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.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
December 30 - Guatalatinejo
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
December 29 - The Neighbor
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
December 28 - Sarcasm Graham
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.
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.
Monday, December 27, 2010
December 27 - Lost
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.
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.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
December 26 - Boxing Day
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.
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.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
December 25 - Olive
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.
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.
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