07:00

Boo, Motherfucker.

October 27 - Random Thoughts and Questions Regarding the Personal Habits of Jason from Friday the 13th

2010-10-27T01:14:00.000-07:00

So, like, Jason. Does he poop? And if so, does he wipe his butt? And if so, what does he use? Leaves? I can't imagine him using toilet paper, so it must be leaves.
But if he poops, then obviously he eats, right? What does he eat? Does he have any favorite foods? Does he cook? Where does he get his food from? Does he have a garden? I can't imagine him weeding, but obviously he doesn't go to the grocery store because he would just kill everybody. So, what then? He must be a live off the land kind of guy, a hunter/gatherer type. I can picture him killing small furry animals and eating them. But how, raw? Probably. But does he skin them first or does he just go for it? I honestly can't decide which would impress me more.
What about at night? I mean, like, what about on nights when there aren't any killable teenagers nearby? Does he sleep? He must sleep, right? But does he have a bed? Pillows? A blanket? Does widdle Jasey-wasey have a widdle blankie poo? If he gets cold, does he close the windows? When he gets up in the morning is he ever like, Is it morning again already? Dude, I JUST put my head down to go to sleep. And now it's morning? The hell happened? Maybe that's why he's so cranky. Just not a morning person, LOL!
Clothes-wise: Well, he wears them, but I'm guessing he just keeps the same set on most of the time. What about his shoes? Does he tie them? Probably, right? Otherwise, he might trip and fall. So then yeah, he ties them. But he probably does it on the sly because if people caught him tying his shoes he wouldn't seem so scary because it's next to impossible to look scary when you're tying your shoes. It's like, that, and drinking from a straw: simply not scary.
Of course it's a different story altogether when he gets up again!! ROTFL!
Bathing? No way. Same goes for brushing his teeth, washing his clothes, etc. Cleaning his pad? Freaking forget about it. Not like he's going to be doing much entertaining.
But getting back to my original question, does he poop? Yeah, I say he does. And then he doesn't wipe.
EWW!!!!!!
Can you imagine? If he came near me with his unwiped butt, I'd be all, Gross, dude! Just kill me now, and put me out of my misery!
LOL!!!!

October 26 - The Train

2010-10-26T03:20:00.000-07:00

When the train came, you ran.
That was the first thing you learned. If they got you on that train, that was it. Nobody ever saw you again.
You never knew when it was going to come, it didn't follow any sort of schedule. And you couldn't go too far from the tracks because that's where they dropped off the supplies: food, mostly. If you could call it that. Subsistence rations. Just enough to keep you alive.
Booze, too. Bathtub vodka in recycled Coke bottles. Tasted like rubbing alcohol, but people drank it anyway, at least the men did.
In the winter they dropped off canvas tarps and musty wool blankets. Not that the weather was any different in winter. It was like late November throughout the year: Rainy. Cold. Occasional snow.
All the trees were bare and slick with rain. Muddy gravel and gravelly mud everywhere. No grass, no colors. Everything was grey.
Nothing grew. That's why you had to depend on the trains. In other prison situations--and this was a prison situation even if that's not what it was called--underground economies grew. People used what they had to get more.
Not here.
The means weren't there. There was no way to get a leg up on anybody. It was day to day survival and that was it. Stay away from the tracks but don't go too far.
Not that you could. Sure, there was freedom of movement. The area stretched for miles in every direction: Miles and miles of rain soaked numbing cold, mud, and dead trees. And then somewhere at the end of it, miles away, a high stone wall.
And the train tracks.
But nobody ventured out. They stayed in shanties and lean-tos. Rotted plywood walls and corrugated tin roofs. A pallet floor if you were lucky. Little kids ran around with no pants. Nobody talked much.
You tried to stay warm. You waited for the train. And when it came you ran and hid and watched as the big men, strong from three meals a day, and warm and dry in all-weather uniforms, jumped off to grab people and put them back on the train. It was the old and sick that got caught first. Them and the careless ones who'd let themselves get too close to the tracks so they would be in the best position to get the supplies they threw off as they left. The men would get four, five people, load them in a boxcar and shut the door. Then they would say something into their walkie-talkies, get back on the train, and leave.
They were always taken alive. The men from the trains all had guns but they hardly ever shot anybody.
"We're all vampire food, man."
That's what the talkative one said, always whispering through his teeth even though nobody was around.
"Think about it, man. They need us alive. That's why they give us just enough to keep us alive for when they load us on that train. Tell me I'm crazy. You've heard the stories, man."
You have. The stories about a colony of well-connected vampires holed up in a compound 100 miles from the middle of nowhere, and an off the books agreement with the government: stay put and we'll keep you fed.
And so, this place. This refugee camp. It made sense. So many different languages. So many powerless people. New people just showed up, no memory of how they'd gotten there. No communication with the outside world. No way out.
A box full of mice to feed to the snakes.
Other theories: human guinea pigs for medical experiments.
Genetic research.
Reality TV.
A farm for aristocratic cannibals.
There was no shortage of theories, but nobody really knew. All you knew for sure was when the train came you ran.

October 25 - Severance

2010-10-25T04:13:00.000-07:00

Glenn was there.
So were Bill, Rush, Sean, and Ann.
Michael, too.
And Keith, Rachel, and others.
All of them were gathered around a mammoth dining room table where they had just devoured a lavish feast. The food was almost impossibly delicious, and the conversation was certainly impossibly uncivil.
Collectively, they were the most self-righteous, opinionated, arrogant blowhards the mainstream media was capable of producing. Divisive, self-serving, polarizing, and hypocritical to a truly unbelievable degree. Taken individually, they were insufferable. But put them in a room together, and it was living hell: bickering, pontificating, preaching, tuning out everything else, willfully turning a blind eye to anything that didn't gibe with their obscenely skewed, biased, and never-in-doubt conclusions and ready to pounce at a moment's notice on anyone who dared to see any issue at all in a different light. They argued and berated each other like verbal pit bulls on PCP. It had been going on for hours.
Their host loved it.
At last he, their host, stood up and tapped his fork against his wine glass, and the room fell silent. As soon as he had their full attention, he began to speak.
"First off, I want to thank all of you for coming here tonight. I can't tell you how great it is to finally have all of you together in one room. It's amazing that everyone's busy schedules allowed for this evening. Ever since I started dabbling in media all those years ago, I've dreamt of a moment like this when I would have so much raw talent together in one place. It's really amazing."
He began walking around the table.
"Now, I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you here tonight. Sorry, I've always wanted to say that."
Everyone laughed warmly if not mechanically.
"No, but seriously, I called you here tonight for two reasons. The first of which is that I wanted to extend my most sincere and heartfelt thanks and gratitude for all the work you have done through the years both individually and collectively. Because of your tireless efforts, the level of political discourse in the United States is at an all-time low. You've taken all the context, nuance, and texture out of every issue and replaced it with simple 'us versus them' dichotomies and fear mongering of the most egregious magnitude. You've oversimplified everything to such a degree that wide, wide, wide swaths of the population have replaced actually taking the time to think about things themselves with belching out whatever spurious conclusions you've come up with to support your raging anti-(fill in the blank) bias. People are no longer waiting until all the facts are in before carefully considering different angles of issues. Instead, they're reacting! They're overreacting! They're leaping to judgement at a moment's notice. They're embracing their differences and denying their similarities, and it's all thanks to you. Because of you, every issue has been reduced to populist slogans, petty and insubstantial accusations, gross manipulations of information to fit a particular agenda, crass scapegoating, undisguised hypocrisy, and utter pigheadedness. Ladies and gentlemen, I couldn't be happier with what you have accomplished."
Everyone at the table looked around, pleased with themselves.
Their host's tone shifted a bit as he continued.
"And that brings me to my second reason for calling you here tonight, which is to tell you that, well, frankly, I've grown bored of it all."
Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"And so, effective immediately, I'm nullifying all your contracts."
The table exploded in outrage, and the host waved them off.
"I know, I know. You're going to sue, you're going to get on your phones right this moment with your agents, your lawyers, and blah, blah, blah."
The room calmed down.
"You're not going to do any such thing. And even if you were, you wouldn't get anywhere. You can't even begin to imagine the legal team I have at my disposal."
They slumped in their chairs in resignation, and their host continued.
"However, I am nothing if not sporting, and so I've decided to put together a little contest, the winner of which gets to keep his or her contract."
His guests leaned forward, waiting for him to go on.
"It's pretty simple, really: Battle Royale. Anything goes. No holds barred. The last person standing gets to keep his/her contract. Everybody else? I'll be seeing you again, well, soon enough"
He looked over the faces at the table.
"We understand each other?"
Keith and Bill indicated that they did by stabbing each other in the throat, and everybody else immediately followed suit. Ann and Rachel pounced on each other like rabid hyenas. Glenn, tears of rage in his eyes, attacked everything in his vicinity. Rush and Michael grappled with each other, but neither of them could get any traction because of their collective size. Sean jumped on top of the table and started throwing plates and cutlery at everyone in sight.
The chaotic melee stretched past the five minute mark.
Little by little, people were eliminated. Ann and Rachel crashed through the plate glass window and plummeted to the ground several stories below. Glenn and Sean skewered each other with shish kebabs.
Finally, only Rush and Michael remained, and it looked like Michael had the upper hand, gripping Rush in a stranglehold. But Rush squirmed out of it, grabbed an American flag from the corner, and impaled him with the flagpole, punctuating it with a breathless, "Die, you traitorous sicko!"
He had done it. Rush was the last man standing. He stood smiling, red faced, drenched with sweat, ready to do whatever his host asked.
His host dispensed with him with an index finger pointed at his heart, and he was dead before he hit the ground.
The host then told the help to tidy up the mess, grabbed an unfinished bottle of red, and started thinking about what he would do next to mess with humankind.

October 24 - The Night Stalker

2010-10-24T01:20:00.000-07:00

The Borjigin tribe of Mongolia were animists. They believed every living thing--plants, animals, rocks, soil--had a spirit. And so their daily lives were filled with miniature rituals and ceremonies intended to maintain harmony with the spirits that surrounded them.
For instance, each fall when the Borjigin harvested their crops, they believed that the severed stalks of the crops still had a life of their own. And as Borjigin legend had it, if they were not calmed, the stalks--angry at having been hacked down in the harvest--would join together and form themselves into a creature called the Night Stalker: a twisting, rustling, amorphous creature bent on taking revenge on the Borjigin tribe for having ripped it out of the earth.
And so every midnight during harvest season the male head of the Tomorbaatar family, the most revered family in the tribe, left his yurt, walked alone to the fields, and sang the Harvest Lullaby to lull the field to sleep. The deep, guttural Tuvan throat singing of the Tomorbaatar was jarring, otherworldly, and haunting.
And soothing to the stalks. It always pacified the field and kept it from awakening and forming itself into the Night Stalker.
It had been that way for generations with the eldest Tomorbaatar male passing the tradition on to his son--until one late spring when Gansukh, the son of Chulunbold Tomorbaatar, died of what probably would have been diagnosed as pneumonia had the people of the Borjigin tribe known what that was. Instead, they knew only that the man who was set to take over the singing of the Harvest Lullaby had died.
By that time in his life, Chulunbold himself was too old to sing the Lullaby; his voice lacked the power. Moreover, he had no brothers, nephews, or grandsons. He was the last surviving male of the Tomorbaatar family.
But he did have a daughter, Altan, and she was engaged to marry a young farmer named Munookhoi Negui.
That summer was marked by arguments, often contentious, about who would take over the singing of the Harvest Lullaby. The tribe's elders were conflicted. It had always been a Tomorbaatar male who did the singing, but for the coming harvest, that wasn't an option. Some felt Altan should carry on the Tomorbaatar tradition. Others felt her fiance should have the job. Still others thought the responsibility should be passed on to another family.
Ultimately, Chulunbold exerted his will on the council and got them to accept his daughter for the role. Some within the council felt it was hubris on Chulunbold's part, but he truly believed his daughter was up to the task. They spent the rest of the summer and early fall trying to get her voice into shape.
It wasn't easy. Her voice was simply too high. They encouraged her to smoke a pipe, drink the urine of male yaks, and gargle with moonshine. They coached her, tutored her, trained her night and day. All of which helped, but they feared that it might not be enough. Munookhoi begged Altan to let him sing the Lullaby instead, but she insisted that she be the singer. It was her duty.
And so the first night of the harvest came. Altan left the family yurt at midnight and walked to the fields alone. The night was still and moonless. Although she couldn't see them, she could feel the presence of the tribe's yaks sleeping nearby.
Everyone else was safe inside their yurts. There was no light coming from any of them, but she knew everyone was awake, ready for anything.
She arrived at the fields, and cleared her throat. Then she swallowed dryly and began singing.
It wasn't nearly deep enough.
Instead of pacifying the bare stalks in the field, it awakened them.
Hearing movement in the fields, she sang harder, more urgently hoping it might calm them, but it had the opposite effect. The stalks stirred and began twisting together into limbs. Then the limbs began twisting together into bigger limbs, and the limbs began forming into a torso that connected them all, and the giant spider-like creature began moving toward Altan.
Terrified, Altan faltered for a moment, and then collected her nerve and continued, as she felt the Night Stalker creeping toward her.
She told herself she wouldn't run. The tribe had trusted her. Her father had spoken up for her. She would die before she let them down. She struggled to sing deeper, but her voice was as low as it could get.
At last the Night Stalker was in front of her. She closed her eyes and continued to sing, wincing, expecting to get torn down at any moment. She heard rustling, sensed movement.
This was it.
But nothing happened.
She finished the song and opened her eyes, and the Night Stalker was gone. In its place was a small pile of wheat.
The next morning, most of the tribe didn't believe her account of what had happened, even when she showed them the wheat that the Night Stalker had left at her feet. Munookhoi in particular kept asking her to describe the Night Stalker: How big was it? What did it look like? How fast was it? In the entire history of the Borjigin tribe, no one had ever actually seen the Night Stalker, and he--like the others--was curious.
She answered his questions as best as she could, but it was difficult. She had been so scared that she had kept her eyes closed throughout most of the episode.
Despite her fear, that night she went out again at midnight. And she sang the Harvest Lullaby again, just as she had the night before, and the results were the same: The Night Stalker materialized, approached her, left a slightly larger pile of wheat at her feet, and then disappeared into the night.
And so it went every night for the rest of the week, with the mass of wheat growing each night.
Nobody knew what to make of it. Was the wheat an offering? A warning? What did it mean?
On the final night of the harvest, Munookhoi snuck out of his family's yurt and trailed her furtively to the fields.
The night started out the same as all the others had before it. Altan began singing, and the Night Stalker slowly formed itself and approached her.
Munookhoi watched from behind as it left its biggest pile of wheat yet in front of Altan. He trembled as he saw it standing mere feet from his fiance.
When it turned around and began returning to the field, Munookhoi ran at it with his scythe and hacked it pieces.
It was all over before Altan had a chance to say or do anything.
Afterwards, they both stood staring wordlessly at the pile of stalks, stems, and vegetation. Despite the coldness of the night, Munookhoi's face dripped with sweat. At last, they returned to their respective yurts and pretended to sleep.
The next morning they didn't tell anyone about what Munookhoi had done, and the tribe began focusing on making preparations for winter. The Night Stalker was all but forgotten and everyone went about their lives.
The following spring, the fields were barren. Almost nothing grew. Come fall, there was nothing to harvest.
It was worse the following year.
And worse yet the year after that.
By then, most of the Borjigin clan had abandoned the village and the surrounding fields, leaving most of their possessions behind and carrying only what they needed.
The next year, when the now married Altan and Munookhoi felt their son was old enough to keep up, they too left the village and joined the rest of the now nomadic Borjigin clan as they wandered Mongolia tending their yaks. Although they were never anywhere long enough to raise and harvest crops, they still trained their son as a throat singer. The Night Stalker might have been gone, but they felt the tradition needed to survive.

October 23 - Untouchable

2010-10-23T04:16:00.000-07:00

Ganesh Jayaraman grew up in the village of Gopalakar in southern India. As members of the lowest level of castes, the untouchables, Ganesh and his mother eked out a meager subsistence scrubbing the floors of the Shenvi Kothari, a wealthy Brahmin family.
One day when Ganesh was 10 years old, he was scrubbing the living room floor where Casablanca had been left playing in the VCR. Having never seen a movie in English, Ganesh stared at the screen, transfixed. It was the scene where Rick and Laszlo had the argument about the visas and then Laszlo ordered the band to play La Marseillaise, which they did, drowning out the sound of the singing Nazis. Moments later, when Major Strasser ordered Renault to close the club, Ganesh was broken out of his spell and he quickly returned to work, grateful he hadn't been caught watching TV while he was supposed to be working.
All told, he had only watched about ten minutes' worth of the movie, but everything about the scene had burrowed itself deeply into his imagination. It was such an exotic language they had spoken, everyone had worn such cool clothes, the music was so passionate, it was such a different world. He was captivated and he wanted more--more of the music, the exoticism, and especially the language. He wanted to talk like they talked.
However, as an untouchable, he had no access to school and no other means to learn the language. English remained an unattainable dream for him.
He grew into adolescence, working every day and singing quietly to himself whenever no one else was around. As he was busy working every waking hour, there was never any time for him to study, and even if the time was there he had no books.
And so went his childhood.
When he turned 17, the modernization of India started trickling into Gopolakar in limited but noticeable ways. There were more and more cars, imported goods in the marketplace, and a proliferation of cell phones. The local video store caught on, too. DVD players were the new big thing; VCRs were out. As a result, they were getting rid of the VHS movies that nobody was interested in renting anymore.
Ganesh stopped by the store and poked around in one of the 25 rupee bins outside the front of the store. He picked a movie out at random and looked it over. He couldn't read any of the words on the box, but he liked the handsome suits of the men in the pictures; they reminded him of the characters from the scene of Casablanca that he had seen all those years ago. Even though 25 rupees was a lot of money to spend, he plunked the money down and walked away with the movie, giddy with excitement.
The movie was The Untouchables.
For the next few years, whenever he had the chance, Ganesh watched the movie on the VCR that the Shenvi Kotharis had given Ganesh and his mother rather than throwing out. Although Ganesh could understand next to none of the dialogue, he memorized it phonetically and, from the action in the movie and the characters' emotions, guessed at what the words meant.
Ganesh's mother passed away when he was 23, and the Shenvi Katharis told Ganesh they would no longer be needing his services.
Uninterested in staying in Gopolakar for the rest of his life, he set out for the United States, hoping to come in touch with the world he had seen in Casablanca and The Untouchables.
He worked and hustled his way across India, sneaking onto freight trains, finding work where he could, and learning about the world as everyday tasks like eating and finding a place to sleep became epic adventures.
Almost exactly one year after his mother died, Ganesh stowed away on a freight ship bound for the United States. The only thing he brought with him was his VHS copy of The Untouchables. Every day on the ship, he worked and sang and practiced his English.
He ended up in Chicago where he worked in various menial labor jobs while trying to expand his English. He did this by seeking out similar situations to those he had seen in The Untouchables. Then, using the dialogue he'd memorized from the movie, he would engage people in conversation and try to remember as much as he could from their responses.
For instance, he would go into cathedrals and kneel next to anyone who was praying by him or herself and give them a nod. Then he would deliver Sean Connery's 'What are you prepared to do?' monologue, thinking it would give the person strength and resolve like it had in the movie: "You want to know how to get Capone? They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. THAT'S the Chicago way. And that's how you get Capone. Now, do you want to do that? Are you ready to do that?"
It was a challenging and thankless way to improve his language. Most people just looked at him strangely, got up, and left.
Even still, he didn't give up. His days were divided among work, singing, and seeking out situations where he could use dialogue from The Untouchables. It was a pretty fulfilling existence.
And little by little, he developed a bit of local celebrity. Somebody even recorded his morgue/hospital monologue and it found its way to the Chicago Bears, who considered using it in a promotional video to hype the upcoming season. In the end, they decided it was a bit too inflammatory to use (even though everyone in the organization loved it).
However, a YouTube version of it found its way to the eyes of the Masala Mob, an Indian American (as opposed to American Indian) rap trio, and Uncle Pradish, an Indian food restaurateur whose father had emigrated to the United States from the same region that Ganesh had grown up in.
Uncle Pradish and the Masala Mob were business partners who were creating a fledgling Indian fast food chain that would add an urban/hip hop edge to the Indian dining experience. Calling their venture Straight Outta Dehli, it was rap meets curry (as Uncle Pradish told everyone he talked to about it), equal parts subcontinental spice and hip-hop attitude.
Uncle Pradish was bankrolling a series of Masala Mob hip-hop videos that would hype their curry houses. And upon hearing Ganesh's Untouchables monologue, they felt like they'd stumbled upon the missing ingredient (so to speak) of their rap/curry combo.
They brought him to their studios, rerecorded his speech, sampled it, and enlisted him to provide background vocals to their album.
The album was a hit and Straight Outta Delhi launched successfully in Chicago. Within a year, four more branches were opened.
Meanwhile, Ganesh's English continued to improve. He still peppered a lot of his conversations with bits from The Untouchables, but by then it was by choice rather than by necessity. As he joked to his ever growing circle of friends, you could remove the boy from the untouchables, but you couldn't remove The Untouchables from the boy.
Ganesh soon became an official member of the Masala Mob, and they toured the region, with Uncle Pradesh providing a tour support vehicle that hauled their equipment as well as a mobile kitchen that his twin nieces used to cook Straight Outta Delhi food to sell at the shows.
By the end of the decade, Straight Outta Delhi had become one of the biggest Indian American success stories in years.
A Bollywood-style movie about their story is currently in production with Ganesh Jayaraman playing himself.

October 22 - No Neck Jimmy

2010-10-22T03:24:00.000-07:00

Everybody called him No Neck Jimmy because he literally had no neck. His round, bald head sat directly on his shoulders, but he never let that stop him from being a total fucking dick.

October 21 - When I Think About You

2010-10-21T02:41:00.001-07:00

So I was just in my car and you know what song came on?
I Touch Myself.
Remember that one? You know you do. Big hit about 20 years ago? Has it really been 20 years? Wow, man. Time flies.
Anyway, hearing it again after all those years reminded me of this (kind of awesome) thing that happened to me back in college: The phone rang, I picked it up and said hello, and instead of saying hi, the person on the other end played a snippet from that song: I want you. I don't want nobody else. When I think about you, I touch myself. Ooh. Ooh. Aah, etc.
(You remember that part of the song, right? It's toward the end after the solo. She's not really singing it, she's more speaking it in this really breathy, sultry, come hither Penthouse Forum voice.)
Anyway, after that they hung up.
This was before caller ID, back when the phone rang, you picked it up, and then you found out who was calling, only in this case I never did. Like I said, they didn't say anything. It must have been before star 69 too because I didn't do that either.
So I hung up too and then the next few days--oh, who am I kidding, weeks--became a sort of one man parlor game trying to figure out who it was that had sent me that message. It was equal parts awesome and maddening to think about: Some chick was out there touching herself? To me?
Wow.
Just . . . wow.
And so everybody became a suspect.
Maybe it was Rachel from down the street. She always presented herself as really sweet, but you could tell there was more going on under the surface.
Maybe it was the other Rachel, the one I always ended up talking to at Champions on Thursdays. I'd gotten vibes from her before. I definitely wouldn't rule her out.
Maybe it was that (sexily) bookish girl from my bio lab.
Maybe it was somebody from high school.
Christ, who knows? It could have been anybody.
The thing is I never did find out. And whoever it was never called back. Just one call and that was it. No other clues. No one giving me any kind of look when that song came on. Nothing.
When you think about it, it's weird how nobody ever came clean about it.
It's also weird how I don't remember anyone else's theories about it.
Did I even tell my friends about it? That doesn't seem like the kind of thing I would have kept to myself. And yet, I really have no memory about talking about it with any of them, which--who am I kidding--I totally would have. I mean, right?
And yet the more I think about it, the more sure I am that I didn't.
Why wouldn't I have shared that with anybody?
That's messed up.
Huh.
Weird.
Actually, you know what? I may have remembered that whole episode all wrong. This is more than a little bit embarrassing, but the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that I was the one who sent the message.
To a few people.
Maybe more than a few.
Huh.
I was the one claiming to touch myself.
Wow, that's kind of embarrassing.
Yeah . . . he he.
Anyway, how was your day?

October 20 - Man in Uniform

2010-10-20T04:19:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things to do is wear uniforms in places where I don't work, and then when people come up to me and ask for help, I'm always like, "I don't work here."
Sometimes I apologize, but usually not.
Other times I'll ask a customer for help doing what they probably assume is my job. Wearing a Fred Meyer uniform and standing on a ladder: "Hey, could you pass me that box? Careful, it's heavy."
Almost everybody helps, at least for a little while.
Fast food uniforms are great because turnover is so high in those places. The manager or whoever is never 100% sure who all works there, so it's totally easy to just stroll into the kitchen like you just got back from a bathroom break or whatever. Get on the line. Maybe apologize for being late. Toss a few pickle chips at whoever looks the newest, and if he or she looks at you funny you can just be all, "Don't eyeball me, fresh meat. I've been flipping burgers since you were sucking your dad's tits. Know your place." And then just walk out double fisting Quarter Pounders with Cheese.
It's also great to wear a KFC uniform (or Taco Bell or whatever) and stroll into a McDonald's and start talking shit, or better yet run through the kitchen yelling, "Panty raid! Panty raid!"
It's always hilarious because, you know, what panties?
I can't even begin to tell you how many free pies I've gotten from Domino's. I just roll in there all a hurry, say "Sup" or "Driver in!" to the frazzled bastards working the phones, grab a couple of pies, and walk back out the door.
I've "worked" at least a little bit in every major restaurant franchise. Nobody says shit. They just assumes you're new.
Sometimes I whisper to the young ones that I'm from corporate ("Shh. Don't tell anyone.").
Sometimes I mack on whatever fast food hotties are working there (You'd be surprised.).
I never steal money, but I never don't steal food.
Building maintenance guy is another good one. Just put on a boiler suit, grab some tools and an extension cord, and you can go anywhere in any building. Malls and office buildings shared by different businesses are the easiest.
Understand that I don't do anything. I just like going places I'm not really supposed to be. The only real risk you run is somebody might ask you to give them a hand with something, but whatever. I don't mind helping out.
But I'll tell you this much: A security guard uniform is surprisingly ineffective. Nobody pays any attention to those guys.
But a helmet, windbreaker, walkie-talkie, and clipboard? Instant authority, man. Nobody even knows what you're supposed to be, but you look official so they stay out of your way. It's like you're dressed up like a giant garlic crucifix walking through a room full of vampires. Just bulletproof.
Want to get backstage at a concert? Jeans, t-shirt, a bunch of electrical cords, and a faded red or blue sticker about the size of a playing card with magic marker writing on it (aka 'backstage pass') stuck on your jeans. By the way, it's always good to have a few of different colors with you depending on which one they're using. It doesn't have to be perfect, just close. As long as you don't hesitate, as long as you look like you know where you're going, nobody's going to mess with you.

October 19 - Good Night

2010-10-19T01:03:00.001-07:00

Hey, did you hear M. Night Shyamalan is coming out with a new movie this fall? Yeah, and it's actually supposed to be really good.
That's the twist.

October 18 - Bark at the Moon

2010-10-18T02:46:00.000-07:00

I will never forget the first heavy metal concert I went to. It was Ozzy Osbourne. Do you know him? Although many people consider he is to be past one's prime, but he is my favorite singer because he is so crazy. Many heavy metal singers pretend crazy, but I think he is maybe don't pretend. It is said that he once bit the head from a bat. And of course he took many drugs and alcohol over the years, so now he is not control his faculties.
But I still like him so much because his music is so powerful. Especially I love Black Sabbath. Paranoid is so cool! Most of the other girls in my school listen to Arashi or Exile. In fact, most of my classmates don't know Ozzy or his music but I don't care. He is my favorite. So when my older sister Ayako told me she can maybe get tickets to see him if I want to, of course I said: "Yes!!!"
The concert was held at Tokyo Dome, which is more than two hours by train from my hometown. Unfortunately, if my parents know we are going to a heavy metal concert, they will absolutely not allow that. Therefore, my older sister told them she will go to Tokyo to take the test to study for a year in an America university and she will take me to go shopping with her after that. She could even get ticket money from our parents because she told them that the test is so expensive. What I mean to say is that our parents paid for the tickets even though they don't intend.
We went to there with my sister's co-worker Rick who is from America. At that time, I don't understand their relationship. Maybe they are friends. Maybe it is more than that. I don't know. She was laughing at his jokes and they often touched one another's arms, but she never talked about him before so who knows. To be honest, I think he was not so interesting. Especially he didn't seem to know Ozzy very much. Although Ayako was laughing at all his jokes, but I don't respond to them. Probably he thought I don't speak English but in fact my English is better than my sister's.
At any rate, we arrived at Tokyo Dome and it was so exciting for me. EVERYBODY was wearing the black heavy metal t-shirts: Slayer, Cannibal Corpse, Megadeth, and so on. And of course Ozzy and Black Sabbath. Unfortunately, I had only a Linkin Park t-shirt. I used to like them before I knew about Ozzy so I bought their t-shirt. Now everybody in my high school loves Linkin Park, but I think they are boring. They are like children, but Ozzy is like their father. What I mean to say is if there is no Ozzy there is no . . . anybody, but absolutely no Linkin Park.
After arrival, we walked around the concourse and ate some fried chicken. And Rick and Ayako drank beer. I was very surprising about that because I never saw Ayako drink beer. Rick asked me how old are you and I told him 16 and he looked at Ayako and they both raised their shoulders like "I don't know." At last, Ayako offered me some of her beer and I drank a little bit but I didn't like it so much so I got a Coca Cola instead.
Rick and Ayako talked more and I walked ahead of them and looked at all the people. It was so exciting! Everybody is a metal head like me! In my school everybody enjoys J-pop or maybe Linkin Park. But here, it was all metal. So awesome! It was like I was in heaven.
Later on, Ayako went to the toilet and told me wait with Rick. At that moment, I could know he is uncomfortable because he was just looking the floor. At last he asked me why is my hair so short. He said it makes me look like a boy, and if I have longer hair like my sister I will be pretty. I pretended not understanding him and he repeated and I continued pretending not understanding him and at last he gave up. After my sister returned from the toilet I told her his saying (in Japanese, of course) and she to roll one's eyes and said she was not surprising at that. Then she encouraged me don't worry about that because we are here to see Ozzy.
Of course, Ozzy! Although I have seen his concert DVDs, but this was the first time in person. So I was very excited about that but pretending don't care. Actually, Rick was very chatty with Ayako before the show and I was very nervous about that. Will he keep talking once the show has started? I wish he doesn't because in Japan is considered bad form to talk during the perform. (Yes, even at the heavy metal concert. Ha ha.) I also wish he doesn't talk because he is so annoying. But maybe Ayako likes him, so I don't say something.
Fortunately, he stopped talking after the lights turned off. Suddenly everything was black and everybody was so exciting. Ozzy began screaming before he entered the stage and the atmosphere was very high. At last he ran onto the stage and let everyone go crazy with excitement. At that time I decided pretending I don't care is stupid and I screamed with all my might.
Of course that is my best live show ever. Although Ozzy only played his best hits (no minor songs), but I don't mind because it let the audience be so high. He played Bark at the Moon, Suicide Solution, Crazy Train, and so on. And he also played many Sabbath, such as Iron Man, Paranoid, War Pigs, and Fairies Wear Boots.
Ayako and Rick stood in the back, but I squeezed to the front near the stage. Everybody was crashing into each other and throwing the devil's horns. And it was so hot and sweat but I love it. Sometimes, Ozzy would pick up buckets of water and throw the water out of the bucket to the audience. We became so wet. One time he looked at me and made a crazy, scary face and I threw the devil's horns at him and I think he approved. I don't ever forget that time.
After the concert is finished, I was absolutely wet with sweat and the next week I had bruises on my arms and legs. But they are like trophies and they let me remember the concert.
On that night, Ayako told Rick we must catch the train in a hurry so they say goodbye so fast.
And on the way home, Ayako told me two happy news: One is that she does not like Rick so much. I felt relief because I think he is not so interesting. Other news is that Rick paid for her ticket. Therefore, we had many extra money so we can go eat anything we want. So we went to Coco's restaurant after return to hometown and ordered a lot of food and talked about the concert. It was so fun way to end the night.
The next week in school I told my classmates about Ozzy. I think maybe some of my friends are jealous and maybe many of them to be indifferent, but I don't care. The important thing is I enjoyed an incredible time.
I want to do it again soon.
OZZY LIVES!

October 17 - The Make-up Artist

2010-10-17T00:01:00.001-07:00

Judy was a make-up artist, which was more than a little ironic since she was indirectly (and not so indirectly) responsible for so many break-ups.
She was a gossip hound, an incomparable flirt, an instigator and an agitator. She was meddlesome, prying, and without peer when it came to collecting and disseminating misinformation and giving out bad advice:
I don't wanna go getting anybody in trouble, but girl, you shoulda seen the way Rachel's husband was looking at the check-out girl at the Wal-Marts the other week. I swear he was looking at her the way Sprinkles looks at my pot roast.
Girl, I got this halter top that would look--Mmmm!--good on you. What are you, size 11?
You ever go with a fireman? Girl, you don't know what you're missing. Them boys is hot! They got this new guy downtown? Shit, all I'm trying to say is his hose could get me wet any day of the week. You say Gary's going out of town this weekend? Say no more, girlfriend. Say no more.
Don't even try to tell me you ain't noticed Becca's been getting a bit big lately. I know it ain't none of my business, but everybody knows Steve got a vasectomy. Everybody also knows she got a new manager at work and she's been working an awful lot of late nights. And that's all I'm gonna say on that matter.
You still with Ricky? That's too bad because my friend Suzie's brother and you would really hit it off. He's a roadie with the Ozzfest right now, but they'll be back in a couple of weeks. You all should come over to my place for appletinis sometime and we'll get you set right up.
Girl, all I'm saying is you cannot be held responsible for anything you say or do after your fourth mudslide. Mitch does not have to know a thing about tonight. This here ladies night! Now go talk to that man before I do!
Think of the chattiest, nosiest, most meddlesome person you know. The biggest devil-on-your-shoulder doling out bad advice. Judy had him/her beat, and everybody knew it.
However/Therefore, she always had people coming to her shop, Judy's Beauty. If their relationship was in a rut, if they wanted a spark of excitement, or if they were just after a change of some sort, they just found themselves drawn to Judy's Beauty for a make-up session.
She was the anti-match maker, the match breaker, a break-up artist of the highest caliber, always full of advice that almost always resulted in the severing of ties.
Her customers must have known it too because they were always quick to denounce her behind her back.
One time, a secretary named Carol said that a visit to Judy's was like malt liquor and corn dogs: tempting once every couple of months, but never as good as you think it's going to be and always leaving you feeling ashamed of yourself.
And yet she always went back.
They all did.
People were funny that way.

October 16 - Damn Right I Am Somebody

2010-10-16T04:57:00.001-07:00

Goddammit, I'm a real person! With a real name! And I'm sick and tired of fucking spellcheck always telling me my name is a misspelled word, thought Teh.

October 15 - The Red Headed Stranger

2010-10-15T00:18:00.000-07:00

As more and more animals join the list of the world's endangered species, and as more and more of the world's endangered species go extinct, it was a shock when a team of zoologists discovered a new species of bear in in the foothills of Montana.
The bears were the size of grizzlies, with coats of an amber so bright it was hard not to call them red heads.
A male of the species was transported to the Zoology Department at University of Montana to be studied. Dr. Kenneth Urbana, the researcher who was heading the study, nicknamed the bear Willie Nelson both because he was a huge fan and also because the bear was a living, breathing embodiment of his favorite Willie Nelson album, The Red Headed Stranger.
Unfortunately, Willie Nelson didn't always share Dr. Urbana's love of his namesake's music, not even the album that was serving as the ad hoc name for Willie Nelson's species until they came up with something better. In the first few days of the study, every time Dr. Urbana played The Red Headed Stranger in the lab, Willie Nelson would growl angrily, throw a fit, or sit disconsolately in the corner. Most other bears that Dr. Urbana studied were calmed by music of almost any kind. Not Willie Nelson. He often seemed agitated by music, and not just Willie Nelson's.
But he wasn't always this way. A few hours after almost every period of melancholy or rancor, Willie Nelson's mood would brighten considerably when Dr. Urbana played Shotgun Willie or Teatro instead. This prompted Dr. Urbana to think that it was the music that was impacting Willie Nelson's mood; however, further study indicated that that wasn't necessarily the case. In fact, it was impossible for Dr. Urbana to put a finger on exactly what triggered Willie Nelson's dramatic changes in temperament.
The only thing he knew for sure was that ups and downs were the norm for Willie Nelson. Every day was filled with unpredictable changes in his emotional state. This gave Dr. Urbana and his team plenty to keep them busy, and it ultimately helped them come up with a name for Willie Nelson's species. Because all the other red headed bears that were being studied in different labs around the region exhibited the same erratic mood swings as Willie Nelson did, it was the consensus within the scientific community that they should be called bipolar bears.

October 14 - Rap Holy War

2010-10-14T04:41:00.000-07:00

They called it the Rap Holy War and it was the biggest rap feud since Tupac and Biggie. Instead of East Coast/West Coast, it was East Jerusalem and the West Bank, with Hasidic Jewish rapper Hershel "H-Bomb" Horowicz and Muslim rapper Ahmet "MC Jihad" Abdullah hurling lyrical bombs at each other on YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and onstage. Neither of them had a record deal, at least not at first. But they had an audience because theirs was one of the most over the top, incendiary, hateful musical wars ever waged. And as the egregiousness of their taunts escalated, so too did their numbers of Facebook friends, Twitter followers, and views on their increasingly polished YouTube clips.
Every clip H-Bomb and MC Jihad did went viral. Everything they put out from their home studios got remixed, parodied, and exhaustively pored over by pundits of all viewpoints. It was massive.
And it was all a hoax.
Yes, Ahmet was Muslim and yes, Hershel was Jewish, but both were secular. Moreover, they were good friends who'd met in film school (in their native New York City) and hatched the idea of a large scale performance art project in the vein of Andy Kaufman. Thus, the Rap Holy War. They were compiling everything they did for an eventual documentary.
At first they were thrilled by the level of attention they were getting, but they sensed that it was becoming too big (and too serious) too soon, so they tried to make their videos so outrageous that everybody would know it wasn't for real and then they could take off their masks and let the world in on the joke.
Only problem was that the more outlandish their act got, the larger their following became. To Ahmet and Hershel, their rap feud was so obviously satirical, and yet people took everything they did completely seriously. Their personas were fake, but their fans were real.
On some level, Ahmet and Hershel had both hoped their histrionics might cause people to cast a more critical eye toward their stances on the Israel/Palestine issue, but playing the world's biggest media prank was their bigger aim.
And it was working--a little too well. Yes, they were huge Internet sensations, but they were also the targets of protests, hate mail, and death threats both ridiculous and credible. A public appearance in London was marred by violence. Windows were broken, several people were arrested, and eight people were taken to the hospital.
At that point, Ahmet and Hershel pulled the plug. They came clean on YouTube, their websites, and whatever media outlets would interview them. They told the whole story of what they were doing, and they thought that would be the end of it.
But it wasn't.
A large sector of the population had been galvanized by the mythology of H-Bomb and MC Jihad, and once it had been set in motion the movement couldn't be stopped. Abdullah's Army and the H-Bomb Squad, as their (numerous and growing) respective fan bases called themselves, grew in strength and boldness. Ahmet and Hershel urged calm and restraint. When that didn't work--when their followers didn't listen--and they begged them to stop for the love of God, Abdullah's Army and the H-Bomb Squad turned on them too.
By then both groups had begun producing their own talent that was very much in the mold of the original H-Bomb and MC Jihad, only far more extreme and 100% serious. The potential had always been there. It just needed a catalyst.
Violence escalated, the movements grew and spider webbed. Militant groups on both sides co opted the music and turned it into pro-us, anti-them anthems. Everything became radicalized. Lines were drawn. It was impossible to stay neutral. Nobody listened to reason. Everyone was forced to choose a side. Everyone went all in.
For Ahmet and Hershel it was all a mixed blessing. They were shocked and sickened that their performance art experiment had taken on such an ugly life of its own, but at the same time it was all amazing documentary material.
The death threats against Hershel and Abdul grew in credibility. First they stopped going out in character. Then they went into hiding. Then they came out of hiding with a new roughed up look, claiming to be the "real" H-Bomb and MC Jihad and calling for a de-escalation of tensions, which nobody paid any mind to. They either didn't believe them or they were unable/unwilling to hear reason. An unholy rap doomsday machine had been set in motion, and it wouldn't stop until it had destroyed them all.
A rap battle was set for Jerusalem. The pundits called it Rappageddon. Abdullah's Army convened at the Dome of the Rock, and the H-Bomb Squad at the Wailing Wall. Both groups arrived en masse and ready for anything.
It was a riot.
By the time it was over, the two sides had completely destroyed each other. All the emergency rooms in Jerusalem were packed. Scores were arrested. Three people were killed. Of all who were involved the Rap Holy War, only Hershel and Ahmet, the two pranksters who had set it all in motion in the first place, emerged unscathed. They had been hiding out in Queens when it all went down.
In the wake of the Rap Holy War, Ahmet and Hershel were investigated and interrogated extensively by numerous law enforcement agencies, and the public and the media denounced them as recklessly irresponsible, but ultimately no punishment was sought. They had been stupid and crass, but they had also genuinely tried to defuse the situation. No formal charges were filed.
After a few months had passed, they quietly put their documentary together and released it to mostly positive reviews. It made the rounds on the festival circuit, but never caught on in a huge way. By the time it came out, the world had moved on to the next thing and the Rap Holy War had mostly been forgotten.

October 13 - Uncle Ralph, part II

2010-10-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

I still remember the time our dog Bagel was scratching himself behind his ear and then he turned around and scratched behind his other ear, and my Uncle Ralph was like, "That's it in a nutshell, man. Finish itching one spot and then another one needs scratching."
I remember thinking that was a pretty deep thing to say.
But Uncle Ralph didn't have much to say a few minutes later when Bagel's little pink crayon was out and he was giving it to my little sister's teddy bear.
Ain't a lot that trumps that, eh Uncle Ralph?

October 12 - The Mouse Ballet

2010-10-12T03:00:00.000-07:00

As far as ballet troupes went, they weren't very good, but there were two things you had to remember:
1) Their only audience was an infant girl named Maya who had no frame of reference when it came to ballet, and was thus in no position to say how good or bad they were.
2) They were mice.
They were almost certainly the world's only mouse ballet company and as such they were also the best. Including dancers, technicians, and musicians, there were 33 mice in the troupe, and they performed The Nutcracker for Maya on a nightly basis.
When they trotted out onto the hardwood floor of Maya's bedroom in the middle of the night to set up their makeshift stage (the cardboard box Maya's big brother's rain boots had come in, propped up on its side), Maya would stir from her sleep and then stand up in her crib to watch, her little hands gripping the bars. Sometimes laughing, sometimes mesmerized, Maya watched them for as long as they performed. And when they were finished, they were what she dreamt about.
The next morning, she always breathlessly gave her parents a full report of what she'd seen, and they nodded and agreed with her, encouraging her to talk more and more, which she did, telling them all about the spotlight they used (a penlight), their miniature snow drifts (cotton balls) their costumes (tutus made out of rubber bands and tissue paper), and their music (a falsetto choir of baby mice).
When she grew out of infancy and started walking more and more, the mouse ballet moved on to another house. And by the time she learned to talk, she had all but forgotten about them, even though she still dreamt about them sometimes.

October 11 - Orientation to the Afterlife

2010-10-11T02:51:00.001-07:00

So what happens here? You told me before, but tell me again.
You basically get a complete validation of your most heartfelt belief. The one thing you truly believed in the most in the world, even if everybody else thought you were wrong? In this place, you find out that you were right all along.
And it's like that for everybody who comes here?
Yeah.
And everybody comes here.
Yeah.
But how is that possible? Shouldn't some people's beliefs contradict each other at some point?
Yeah, they do. But for recent arrivals, it can be a stressful time and we need to put their souls at ease. Knowing you were right--especially about something you really care about--is the best way we've found to bring that about. Anyway, after they've had a chance to wrap their heads around that we move to Stage 2.
What happens then?
That's the lengthy part of the process. Group therapy, I guess you could call it. In it we help small groups of newcomers with conflicting, mutually exclusive beliefs see that different truths, different realities can coexist.
Not sure I get it.
You probably don't.
Like everybody's right, even though . . . I don't know how to finish my sentence.
I know how you feel. I was there once, too.
So then, like, what is this place anyway? Heaven? Paradise? Nirvana?
All of the above. And then some.
Oh. Ok.
It's a big place.
I guess so.
Not what you expected?
Not really. But at the same time, yes. Like, I actually kind of pictured it as a waiting room like this.
A lot of people do. Those people start out here.
Where do the other people go?
To the place that's like they imagined the beginning of the Afterlife would be like.
For example?
A lot of people start out near waterfalls. Some people start out in the woods. A lot of literalists opt for the pearly gates. One of my recent favorites was a biker bar in the middle of the desert.
And I started out in a waiting room. Even in the Afterlife, I'm an unimaginative loser.
Ha ha. Don't be hard on yourself. True, a waiting room as the entrance to the Afterlife isn't all that unusual of an image, but it is quirky. Gotta give yourself that.
I guess so.
Anyway, this is only the beginning. There's a lot more after this.
Like what?
A lot. But we'll have plenty of time to get into that later. For now, we need to get you fitted for your wings.
Seriously?
No.
Funny.
Sorry. I couldn't resist. Anyway, come on. There are lots of people who've been looking forward to seeing you again. I'll start filling you in on the details on the way.

October 10 - The Slide

2010-10-10T02:37:00.000-07:00

He was well into his PowerPoint presentation when the panic hit him: The slide he'd put in as a joke to himself--he hadn't taken it out.
Had he?
He didn't have a specific memory of hitting 'delete slide.'
Crap.
It was still in there, he was sure of it: An outlandishly inappropriate slide of a morbidly obese woman, nude, beckoning to the viewer with the caption 'Lick my butt!!!', along with a sound effect of a really juicy fart. He'd been bored the night before. He'd put it in because it cracked him up. Of course he was going to take it out.
Only he didn't.
Now, not only was it in his presentation; he wasn't sure where in his presentation it was. Every click of the mouse was like Russian Roulette in front of an audience of the nation's top pediatricians.
But he was such a seasoned and experienced public speaker that he could project confidence and competence, even while he was practically throwing up in his mouth from anxiety every time he advanced to the next slide.
But other than his queasy awareness of the fragmentation mine that was hidden somewhere in his PowerPoint, his talk was going well. Exceedingly well. He'd given enough presentations in his day to know when he really had the audience, and on that day he did. There was that almost tangible charge in the air. The laughs were coming easily. He felt loose, at home. He was even getting vibes from the attractive woman in the front row whom he told himself was Argentinian.
And yet there was that slide, the one that could pop up at any time and derail his whole talk and send him--
BRAPP!
He clicked to the next slide and Lick my butt!!! was gone just as quickly as it had come. Less than half a second of screen time. If it hadn't been for the sound effect, most of the attendees probably wouldn't have noticed it at all.
He didn't skip a beat, didn't acknowledge it in any way. Just continued on through the sentence he'd started on the slide before it and if anybody had heard something, it must have been their imagination.
A few people shifted in their seats, but that was it. He got through the rest of the presentation and the Q & A that followed without incident, and the applause was enthusiastic.
Afterwards, as most of the room broke for lunch, he waded through the self-indulgent follow-up questions of a smattering of overweight male pediatricians from Iowa. It was a chore made both more tolerable and more aggravating by the fact that he could see the (Argentinian?) woman from the front row waiting to ask him questions as well.
The guys from Iowa finally thanked him and left, and then there she was.
Introductions, compliments, cut to the chase: She (Dr. Silva (Brazilian as it turned out)) was very interested in his talk and could she have a copy of his PowerPoint?
Sure, just give me your email address. I'd be happy to send it to you.
Actually, I have my USB drive on me right now.
Oh.
Great.
And then seconds later it was on her drive.
As soon as he removed her drive from his laptop, all the excuses he should have used hit him: Hold on, my phone's ringing; Oh, somebody left their wallet--wait here!; Actually, I need to tweak it a bit first, but I'd be happy to send it to you later; I just remembered I'm meeting a colleague for lunch; Fire!
But no. Just Oh. Great. Here you go. Enjoy!
Dr. Silva getting to see the slide was out of the question. He had to get it back from her.
But how?
He would have to seduce her, of course. Invite her to dinner, charm the hell out of her, get an invite back to her room, make sweet, exhausting love to her, lull her to sleep, sneak the USB drive out of her bag while she slept, take it back to his room, delete the slide, re save the SFW version, and slip it back into her bag before she woke up. No problem. He'd done that kind of thing before, he could do it again.
And yet, no. She was returning to Brazil that day. In fact, she was leaving for the airport right then.
Funny you should mention Brazil. I'm on my way to Rio today too. Isn't that something?
Actually, I'm going to Sao Paulo.
What'd I say, Rio? I meant Sao Paulo. Of course.
His plan was to lift it out of her bag at some point between the conference center and the check in gate, but he couldn't get her separated from her bag. She even took it with her to the bathroom, and then through passport control and then through security, with him following her every step of the way. By then, the mission to get the USB drive back had become exactly that, a mission. And he was going to see it through to the end.
And so he would go to Brazil. He could swing it. He was a doctor. Being rich enough to take trips to the Southern Hemisphere at the drop of a hat was why he'd become a doctor in the first place. Well, that and the opportunity to help people.
Arrival in Sao Paulo. A faked phone call to the hotel. Bad news. They lost my reservations. Can you believe that?
An offer to stay at hers. Sex, showers, sleep--in that order and then once more but not in that order. And yet he never managed to get the USB drive.
He was forced to to join her on a trip out to the Amazon Rainforest to administer smallpox vaccinations to a group of indigenous tribes people who had been displaced by logging concerns. What the hell. He'd always wanted to see the rainforest.
And so finally, a week into the vaccination gig, he did it. He got his PowerPoint presentation off of her drive and replaced it with a clean version.
The task completed, he told her he had to get back to the States earlier than expected. Something had suddenly come up at his clinic. He apologized and promised to call. Yeah right, she said.
No, really, he said, mostly meaning it.
And then he left.
And after a two-day trek through the Amazon Rainforest followed by a 24-hour trip back to his native Denver, he arrived at his home office, deleted the slide from his own hard drive, promised himself he would never put another joke slide into a PowerPoint presentation like that again, and collapsed into his bed.
Moments before he fell asleep, he was seized with panic: He had replaced the original PowerPoint on Dr. Silva's USB drive with the clean version, right?
Yes. Of course he had.
Right?

October 9 - Badass

2010-10-09T06:21:00.000-07:00

Call me crazy, but you know what I think would be a pretty cool experience to have under your belt? Having someone point a gun at you.
Wait, hear me out.
I don't have a death wish or anything. And I don't necessarily want to be shot (more on that later). I just think it would be totally badass to have "had a gun pointed at me" under my belt. It's like the ultimate trump card to put any sucker MC in his place: "No kidding? And he just stepped in front of you in line? Yeah, that totally sucks. Wow . . . (shaking my head) I'm just glad he didn't pull a gun on you . . . What? I never told you that story? Yeah, this one time . . . "
There's not much out there that wouldn't get knocked down a peg or two by a story about having a gun pointed at you. Maybe surviving a shark attack. Oh God, that would be fucking bad ass: "And this one (showing off a scar)? This one I got when I was surfing off the Gold Coast of Australia and from out of nowhere came this real dick of a Great White. And suffice it to say he wasn't quite as impressed with my moves as yo mama was, ha ha! Anyway, we tussled, and he helped himself to a little souvenir here . . . Oh hell yeah, it hurt. But you should have seen that Great White when I got through with him."
But I digress. Like I was saying, having someone point a gun at you? The ultimate opportunity to forever cement your credentials as a badass. I like to think I would be the kind of guy that if someone was pointing a gun at me I would say something cold, like, "You gonna shoot that thing? Well, go ahead, bitch. I ain't got all day." or "Yeah, go ahead and pull that trigger. But your momma gonna miss me when I'm gone." or you know, something. That way if he (or she--it could be a woman, why not?) shoots you, you can go out with the satisfaction that everybody will know you went out hard. And if he doesn't shoot you, or if he shoots you and you live? Ass soup, my friend. For the rest of your life.
My only real fear would be if I panicked and started crying and/or begging and pleading for my life. I like to think that I wouldn't go out like that, but you never know, right? I can imagine my heart beating really fast and tears coming to my eyes and then I start saying any and every thing I can that I think will make this person not pull the trigger. "What do you want? I'll give you anything. Take my money, take my credit cards. Please just don't shoot me!" And I'd be hyperventilating the whole time. Probably crying, too. "Please. I'll do anything! I'll suck your dick!" And then he'd be like, What? And knowing my luck he'd probably be a total homophobe, but I wouldn't know if that was the case or if he just didn't hear me. And so there I'd be. Not only would I have a gun pointed at me, but I'd be in a really socially awkward situation. What do I say now? I'm not gay and I don't think I'm homophobic. And I didn't necessarily mean to imply that the person pointing a gun at me would be up for that sort of thing anyway. I just panicked. Should I say that to him now? Would it make any difference? Oh God, why did I have to go and offer a blow job again?
Yeah, that would be the one downside of having someone point a gun at you. Well, that and the possibility of getting shot. But again, if you survived the gunshot with no permanent damage, and if you had a cool scar someplace on your torso, so you could lift your shirt at the bar and show everybody and tell them the story? Dude, seriously. Good luck going home alone.

October 8 - Hide the Sausage

2010-10-08T05:33:00.001-07:00

When Ingrid and Greta asked me if I wanted to play hide the sausage, I really felt like my experience as an exchange student was about to take a turn for the hell yeah. Check two or three fantasies off my bucket list (Sisters? Europeans? (Nazis?)) and have the cultural exchange story to trump all others? I would love to.
Unfortunately, it turns out hide the sausage is really the name of a game they play in Germany. It's pretty straightforward: One person hides a sausage; everyone else tries to find it. And it's actually kind of fun once you get over the disappointment of realizing that your two impossibly stacked German host sisters aren't asking you if you want to do it with them.
It, however, was a completely different story with my host father Jacob when he came home one night stinking of schnapps and inviting me into his basement rec room for 'un round of hide der sausage.'
Sure, I told him. But it won't be fun if it's just you and me. Let me go see if Ingrid and Greta want to play, too.
Well, the conversation got really awkward at that point. He got all flustered and all of a sudden I couldn't understand his German and he couldn't my English and eventually he was just like never mind, and then the next morning it was like he'd forgotten about it.
Or not. Because then a bunch of times over the next few months he made a really obvious point of getting everyone together to play hide the sausage and went on and on about how it's a great game for the whole family and all that, and it's like, whatever. So you wanted to get with the young American exchange student. You ain't the first.
Well, actually he was the first, but still.
Anyway, the rest of my time there was a nonstop loop of forced male bonding every time I ran into Jacob in the hallway (Vat did you think of last night's Bayern Munich match?) and finding a hidden sexual component to everything that came out of Ingrid and Greta's mouths (You vant to put the icing on our cherry strudel?).
Yeah, that year abroad was definitely filled with lots of botched communications and misunderstandings. And I feel like their tendency to be unclear kind of rubbed off on me.
Which brings me to my point, Madame Secretary, which is that when I asked you if you wanted to play hide the sausage last night, I was referring to the old German game.

October 7 - Captain, No!

2010-10-07T05:46:00.001-07:00

"What would you say is your favorite appetizer?" Pappenfus asked.
The captain thought about it a moment. "Pigs in a blanket. No, wait. Chicken fingers."
Pappenfus's assistant piped in. "What's the deal with that name anyway? Chicken fingers. I don't know about you guys, but I don't think I've ever seen a chicken that had fingers! Am I right or what?"
"Not now, Jensen."
"Sorry, sir."
"Anyway, appetizers. You--"
"I'm a big fan of potato skins too," added the captain.
"Very good, sir. As I was saying, appetizers. Sure, you may not order them every time you go to a restaurant, but have you ever actually said no to an appetizer? Think about it. In your entire life, when have these words ever come out of your mouth: No, I do not want a bite of that appetizer. Never, right?"
The officers who were there with the captain shrugged their agreement.
"I also like spinach artichoke dip."
"Of course you do, captain. Who doesn't? Which is exactly why we at Pappenfus Industries believe that appetizers are the perfect device for stopping and immobilizing perpetrators."
Sensing that Pappenfus was getting to the meat of the matter, the officers leaned in.
Pappenfus pulled the cloth off of a tray full of fried mozzarella sticks, egg rolls, and popcorn shrimp.
"Everybody knows these delicious snacks as appetizers. Some clever eateries also call them appeteasers. Gentlemen, I give you the next generation of suspect suppression technology. The appetaser."
Pappenfus paused a beat to let the men soak it in.
"When someone is causing a disorder, threatening violence, about to trigger an ugly incident, all you have to do is get his attention long enough to offer him an appetaser."
He motioned to the tray.
"Sure they may look like regular appetizers, but they work just like a taser. Each one of these appetasers delivers a debilitating electrical charge straight to the perp's cortex that will leave him incapacitated for 10 minutes without causing any permanent damage. Plenty of time to detain him, remove him from the equation, and prevent a nasty incident."
"Appetasers--arrestingly delicious."
"Jensen, please."
"Sorry, sir."
"Yes, sergeant. You have a question?"
"The whole idea of a taser is to immobilize a troublemaker. If we can get an agitator's attention long enough to get him to eat one of your . . . "
"Appetasers."
"Whatever. Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of having the things in the first place?"
"No at all," Pappenfus said. "You see--Captain, no!"
It was too late. The captain had bitten into one of the mozzarella sticks and was thrown out of his chair.
"He'll be fine," Pappenfus said. "Just give him some time."
When he came to 10 minutes later, Pappenfus was telling the other officers about some of his company's other products including the bathroom sanitaser, lawn fertiltaser, and bite sized taser tots, which looked delicious. Before anyone could stop him, the captain had reached up, grabbed one, and put it in his mouth.
"Captain, no!"

October 6 - Ed Robertson and the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop

2010-10-06T02:33:00.000-07:00

Whenever politicians and nostalgists idealize small towns, Watahatcha is probably what they have in mind: Fourth of July parades with combines and guys from the local VFW, high school football, 4H booths at the county fair, church on Sunday, picnics. That's Watahatcha, the quintessential American small town.
And make no mistake, it was small. So small that it only had one gas station, one supermarket, and one high school. There were no strip malls--no shopping centers of any kind. And except for a Tastee Freeze, no fast food restaurants.
There was, however, the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop, the only shop of its kind in the Greater Watahatcha area.
Among their merchandise: Watahatcha t-shirts, mugs, hats, and spoons. Watahatcha baby bibs, salt and pepper shakers, and snow globes.
There was a book on the history of Watahatcha, the unimaginatively titled The Story of Watahatcha.
There were 8 1/2 by 11 black and white prints of important people and moments from Watahatcha history--the arrival of the railroad in 1892; a parade for the town's veterans after they had returned from WWII; a portrait of the 1962 Watahatcha Braves High School State Champion basketball squad; the time when then president Jimmy Carter visited the town; a shot of Watahatcha native Jim Navine, who flew a mission with Space Shuttle Atlantis; the time when Steven Spielberg shot a couple of scenes from Always in Watahatcha; Hands Across America.
There were calendars, recipe books, refrigerator magnets, maps, license plate frames. All kinds of stuff.
But after the new interstate highway was built well away from Watahatcha, the one thing the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop didn't have was customers. Some days--and sometimes for days on end--the shop didn't have one visitor.
But that didn't stop owner and sole employee Ed Robertson from opening for business at 8 am every day of the year (except Christmas) and keeping it open until 8 pm.
His routine was always the same: arrive at the shop, get the register ready, sweep the sidewalk, put up the American flag, brew a pot of coffee for visitors to help themselves to, and open the doors at exactly 8 am. Even on days the shop didn't get customers, people from town would stop by and say hi.
Ed was more reliable than the US Postal Service. Even during the Great Blizzard of 1983 when everything was closed for more than a week, Ed Robertson trekked into town to open the shop just like he did every other day. He joked to his wife Connie that you never knew if somebody might need a Watahatcha snow globe--even in a blizzard. Incredibly, he got a customer on one of the days, a claims adjuster who'd gotten lost and was grateful that any place was open. After Ed gave him directions back to the interstate, the guy bought a Watahatcha hat and went on his way.
The shop didn't make a ton of money, especially after the new interstate opened. But it was enough for Ed and Connie to raise two sons and send them to college.
Ed worked at the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop until the day he died of a heart attack shortly after taking down the flag and locking the doors at the end of the day. That was exactly one year ago today.
After he died, the Greater Watahatcha Gift Shop was demolished and a 7-11 was put in its place. No Watahatcha snow globes, but the coffee isn't bad.

October 5 - Random Thoughts of a Person Trapped Under a Dr. Pepper Machine and Watching Celine Dion's A New Day: Live in Las Vegas DVD on Repeat

2010-10-05T05:57:00.000-07:00

8:02 pm The good news: I don't think anything is broken. The bad news: I can't move. I'm trapped under this damned vending machine. More bad news: I'm pretty sure nobody's coming here until tomorrow morning. The other bad news: For some reason, somebody left Celine Dion's A New Day: Live in Las Vegas in the DVD player.
This is not good.
This could be a long night.
8:03 pm Celine Dion all night long? It could be worse.
8:04 pm Couldn't it?
8:17 pm You know how many albums Celine Dion has sold? Neither do I, but her initials are CD. That can't be a coincidence.
8:19 pm What amazes me about this is how many of her songs I actually recognize on this DVD. Shit, I know her back catalog better than that of groups I actually like. Jesus.
8:37 pm She's now surrounded by topless white dudes and a black guy in a not at all racist/dehumanizing bellhop uniform. Who the hell does she think she is, Madonna?
9:14 pm I came so freaking close to taking a piss before I came in here. How much you want to bet I'm going to regret that one before the night's through?
9:21 pm Really, Celine? Air guitar?
9:44 pm OK, I have officially seen Celine Dion's A New Day: Live in Las Vegas. Silly me. I kind of thought I would make it through today without being able to say that.
9:47 pm By the time someone comes in here again and starts getting me out from underneath this damned Dr. Pepper machine, I will have seen this concert at least six or seven times.
9:48 pm Why the hell did I think that shaking this machine would cause it to give me my money back? What the hell was I thinking?
10:42 pm I could eat.
10:43 pm And pee.
10:44 pm There's no way in hell Celine Dion craps. She's too . . . perfect. No freaking way she pulls down her pants parks her ass on a toilet and goes for it. No way. No, what happens is angels descend from the heavens and make it disappear while she sleeps. Celine Dion defecating? Yeah, right.
11:18 pm That is without a doubt the biggest stage I've ever seen in my life. You could play baseball on that thing. And so many dancers. The dancers could play baseball on the stadium. And the rest of them could be the fans and ball boys and what not.
11:19 pm He he. Ball boys.
11:20 pm Wait a minute. What the fuck do you need so many fucking dancers for?! Tell one of them to stop prancing around and call the police and get me out of here!
11:52 pm Maybe the power will magically cut off at midnight.
12:00 am Nope.
12:34 am Hey, look at the time! It's 12:34 and 56 seconds!
12:35 am I'm so freaking tired. And yet, who could sleep when Celine is butchering Cyndi Lauper?
1:34 am Look at her on that big screen basking in the applause, addressing her minions. She is otherworldly. She is the next step in evolution. She could control the galaxy if she put her mind to it. She should just retire from singing and begin a new career as an omnipotent deity of some sort.
2:12 am Well, I just peed my pants for the first time since I was a toddler.
2:13 am OK, since I was a college student.
3:02 am Holy fucking Canadian bacon, Batman! How many dancers does a fucking diva need? How can she afford to pay them all? This is starting to stress me out.
3:14 am Hey son, how did your audition go for being a dancer with the Celine Dion show? On second thought, I don't care. You're a disappointment either way.
3:34 am I hate her.
3:35 am I hate her fans, too. Look at all those dickless boyfriends in the audience pretending to enjoy themselves. It won't matter! You'll never get laid! Never!
3:36 am Oh yeah, take off that jacket, Celine. Slower, slower.
3:37 am In fairness, she does have a pretty decent figure. But maybe that's just the trapped-under-a-Dr.-Pepper-machine-for-the-last-eight-hours talking. Shit, trap a guy under a Dr. Pepper machine long enough and he'll find any woman attractive.
3:38 am Call me crazy, but I wouldn't turn down Penny Marshall at this point.
4:13 am Every time a fan sheds a tear at this concert, Iggy Pop ages one day.
4:42 am SHUT UP!! For the love of God and all that is holy, shut up so I can sleep!
4:56 am Hey, look at me! I'm bilingual! I can suck in English and French!
5:14 am OK, so this song is, like, gospel or something. And it kind of doesn't suck. I really don't want to like this, but I do. I like a Celine Dion song. What the hell does that mean? I haven't felt this conflicted since that time I was checking out that chick's ass and then she turned around and it was a dude.
5:23 am I wonder what she's really like. Maybe she's actually nice. I mean, do you ever hear diva stories about her? I don't think you do. In fact, the only anecdote I can really think of about her as a person was that she was really nice and gracious to Elliott Smith when they were both performing Best Original Song nominations at the Oscars. And she didn't have to do that. Maybe I've been too hard on her all these years.
5:26 am Am I starting to like Celine Dion?
5:57 am The morning shift should be here any minute.
5:58 am Oh please, don't let them come in now. Not until after she nails the big note on My Heart Will Go On.
5:59 am If I hate that song so much, why has it choked me up every time I've heard it tonight?
6:00 am Oh thank God, there's the door. Thank God, they're here. God I wish I could move my arms so I could wipe away these tears.

October 4 - Out of Love

2010-10-04T02:33:00.000-07:00

I ever tell you about the time I was in a rock video?
No?
Check it out.
You know the video for Fell in Love With a Girl?
That's me.
Here's the short version. One day I was just sitting in some kid's closet where I'd been for like a hundred years.
(Oh, and by the way, I don't mean that in some bullshit Toy Story make you cry kind of way. Screw it. I'm a box of Legos. Would I be happier if some kids were playing with me? On some level, yeah, probably. Fuck it, I'm a toy. Play with my ass.
But on another level, no, not really. For reasons nobody's ever been able to explain to me, kids bite fucking Legos. And since I'm not some perv like your mom, I don't exactly get off on being bitten, so if avoiding the bites means staying inside my box, so be it. Toss my ass in the closet and leave me be.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the short version.
So yeah, there I am sitting in my box in some closet and next thing I know some Hollywood guys have me in some studio somewhere with shit loads of lights and cameras and low level ass kissers trying to make a name for themselves by playing with me for days and days on end.
And I do mean days.
Holy ass bleeding hell, man. Have you ever been on any sort of animation shoot? Fuck my bricky little ass, it's tedious. In order for them to make it look like I'm moving, they have to reassemble me into something slightly different for every single frame of that video. Damn thing's not even two minutes long, but man it took for freaking ever to shoot.
Have you seen it? If not, go YouTube that shit. I don't mind telling you it sucked plenty of ass to make, but I gotta admit it's a pretty kick ass video. And you may not believe it to look at me now, but I look pretty freaking good in it. There I am playing the guitar, beating the drums, walking upstairs, swimming, and I don't even know what else.
Seriously, YouTube that shit. I'll wait. Not like I have anything else to do.
Speaking of which, when they were (finally) done filming that cocksucker, back into the box I went and that was it for me. Not that I was expecting some huge career out of it or anything, but I thought maybe something might happen. Maybe I'd get put in a commercial or have some rock geek want to own the original Lego set used in Fell in Love With a Girl so he could show it off to all his dork ass not getting laid friends, or something, but no. Nothing.
Back into the closet. We're done with you.
And the thing is, most of me is like whatever. Forget my ass. Like I care.
But the rest of me is like screw you. Build me up, make me famous, and then drop me like I'm some object?
Fuck you.
Hey, I think I just came up with the plot for Toy Story 4. Not that they would ever give a story credit to a box of Legos, but whatever.

October 3 - The Penis Thief

2010-10-03T05:15:00.000-07:00

"Hey! Help! Somebody stop that guy! Somebody stop him!"
Nobody moves.
"He's got my penis!"
Nobody does anything. They're all waiting for someone else to step in. The crowd on the platform parts for the penis thief and he runs through them.
"Officer! You have to help me. He's got my penis! I saw him running toward the elevator. If you call ahead you can still get him before he gets out of the station!"
"OK," he says. "Slow down, slow down. Who's got your penis? What's he look like?"
"He's um, he's about my height. Black suit--"
"Like a ninja?"
"Wh--? No, not like a ninja. Like a business suit. White shirt, no tie. And a mask! Like a burglar's mask. Like, you know, the Hamburglar?"
Writing it down in his notebook. Bored. "OK. And he's got your penis, you say?"
"Yes! Please, just hurry! You can still get him before he gets out of the station."
Turns around and speaks into his walkie talkie.
"What's your name, sir?"
"Gary. Gary Dinkins."
Turns around and speaks into his walkie talkie some more.
"He get anything else of yours? Wallet? Briefcase? Anything?"
"No, just the penis. Please!"
"Was it a mugging? Did he take it by force?"
"No, he--It fell out of my bag. I was sleeping and it must have fallen out of my bag. He picked it up and I thought he was going to hand it to me, but then he pushed me back down into my seat and made a run for it."
Writes it down.
"Look. Officer, please. He's still close. I'm sure you can get him if you just hurry."
"Just a few more questions. He was wearing the--what do you call it?--Hamburglar mask at the time he took your penis?"
"Yeah."
"OK, and did he say anything to you?"
"No. He just grabbed my penis, pushed me down, and ran."
"OK," he says, clicking his pen shut. "Let me tell you how these things usually play themselves out. This guy's probably going to take your penis for a little joyride, and then it'll probably turn up behind some dumpster or in an old hotel room or something in a couple of days. I assume it's registered in your name?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, and then it'll probably get returned to you a couple weeks later. Maybe a little worse for the wear, but no major damage--although I would get it checked out just to be on the safe side."
"But officer, he just left. He's probably right upstairs. He couldn't have gotten far."
Shakes his head. He's done with it.
"Let it go."
By now another train has come and gone on the platform. Minutes have passed. All the people who'd witnessed the commotion are long gone. The penis could be anywhere.
The officer puts his notebook away and then looks at the guy.
"Ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Does it hurt? You know, the procedure?"
Thinks a bit.
"It's not too bad."
Nods.
"Girlfriend's idea?"
Looks down at the floor as if the answer is there.
"Yeah."
Nods again.
"Yeah, my wife wanted me to get it done, too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
Snorts laughter through his nose.
"You kidding?"
Shoulders slump.
"Anyway, we're done here. Keep your chin up, Mr. Dinkins. You'll get yours back."
Nods, still looking at the floor.
"And I'm not suggesting this is your fault or anything, but I might suggest that next time you just keep it attached, you know, if you're just going to work or whatever."
Nods again.
"You gonna be all right?"
Nods again.
"Yeah."
"All right. You take care, sir."
"Thanks."
The officer leaves and Gary starts practicing the phone call to his girlfriend, the one where he tells her he's lost track of his penis again.

October 2 - What I Would Totally Say to Albert Einstein in a Really Sarcastic Voice If He Ever Did Something Stupid in Front of Me

2010-10-02T06:12:00.000-07:00

Nice going, Einstein.

October 1 - Asparagus

2010-10-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things to do is wait until I'm really, really tired and then cook up a whole bunch of asparagus and eat it all along with a big glass of water right before I go to sleep. Then, if I'm lucky, I'll wake up the next morning having forgotten all about it. And when I go into the bathroom for my first pee of the day, I'll be like, Whoa, dude! What the hell is that? You know, because of the smell and everything? By the time I'm done peeing, I'll usually remember the previous night's asparagus binge, and then I'll kind of chuckle at how freaked out I'd gotten.
It's so awesome! I go from relaxed to disgusted/panicked to relieved--all within, like, maybe a minute. Any day that starts with that kind of emotional roller coaster is bound to be a good one.
I'm always trying to get my friends and co-workers with the same trick, but you'd be surprised how hard it is to get them to eat a big plate of asparagus right before they go to sleep.

September 30 - Oscar the Glove Maker

2010-09-30T06:06:00.000-07:00

The thing that threw people off about Oscar--and that sometimes got him in trouble--was that, like many people who spoke English as a second language, he omitted the 's' on his plural nouns. For example, "I have three son and two daughter."
Most of the time, it wasn't a big deal, but because of his profession as a glove manufacturer, his tendency to not mark plural nouns with an s caused some funny looks, especially when he was talking about work:
"Making glove is my family business."
"It was my father who first taught me how to make glove. At first I was horrible! But he didn't give up on me. I copied his style of making glove and rose to the top of my profession. He continued to make glove every day until the day he died. Even when he had 87 year, he could still make glove like someone half his age."
To a glove maker from Italy: "You make glove like no one I have ever seen. I would be honored if you would make glove for my company. At the least, I hope you will post a video of your skill on YouTube so that all people around the world can watch you make glove. Maybe someday we make glove together, eh?
"I would gladly give up all my fortune for a chance to make glove with my father just one more time. But I can rest easy knowing I have taught my own son how to make glove just like my father once taught me."
And on and on until today when Oscar retired from glove making and passed the family business on to his son. The world is less prone to eyebrow raising statements because of it, and also a little less interesting.

September 29 - One Week Until Retirement (Cliche Busters Volume 2)

2010-09-29T04:23:00.000-07:00

After serving on the Los Angeles Police Department for more than 40 years, Detective John Sanford was one week away from retirement.
And he was ready.
Earlier in the week, the boys from the precinct had chipped in and gotten him a top of the line rod and reel, which he planned to put to very good use on the fishing boat he'd been neglecting for the past several years, caught up as he was chasing down dead end leads on the Speros case, the one unsolved case left on his docket--a case he planned to keep working on up until the very moment he handed in his badge and gun.
But once that day came--in just one more week--he planned to spend every moment he could on that boat, teaching his grandchildren how to fish. It was going to be glorious.
His phone rang.
"Sanford."
"Hey, old man! They still letting you answer phones around there? Ha ha!"
It was Detective Jack Maddox, his more fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants partner. Whereas Sanford was more cautious and deliberate, Maddox played by his own rules and delivered his own brand of justice to the streets of Los Angeles. Sanford was a down to earth family man. Maddox was reckless and impulsive. They were the original odd couple!
And yet over the years, their fire and ice approaches to police work had gelled, and the two had found a way to work--and thrive--together as a team. Now they were best friends in the world.
"Ha ha," Sanford laughed. "No, they haven't wheeled my old bones out of here just yet. Well, what the hell you want? I ain't got all day. You know I'm retiring at the end of the week."
It was the Speros case.
There was the possibility of a new lead. Maddox wanted to know if Sanford could check out an abandoned warehouse out by the old municipal airport. Maddox would go with him, but he was on the other side of the town, so he couldn't. Besides, it was probably nothing anyway.
Sanford checked the time. He was supposed to meet his wife for lunch, but he could squeeze a visit to the warehouse in before that.
He got up to leave, but his eye caught the pension forms on his desk--the forms that would authorize the payment of his pension and other retirement benefits to his wife in the event of his untimely death.
Wow, I really need to sign those, he thought, grabbing his pen. Otherwise, if something were to happen to me, Madge would get nothing!
Just as he was about to sign them, his phone rang.
It was Madge, and she had exciting news: Their daughter Audrey and her husband Robert were pregnant--with twins!
This is the happiest day of my life!, thought Sanford as he practically floated out the door of the precinct, leaving the unsigned pension forms on his desk.
He drove out to the old municipal airport and spied the warehouse from atop a ridge that overlooked it.
The place was dead.
There were weeds growing between cracks in the pavement. No cars. No activity of any kind. The place probably hadn't seen business in years.
Sanford decided against calling for back-up.
He drove his squad car down onto the property, got out, and walked slowly up to the metallic door. Rapped on it.
No answer.
He pulled on it, but it was locked.
"Hello?"
No answer.
He walked around to the back side of the warehouse, slowly, carefully. The midday sun left no shadows. He looked out in the distance. Power lines. Desert scrub. Emptiness.
Sanford pulled on the back door. It was locked, too.
"Hello!" he yelled again.
Still no answer.
He walked back to his car, turned his back to the warehouse, and got Maddox on the CB.
"Maddox. Sanford here. I'm out at the warehouse, but there doesn't seem to be anything going on. All the doors are locked and nobody's around."
Maddox thanked him for checking it out and apologized for having him go all the way out there on a wild goose chase.
Then Sanford told him it was all right, left the warehouse and met his wife for lunch. After lunch he went straight back to the precinct and signed his pension forms, and then retired uneventfully at the end of the week. Even though he'd never solved the Speros case, he was able to let it go. He was able to let all his police work go because retirement was so relaxing and enjoyable.

September 28 - The Hobo Philharmonic

2010-09-28T04:13:00.001-07:00

They went by a lot of names, but The Hobo Philharmonic was the one that stuck.
The most ragamuffin, ramshackle, threadbare, worn at the knees, grease-streaked, pan handling, boxcar jumping, bathtub fearing, soup-can-as-a-bowl using, bonfire building, daytime sleeping, nighttime carousing, countryside criss-crossing, train yard sleeping, red nose having, cheap wine passing, cigarette sharing, vagrancy rap sheet having collection of misfit musicians there ever was. That was the Hobo Philharmonic.
Featuring:
Knuckles Barkley banging percussion on the bumper of an old Chevy, Stew-eyed Hank blowing on a bunch of old Thunderbird bottles, Petie Two Cups thumping a banjo made out of twine and a shower rod, Jimmy the Mick plucking a Jew's harp, Shakes McCallister blowing an old vacuum cleaner like a tuba, Mike the Fish shaking a bag of glass, Wyoming Jackson pulling on a stray dog's tail, Trouble Man Paul shaking a hot water bottle, Peso Ray playing a xylophone made of old beer bottles, Knock Knock Stampers fiddling a crosscut saw, Marbles Luke squeezing an old respirator like an accordion, Loopy Murkles plucking a stand-up bass fashioned out of a bathtub and baling wire, Crimson Ty strumming a toy ukulele, Alex the Commie blowing the kazoo, Hambone Dupree making cat noises, Goose Franklin clapping shoes together, Greasy Palm Jakes rustling old newspapers, Tommy the Babyshitter playing old TV cathodes like a theremin, Cornell the Buccaneer flicking a Zippo, Sad-eyed Lou blowing his nose, Tiny Fats whistling, Charlie the Mutt clogging, Rascal Walker spitting watermelon seeds, and Chimes Bottom Feeder clearing his throat.
That was one manifestation anyway. It was never the same lineup twice.
There was no telling where or when the Hobo Philharmonic was going to play. It just happened. That's why musicologists and field recorders never managed to capture them on tape.
You could never count on the Hobo Philharmonic being in one particular place--unless you considered the rail yards of the United States one particular place.
One day it'd be blaring outside of Kansas City.
The next night it would be gone and it would stay gone until a few weeks later when it popped up on the outskirts of Albuquerque.
And then it would disappear and stay disappeared until it was spotted near Dubuque.
That was the Hobo Philharmonic.
Blues music, field hollers, the music of the rails. Show tunes by way of Tom Waits passed out drunk in the back of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Spirituals and work songs, the music of American Gypsies, howls, junkyard anthems, the baroque of the broke, desolation blues, jug band operas, tin pan alley and the Beat Generation.
Not available on iTunes.

September 27 - Hellbent for Leather

2010-09-27T03:28:00.000-07:00

There's not a whole lot that's more embarrassing and compromising than having your ex-wife's new boyfriend walk in on you while you're strutting around in their bedroom wearing her lingerie and vamping it up to Sex Bomb.
Take it from me: It's hard to come back from that, especially if said boyfriend is there with a couple of his Hell's Angels friends. And especially, especially if you cover up your naughty parts like a 1920s pinup girl and--God help me--blush.
I wasn't supposed to be there, of course. She got the house. Hell, she got everything. Plus there's that whole restraining order thing, but I always saw that as more of a suggestion than anything else. Besides, when you're "between jobs" like I am, you gotta find ways to fill the time. And what could be better than a little low grade B & E at your ex-wife's place?
What could be better? Hell, just about anything.
Fucking Hell's Angels, dude. Man those fucking guys are scary! How my ex-wife ended up with one is a question for another time. For now, suffice it say it was quite a situation. We all just stand there looking at each other for, like, hours. Meanwhile, Tom Jones is still blaring in the background and when the song (finally) ends, what do I do? I look at the guys and I'm like, "Fancy a shag?"
FYI: Not the best ice breaker in the world if you're ever in the same situation yourself.
The dudes just stare at me, and I'm like, "Austin Powers? Anyone?" And they just keep staring, possibly because they never actually say those words in that particular order in Austin Powers and so they were confused, but more likely because, Holy Christ, get a load of this freak!
And seriously, the silence just goes on and on until all of a sudden, one of the bikers is like, "Shit, hold on." And he reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a digital camera and starts snapping shots of me. Then they all take turns getting into shots with me. THEN they start making me do all these poses.
(By the way, for the record, if you ever see any of them on the Internet, there's no penetration in the shots of me with the feather duster. I'm just pinching it there, scout's honor.)
Anyway, after about 20 minutes or so of them putting me in poses and laughing their asses off, I start wondering why I was so quick to go along with their little photo shoot. I mean, they never actually threatened me. But they're bikers! I just figured the threat was assumed.
But yeah, after a while I'm like, This is bullshit. I'm done. And they're totally cool about it. I mean, yeah, they razzed me and shit, but whatevs.
Anyway, the cool part is the one who's banging (the shit out of) my ex-wife didn't even seem that bent out of shape that he'd caught me in their bedroom in his girlfriend's undies. Undies, by the way, that I don't remember her owning when we were together. You see, she was never the kind of woman who would splurge on that kind of fancy schmancy lingerie for herself. And God knows I wasn't going to shell out for it, either, so I have to assume this was the guy (sucker?) who bought it.
So yeah, on the one hand it was pretty damn embarrassing and all to be caught like that, but then again at least I'm not some jackass bankrolling lingerie fashion shows starring my girlfriend's ex-husband.
I count that as a moral victory.
Me: 1. Hell's Angels: 0
Who's laughing now, biker boy?