When I was a junior in high school I took a test at the local career center to see what I would be best suited for in the coming years of my life. The test asked you what kind of things you were interested in; if you liked working with people, if you enjoyed using your hands, etc, etc. Most kids got callbacks on their screens that said they'd make great doctors or welders or accountants. One kid refused to take the test, stating that he knew what he was going to do when he grew up - he was going to be a cartoon animator and he didn't need some dumb machine to tell him. They begged and pleaded with him, imploring him to keep his options open. They said he should at least LOOK to see what his potential could be. I don't know if he ever took the test. He probably failed the class. But can you blame him? A test like that is scary for a teenager getting ready to stare down their twenties and "real life". You'll answer some stupid questions on a computer that looks like the original beta version of computers everywhere and, depending on what you say, this thing is going to tell you if you're suited for your dream job or not. Maybe you don't have a dream job and maybe it's good for those kids but when you're on the cusp of chasing down your career and conquering it, the last thing you want to hear is "your ideal job is a career class teacher". Still a favorable job, but not for someone who wants to draw.
I, on the other hand, had no idea what I was going to do with my life. This was at least a year before I decided to go to film school and was still planning on hitchhiking to LA to be homeless and tell people about Jesus. I had big dreams of my own. I took the test and answered as truthfully as the multiple choices allowed me to (Do you like numbers? A.) Quite a bit B.) Theyr'e okay or C.) I hate numbers). Just as a point of interest, I hate numbers.
I remember it took about an hour to complete this thing. By the time you were done, the glowing green font was embedded into your retinas and you'd stare at your compu-career on the back of your eyeballs for the rest of the day. I finally reached the end and was SO excited to see what it said. Maybe it would say I could be a preacher. Maybe it would say I could be a youth pastor! I LOVE JESUS!
It told me I would be a good bus driver or garbage man.
"Sanitary Technician" is actually what it said.
I sat there, staring at the screen, all the wind pulled from my sails. I stared at "bus driver" and tried picturing myself coasting around in a big yellow bus for the rest of my life. Would I be friends with the kids? Would I hate them? Isn't it a prerequisite to be a pedophile to hold either of those positions? I was 17 and was dating a girl a year older than me. Maybe I was normal.
Across the room, sitting at a table alone, the kid who refused to take his test was drawing in his sketchbook, a naivety is his eyes. The world was his oyster and when he grew up, he was going to be an illustrator and he didn't need some stupid antique to give him affirmation.
During this point in my life, I was working at Subway as a " certified sandwich artist". It was stylized onto our shirts and I would constantly have to fend off the question, "did you actually have to go to school for this - to become a certified sandwich artist?" unto which I would answer, "yes. There's actually a Subway sandwich artist school up in Minnesota, near Mankato. Before you can actually start putting lettuce on bread, they give you an intensive two week bootcamp. I think it's really helped to take my sandwich skillz to the next level".
One night while working alone, during closing, I received a phone call from a girl who sounded pretty. "Subway, this is John, how can I help you?". Having to answer a telephone like that is one of the most humiliating and degrading things I will ever have to do. "How may I serve you oh master of the telephone? Please, allow me to be at your beckon call. Would you like a delicious sandwich made? I will tenderly place your choice of veggies on our fresh oven baked bread. Would you like pepperjack or swiss cheese? I am your sandwich slave. Say the word and it is as good as done".
"How may I help you?"
She's the leader of a basketball team (nice) from out of town. I was a loser and even speaking to her was out of my league but it was 12:30 at night (in the morning??) and no one knew who or what I was. I would play up my hidden studliness and impress the ladies. She needs to bring in her ENTIRE girls' basketball team for sammies. She just wanted to check if we were open and if it was cool to bring it twenty five highly attractive, sweaty, scantily dressed high school seniors into the restaurant where I was working all alone. I think I've seen pornos start this way.
"Sure, sure, yeah - come on in" then I add, "I'll be here, hahaha".
She laughs, but probably just out of kindness as was the situation with most strangers and friends alike in my life. I hang up the phone, straighten my shirt, pop my collar, mess up my hair until it's stylish and cool and give the counter a quick once over. The place has gotta look good if I'm gonna make out with 25 chicks back here. I sweep real quick, mop the place, refresh the veggies. I would've lit some candles if I had some, would've dimmed the lights a bit.
Things are ready. I'm ready to roll. It's go time. All of my sandwich artist training has brought me to this point in my life and it's clutch time. The bus pulls up out front and I feel a strange pop in my nose. I walk to the mirror in the back and gaze up my nostrils. Strange sensation. Blood pours out of my nose and down my lips. A frigging bloody lip? NOW? CHICKS DON'T MAKE OUT WITH GEEKS WITH BLOODY NOSES!!!!! I MAY AS WELL BE WEARING TIGHTY WHITIES AND PLAYING DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS!!!! My plan was aborting itself before it was even crowning. I try to relax. I try to think what a real man would do in my position (while trying not to think that a real man would never BE in my position). I grab a kleenex, stare at it and throw it away. I grab a Bounty paper towel, lay it over my face and blow as hard as I can. Blood sprays out and soaks the white paper like a scene from a horror film. I tilt my head down, stare straight into the mirror and sniff. Yeah, that' s it. Problem solved. No. Nevermind. Drip, drip, drip. I wipe my face with the bloody kleenex, smearing pink across the bottom of my face.
BING-BING.
That's the noise of the front door opening. I shut my eyes and sniff once, twice, three times. That's it. I've just gotta keep the sniffle-snuffles up and I should be fine. I wipe down my face, getting rid of the drying blood. I come around the corner and see just what I've been expecting. Hello ladies. They are all smiles and hoorahs, excited to see me. It was me and me alone that would fulfill their cravings. Their cheering filled me up and I could suddenly see the purpose behind the otherwise worthless cheerleader. I smile and wave shyly before washing the blood from my hands. I keep my head at a strange up-tilt to try and dissuade the blood from making an appearance. I sniff and scrub, sniff and scrub. I grab the paper towels, dry my hands and toss on the plastic gloves like little hand condoms.
I stand front and center in front of the first beautiful honey. We gaze into each other's eyes and she has no idea what I've got in store for her. I plan on covering her in lettuce and squirting oil and vinaigrette up her butt (if she'll let me). I am a junior in high school and girl butts are my oyster. I ask her what I can get for her and the moment that I take my focus off of sniffing, I feel the blood slide down my nasal cavity. I catch it and sniff before it escapes. Talking was going to be a serious problem but I figure if I can just get through the first two chickadees the rest will just sort of stop waiting for me to prompt them and they'll just tell me what they want. This is my plan for the entire evening.
She wants white bread, chicken breast and a foot long. I'm positive her sexual innuendoes are intended strictly for me. I wink at her and push her dinner down towards the end, where dessert waits. I ask her what type of - sniff - vegetables she wants - sniff. She says lettuce and tomatoes and olives. I put them on and say, "Anything else" and just then, at that precise moment, the whole girls' team watching me, squaring up my skillz, a giant red globule of blood slides out of my nose. I sniff but it's too late, gravity has taken over. It rolls down my bald top lip, leaps off my face and lands flat in her sandwich with a very slight, very quiet THWIP.
Everything is silent. I look up, blood on my face. I look into the eyes of each of my conquests, one by one and then I just say, "blood". The girl standing in front of me, she asks if it would be possible to make her a new sandwich.
I'm thinking that dimmer switch would be real nice about now.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Neurosis
When we first moved to LA, Jade and I lived in a converted garage stall. Some would call it an efficiency apartment. The "some" in question probably never lived in an efficiency apartment. If they had, they would be able to tell you that being able to reach a bologna sandwich from your fridge and take a piss in the bathroom, both without getting up from the comfort of your couch is not really "efficient".
Today our place is a little bigger but maintains many of the features our first apartment possessed. Our living room is our dining room is our kitchen. The house is set up in such a way that sort of lacks, what modern people would refer to as "walls". So, if we want to flip on the AC, we are forced to cool down the entirety of the house rather than trying to section it off. The Air Conditioning. The Actual Comfort. Equally, our bank accounts are set up in such a way that if we DO decide to flip the switch, our money suddenly disappears.
So we sweat.
We sit on our couch in our underwear, the door hanging open, the fans on, circulating the horrible heat, blowing it in our faces. What little clothes we are wearing stick to our skin. The sweat dries and you can feel it like sand arms, chest, back. Showering is futile. The sun must go away.
And, at night, it does.
And then, because LA is a desert community, it gets cold. At night I freeze. At night I pray for the sun. I wish for heat. Where are our blankets? Why has Jade taken them off the bed?
A sheet. That's what I'm given to survive the summer nights. I wake up and am frigid and naked. I tug on the sheet. Clementine, our cocker spaniel with the inverted crossed eyes (that means her eyes point OUT instead of center, like some jungle toad), half-wit tongue dangling from her mouth, pokes her head up and glares at me accusingly, her tongue shining pink in the moonlight and seeming to say something along the lines of, "I was dreaming I had a pony named Patches and you woke me up". I say her name. I don't know why. She continues to stare at me before standing up and marching over onto my chest. She pins me down with her fuzzy paws and tilts her head towards mine, staring into my eyes (sort of - inverted, remember) and then just stares. I wonder if that pink nub is going to slip out past her lips any further and accidentally touch me. I blow in her face and she rolls over on her back between Jade and I. She uses my pillow as a pillow. This is how I will undoubtedly receive her ear infection.
I pull on the blankets again but Jade has wrapped herself up in them, mummifying her body. I pull again and she grunts, "what?". I tell her to get up. I tell her I need the sheet. I tell her I'm freezing. I ask her where the blankets are. She says that the medicine is up underneath of her. She tells me the squirrels are tampering with our mail. I give the blanket a final tug and an 1/8 of it slides free, just enough for me to cover my freezing genitals. I use my extra pillow (we each have 2. Jade loves pillows) to cover my chest.
I go to sleep fantasizing about drinking hot cocoa in front of a fireplace with a sweater on in Hell.
I dream about a bomb. It explodes and kills mostly everyone on Earth. The survivors are infected with radiation. We all begin to decompose while surviving off of canned corn. In our free time we play the Nintendo Wii.
I wake up in the morning. THE SUN! It's too hot. I realize I'm completely covered by something that is inherently trying to wrap itself around my feet, trying to mold itself to my body. The bed is scratching me. Something heavy(ish) is on me. My brain is fried from sleep but I try to take in what's happening.
Jade. "What're you doing under there?"
I sit up. Somehow, during the night, in between the radiation and Wii Sports, I'd managed to pull back the fitted sheet, pull back the egg carton mattress thing (which all girls own) and had crawled under them both, deciding to take up nocturnal residence directly on the mattress. I fight my way out of the fitted sheet. Clementine stares at me, her eyes blank slates. Is anything happening in there? I don't know. She farts and starts barking.
It's a Monday, I think. I throw on the clothes I wore yesterday, my socks stiff, my shirt not so gross anymore after airing out all night. I try the underwear, give them a courtesy sniff. No. The dick sweat and dried urine smell is too much. I decide to roll commando. This too proves to be a bad idea as hot days, denim and bare butt cheek skin does not mesh well. It's basically the chemical compound of wool.
I throw on a flannel over a t-shirt I purchased that has a guitar and a gas pump drawn on it. I don't understand what it means or if it means anything. It was eight bucks, it fits perfectly and it has that nice "used cotton" feel that I like so much.
On my way to work I'm listening to the High School Musical 3 soundtrack not because I'm working on a High School Musical piece at Disney, but just because the songs are too catchy to ignore. When Jade found out what I had been listening to, she used the words, "nerd" and "fag" to describe my tastes. Track 1, "Now or Never" is about Troy Bolton's (Zac Effron) chance to make history in one of his final basketball games of his high school career. It feels like a tween version of a Michael Jackson song. Track 2, "I Want it All" is about Ashley Tisdale's dream of becoming a superstar and having an agent and a publicist. It has a definitive "Disney" feel, but is easily overlooked by it's overall epic musical arc. The final track on the CD, track 12, "High School Musical" is my favorite. "I want the rest of my life to be just like a High Schooooooool Muuuuuuuussiiiiiiiiiccclllllllllllle!"
Truer words were never spoken.
I crank down my windows and blast the AC (I can afford it in my car). I know this is sort of a wasteful thing to do but I LIKE the wind in my face, like a dog, and I LIKE the cool air mixing with it and keeping me fresh and clean in my dirty clothes. A red light. I slowly pull up to the car in front of me while examining the car I'll be sitting next to. The rules are as follows:
If the person is 60+, I can ignore the situation, we are in the safe zone. If the person is anywhere below that, male / female and attractive and their windows are rolled down, I lower the volume of the music until it is nearly inaudible so that I don't humiliate myself. I will admit that there is something strangely.......what's the word I'm looking for......"pedophile"......about a grown man trapped in a boy's body listening to a soundtrack for children (but mainly girls). If the person is below 60 and pretty ugly I just keep blasting. Why? Because everyone knows that ugly people's opinions don't matter.
I get to work and park next to the Jonas Brothers themed van. I stare at it and wonder if I've been judging them too harshly.....maybe I should buy an album. 100,000 screaming fans can't be wrong. Walking through the parking garage I try to decide where to put my wallet, cell phone and the huge chunk of metal that is every key I own. I start distributing things to my pockets, trying to figure out which fits where, which piece makes it look like I have a big boner (or worse, a little boner), which piece in what pocket makes people think I've got butt tumors. I try several different combinations until I finally decide to just carry everything in my hands. I leave my sunglasses on even though I'm inside because I think they make me look cool.
I'm wearing new slip on shoes that a friend gave me because he felt sorry for me. He told me that he's known me for two years and he's only ever seen me wearing one pair of Nike's that used to be cool but now where the worn color of piss and were falling apart at the seams. He gives me some shoes he just bought that resemble a "fresh" version of penny loafers. My pants stink, my underwear is gone and my shirt has a gas pump drawn on it. I notice that other adults around me are wearing button-ups, ties and slacks and they have their sunglasses on too. I decide to button up my flannel to appear more professional. I stick my things in my pockets and even though it looks like my lower torso has developed budding breasts, it's okay because no one is looking. I begin buttoning up my shirt and find that my buttons have gone all willy-nilly. The holes and buttons seem to all be in the wrong places and my trained fingers are struggling to figure it out. I look down and see the back of my breast pocket. I look at my shoulder and see some stitching. I'm wearing my shirt inside-out. I quickly pull it off and look around. It's clear. I put it back on and roll my sleeves like Kevin from the Jonas Brothers picture on the van.
I enter the lobby and a few people glance my way, probably just because they saw something moving out of the corner of their eye. I look down at my crotch out of habit. I am certain that some day I'm going to enter a busy building with my dong hanging out of my zipper. It is a real fear and I don't know if there's a name for it.
My zipper is up. I walk to the front desk where the receptionist, an older black woman, calls me "sweety" and asks to see my ID. She asks if Brookbank is my first or last name (for the second day since I've started) before giving me my "badge" (really just a sticker with my name on it that I'm forced to wear around all day). I get in the elevator and ride it up to the sixth floor with other people wearing sunglasses, none of them wearing flannels, all of them texting on iPhones and drinking coffees.
Today we need to layoff a tape and I don't really know how to do that but it's considered extremely unprofessional to get hired for a job and then explain that you're not really sure about certain aspects of it so, while my producer is out of the room I open up the Final Cut Pro user manual and begin frantically flipping through the pages. She comes back in and I smile, "are we ready for layoff?". She nods. "Great".
After work I drive from Burbank over to Wilshire Blvd for my weekly creative arts meeting at The Oasis (the church that we attend). Again, my window is down and my (factory) stereo is up and HSM3 (you know what I mean) soundtrack is blasting and I'm singing and sort of playing air drums on my steering wheel and shifting lanes and then this guy is honking at me and we're both swerving all over the freeway and he's shouting and I'm singing, "W-I-L-D, WILDCATS! C'mon! C'mon!" I suddenly feel really stupid and turn the radio down, embarrassed. I should have seen him but, what can you say? They're called blindspots for a reason.
I have to poop throughout the entire two hour meeting but feel like it would be rude to get up and leave. Plus, everyone would probably think I was going to poop when I asked if I could borrow a newspaper for a bit and then didn't return for fifteen to twenty.
After the meeting, on my way back to my car, it's dark out. The parking lot has a few lights, but not nearly enough. I pull my keys / lumpy hip tumor from my pocket and fumble around in the dark. I stick them in the keyhole and twist but it's jammed. My hands are full - I'm carrying a hard drive and some cables and am getting a little frustrated. I try talking to the key and reasoning with it. I twist some more. I take it out and put it back in. Nothing. I look at the key. Is it the right key? Yes. I look at the car. Is it the right car? It's gray. It LOOKS like my car. I peer in the windows.
About a year ago I got into a car accident. I slammed into the back of this woman's automobile at about 35mph. My windshield shattered, the hood of my car accordioned and my air bags exploded, leaving my steering wheel with two air bag exit flaps dangling like flat, plastic testicles from my horn region. The car that I was peering into like some homeless thief had a steering wheel that was intact. The passenger side floor was not covered in Diet Coke and La Croix sparkling water cans. There were no Taco Bell bags.
This was the wrong Chevy Cavalier.
As is my M.O. I quickly glance around to see if anyone has seen my folly. The parking lot is still pretty empty. I run down the aisle, searching for my car. I find it, crawl inside and flip the heat onto a nice toasty low setting before driving home. When I pull into my driveway I sit there for a moment, trying to absorb as much heat as I can before heading into the frigid house.
I think about the sun.
Today our place is a little bigger but maintains many of the features our first apartment possessed. Our living room is our dining room is our kitchen. The house is set up in such a way that sort of lacks, what modern people would refer to as "walls". So, if we want to flip on the AC, we are forced to cool down the entirety of the house rather than trying to section it off. The Air Conditioning. The Actual Comfort. Equally, our bank accounts are set up in such a way that if we DO decide to flip the switch, our money suddenly disappears.
So we sweat.
We sit on our couch in our underwear, the door hanging open, the fans on, circulating the horrible heat, blowing it in our faces. What little clothes we are wearing stick to our skin. The sweat dries and you can feel it like sand arms, chest, back. Showering is futile. The sun must go away.
And, at night, it does.
And then, because LA is a desert community, it gets cold. At night I freeze. At night I pray for the sun. I wish for heat. Where are our blankets? Why has Jade taken them off the bed?
A sheet. That's what I'm given to survive the summer nights. I wake up and am frigid and naked. I tug on the sheet. Clementine, our cocker spaniel with the inverted crossed eyes (that means her eyes point OUT instead of center, like some jungle toad), half-wit tongue dangling from her mouth, pokes her head up and glares at me accusingly, her tongue shining pink in the moonlight and seeming to say something along the lines of, "I was dreaming I had a pony named Patches and you woke me up". I say her name. I don't know why. She continues to stare at me before standing up and marching over onto my chest. She pins me down with her fuzzy paws and tilts her head towards mine, staring into my eyes (sort of - inverted, remember) and then just stares. I wonder if that pink nub is going to slip out past her lips any further and accidentally touch me. I blow in her face and she rolls over on her back between Jade and I. She uses my pillow as a pillow. This is how I will undoubtedly receive her ear infection.
I pull on the blankets again but Jade has wrapped herself up in them, mummifying her body. I pull again and she grunts, "what?". I tell her to get up. I tell her I need the sheet. I tell her I'm freezing. I ask her where the blankets are. She says that the medicine is up underneath of her. She tells me the squirrels are tampering with our mail. I give the blanket a final tug and an 1/8 of it slides free, just enough for me to cover my freezing genitals. I use my extra pillow (we each have 2. Jade loves pillows) to cover my chest.
I go to sleep fantasizing about drinking hot cocoa in front of a fireplace with a sweater on in Hell.
I dream about a bomb. It explodes and kills mostly everyone on Earth. The survivors are infected with radiation. We all begin to decompose while surviving off of canned corn. In our free time we play the Nintendo Wii.
I wake up in the morning. THE SUN! It's too hot. I realize I'm completely covered by something that is inherently trying to wrap itself around my feet, trying to mold itself to my body. The bed is scratching me. Something heavy(ish) is on me. My brain is fried from sleep but I try to take in what's happening.
Jade. "What're you doing under there?"
I sit up. Somehow, during the night, in between the radiation and Wii Sports, I'd managed to pull back the fitted sheet, pull back the egg carton mattress thing (which all girls own) and had crawled under them both, deciding to take up nocturnal residence directly on the mattress. I fight my way out of the fitted sheet. Clementine stares at me, her eyes blank slates. Is anything happening in there? I don't know. She farts and starts barking.
It's a Monday, I think. I throw on the clothes I wore yesterday, my socks stiff, my shirt not so gross anymore after airing out all night. I try the underwear, give them a courtesy sniff. No. The dick sweat and dried urine smell is too much. I decide to roll commando. This too proves to be a bad idea as hot days, denim and bare butt cheek skin does not mesh well. It's basically the chemical compound of wool.
I throw on a flannel over a t-shirt I purchased that has a guitar and a gas pump drawn on it. I don't understand what it means or if it means anything. It was eight bucks, it fits perfectly and it has that nice "used cotton" feel that I like so much.
On my way to work I'm listening to the High School Musical 3 soundtrack not because I'm working on a High School Musical piece at Disney, but just because the songs are too catchy to ignore. When Jade found out what I had been listening to, she used the words, "nerd" and "fag" to describe my tastes. Track 1, "Now or Never" is about Troy Bolton's (Zac Effron) chance to make history in one of his final basketball games of his high school career. It feels like a tween version of a Michael Jackson song. Track 2, "I Want it All" is about Ashley Tisdale's dream of becoming a superstar and having an agent and a publicist. It has a definitive "Disney" feel, but is easily overlooked by it's overall epic musical arc. The final track on the CD, track 12, "High School Musical" is my favorite. "I want the rest of my life to be just like a High Schooooooool Muuuuuuuussiiiiiiiiiccclllllllllllle!"
Truer words were never spoken.
I crank down my windows and blast the AC (I can afford it in my car). I know this is sort of a wasteful thing to do but I LIKE the wind in my face, like a dog, and I LIKE the cool air mixing with it and keeping me fresh and clean in my dirty clothes. A red light. I slowly pull up to the car in front of me while examining the car I'll be sitting next to. The rules are as follows:
If the person is 60+, I can ignore the situation, we are in the safe zone. If the person is anywhere below that, male / female and attractive and their windows are rolled down, I lower the volume of the music until it is nearly inaudible so that I don't humiliate myself. I will admit that there is something strangely.......what's the word I'm looking for......"pedophile"......about a grown man trapped in a boy's body listening to a soundtrack for children (but mainly girls). If the person is below 60 and pretty ugly I just keep blasting. Why? Because everyone knows that ugly people's opinions don't matter.
I get to work and park next to the Jonas Brothers themed van. I stare at it and wonder if I've been judging them too harshly.....maybe I should buy an album. 100,000 screaming fans can't be wrong. Walking through the parking garage I try to decide where to put my wallet, cell phone and the huge chunk of metal that is every key I own. I start distributing things to my pockets, trying to figure out which fits where, which piece makes it look like I have a big boner (or worse, a little boner), which piece in what pocket makes people think I've got butt tumors. I try several different combinations until I finally decide to just carry everything in my hands. I leave my sunglasses on even though I'm inside because I think they make me look cool.
I'm wearing new slip on shoes that a friend gave me because he felt sorry for me. He told me that he's known me for two years and he's only ever seen me wearing one pair of Nike's that used to be cool but now where the worn color of piss and were falling apart at the seams. He gives me some shoes he just bought that resemble a "fresh" version of penny loafers. My pants stink, my underwear is gone and my shirt has a gas pump drawn on it. I notice that other adults around me are wearing button-ups, ties and slacks and they have their sunglasses on too. I decide to button up my flannel to appear more professional. I stick my things in my pockets and even though it looks like my lower torso has developed budding breasts, it's okay because no one is looking. I begin buttoning up my shirt and find that my buttons have gone all willy-nilly. The holes and buttons seem to all be in the wrong places and my trained fingers are struggling to figure it out. I look down and see the back of my breast pocket. I look at my shoulder and see some stitching. I'm wearing my shirt inside-out. I quickly pull it off and look around. It's clear. I put it back on and roll my sleeves like Kevin from the Jonas Brothers picture on the van.
I enter the lobby and a few people glance my way, probably just because they saw something moving out of the corner of their eye. I look down at my crotch out of habit. I am certain that some day I'm going to enter a busy building with my dong hanging out of my zipper. It is a real fear and I don't know if there's a name for it.
My zipper is up. I walk to the front desk where the receptionist, an older black woman, calls me "sweety" and asks to see my ID. She asks if Brookbank is my first or last name (for the second day since I've started) before giving me my "badge" (really just a sticker with my name on it that I'm forced to wear around all day). I get in the elevator and ride it up to the sixth floor with other people wearing sunglasses, none of them wearing flannels, all of them texting on iPhones and drinking coffees.
Today we need to layoff a tape and I don't really know how to do that but it's considered extremely unprofessional to get hired for a job and then explain that you're not really sure about certain aspects of it so, while my producer is out of the room I open up the Final Cut Pro user manual and begin frantically flipping through the pages. She comes back in and I smile, "are we ready for layoff?". She nods. "Great".
After work I drive from Burbank over to Wilshire Blvd for my weekly creative arts meeting at The Oasis (the church that we attend). Again, my window is down and my (factory) stereo is up and HSM3 (you know what I mean) soundtrack is blasting and I'm singing and sort of playing air drums on my steering wheel and shifting lanes and then this guy is honking at me and we're both swerving all over the freeway and he's shouting and I'm singing, "W-I-L-D, WILDCATS! C'mon! C'mon!" I suddenly feel really stupid and turn the radio down, embarrassed. I should have seen him but, what can you say? They're called blindspots for a reason.
I have to poop throughout the entire two hour meeting but feel like it would be rude to get up and leave. Plus, everyone would probably think I was going to poop when I asked if I could borrow a newspaper for a bit and then didn't return for fifteen to twenty.
After the meeting, on my way back to my car, it's dark out. The parking lot has a few lights, but not nearly enough. I pull my keys / lumpy hip tumor from my pocket and fumble around in the dark. I stick them in the keyhole and twist but it's jammed. My hands are full - I'm carrying a hard drive and some cables and am getting a little frustrated. I try talking to the key and reasoning with it. I twist some more. I take it out and put it back in. Nothing. I look at the key. Is it the right key? Yes. I look at the car. Is it the right car? It's gray. It LOOKS like my car. I peer in the windows.
About a year ago I got into a car accident. I slammed into the back of this woman's automobile at about 35mph. My windshield shattered, the hood of my car accordioned and my air bags exploded, leaving my steering wheel with two air bag exit flaps dangling like flat, plastic testicles from my horn region. The car that I was peering into like some homeless thief had a steering wheel that was intact. The passenger side floor was not covered in Diet Coke and La Croix sparkling water cans. There were no Taco Bell bags.
This was the wrong Chevy Cavalier.
As is my M.O. I quickly glance around to see if anyone has seen my folly. The parking lot is still pretty empty. I run down the aisle, searching for my car. I find it, crawl inside and flip the heat onto a nice toasty low setting before driving home. When I pull into my driveway I sit there for a moment, trying to absorb as much heat as I can before heading into the frigid house.
I think about the sun.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Skinny
I was raised in a pet friendly home. As far back as I can recall, my family always had some sort of animal running around. The first dog we ever owned was named Lindy and was a ghoulash of breeds, the most recognizable being a border collie. One day, while my parents were hanging around outside of my grandpa's radiator shop, a car drove past, slowed down and tossed a bag out the window. Inside the bag was Lindy.
Lindy stayed with us for many years, maintaining the solitary role of pet and general generic guard dog until her later years when we decided to adopt a golden retriever puppy from, what I believe, was a traveling salesman. We named the dog Chester and he grew to be bigger than most average canines. A bit later two cats came into our lives via some friends named Butterscotch and Dusty (those were the cats, not the friends). Later still, I purchased two gerbils whom I dubbed Stan and Eddie after two characters in Stephen King's "IT". Eddie was friendly and liked to be held. Stan liked to stay to himself and decoupage. After the gerbils my mom decided to get some fish and then a stray cat decided to wander into our basement and have nine kittens and then a friend of ours decided to "adopt to us" three stray kittens from around their trailer park.
During this time, Lindy became ill with old age and his health began to descend at an alarming rate. Eventually we had to make the unfortunate end decision. My dad and I rolled her onto a blanket and carried her to the family suburban. The four of us loaded up and drove her to the vet and had her put to sleep.
A few years later Chester died of colic and my two gerbils each died of cancer, only to be replaced by two OTHER gerbils named Gizmo and Gadget who also suffered the unfortunate fates of C. My sister adopted the class albino rat named Mickey and the 13 cats in the basement were given to the Humane Society where they were probably put to sleep as well. Most of my mom's fish ate each other, Dusty ran away and my neighbor shot Butterscotch. Mickey died and was replaced by a hedgehog named Sonic who eventually had to have a leg amputated. Hedgehogs are horrible pets because you can't touch them. It's like having some dry ice for a friend.
Lastly, in the past few years, my mother has adopted a (now) fat farm cat named Toby, two, tiny, imbred dogs named Puggy and Chi-Chi. She's adopted a red terrier-ish animal from her brother and has received a dog named Poncho that finds it imperative to eat everything in sight (edible or not) from who knows where.
My gerbils died during the winter and the ground was too cold to bury them so we wrapped them up in an old towel and placed the towel inside of a Pop-Tart box which was then placed inside of a larger storage box in my treehouse. Spring came and went and I never found the time to give the little rodents a proper burial. Winter came and went AGAIN and finally, the following spring, I decided that it was time to put things to rest. I wondered what Gizmo and Gadget would've said if they'd known that the corpses of my old gerbils were resting in my treehouse. Would they have been nervous?
Once, during an outside sleepover I was having with some friends, I got into a particularly heated argument with my friend Derrick and he grabbed my deceased pet's dual casket and threw it from the treehouse where it crashed into my neighbor's driveway and slid across the cement. I pushed him and screamed at him and kicked over my neighbor's clothesline in anger.
When Lindy died we had him cremated. Today, his remains rest in a fine oak box on our encyclopedia shelf. For many years, when I would bring a new girlfriend home, my dad would enter the living room, pick up the box with the plaque "Our Beloved Pet", sit down across from us, open the box and pet the plastic bag filled with dirty gray ash while he whispered, "Good dog" to himself.
Jade was also raised in a pet friendly home. Actually, to be precise, she was raised on a pet friendly FARM populated by dogs, rabbits, horses, cats and one pot belly pig who liked to bite visitors. Living on a farm, death is much more prevalent, even when compared to my animal house. When a dog dies on the farm, it is a sad day. Someone digs a quick hole under a shady tree, they lower the dog down, cover it up and hope and pray that the other dogs don't come digging around too soon. They do not cremate their pets and turn them into home decorations.
The "other dogs" in question are Rhodesian Ridgebacks and Jade's mom raises them. Now, just like every company, every business must have gain and loss, so is the dog breeding world. A big litter was born in the summer and in this litter, a little puppy that refused to both live or die. The dog was clearly runty and couldn't seem to keep any of his food down. June fed him with an eyedropper until he was old enough to take bites on his own. However, everything he bit into seemed to come right on up again. But this dog didn't mind. It ate dinner, it ate puke, it puked up dinner, it puked up puke. Nothing would stay down and the puppy slowly started to lose weight. It was due to this unfortunate physical attribute that he was crowned with the name "Skinny". June took the dog to the vet. What was the problem? Ulcers? No. The vets think it's some kind of throat problem. They do surgery and it doesn't help anything except make the purse a bit lighter. Skinny is still getting skinnier.
One day we're all sitting about the kitchen island and June asks me if I'd be willing to go dig a hole, back by the barn, under a tree. There was a shovel in the garage. Just make it about two feet deep. Doesn't need to be that wide, she says. I comply and head out for the task at hand. As I'm digging, the hot afternoon sun burning down on me, I hear the kitchen door slide open and the puppies are all released into the yard. The pack comes tearing over towards me, running and screaming, tripping over their own and each other's feet. They role and play and bark and bite. They reach me only to realize that they don't know why they came over. I had nothing to offer but a shovel and a mysterious hole.
The puppies run off, disappearing in groups of two and three, disappearing to explore the rest of the driveway, the horses and the backyard. All but one. Skinny decided to stay by my side and keep me company. I stabbed the shovel down into the dark Earth and pulled out another mound. Skinny jumped down into the shallow hole and began pawing at the ground, loosening the soil for me. I laughed and poked him with my shovel. I scooped up some extra dirt and tossed it aside. I looked back down and there was Skinny, sitting on his haunches, ribs straining through his skink, scar stretched across his neck from the surgery, his sallow face upturned and happy.
It was then that I realized what I'd been called to do. It was then that the pieces all fit together. It was right then that I realized that Skinny was not sitting in a shallow hole. Skinny was resting in a shallow grave and he was playing with my shovel while I dug it. I tried pushing him aside and scooting him out of his final resting place, but he just pounced back in with all the enthusiasm of a Disney character, attacking the shovel with playful growls.
A truck engine. The vet. She's here. June meets with her briefly before grabbing Skinny from the grave she'll be laying him back into in moments. He curls up in her arms as he's been taught and June pets his head, whispering little words in his ear as the vet administers the drugs. I watch from a distance. Most of my animals run away or are killed and I don't do well with death. I haven't been exposed to it enough. I watch Skinny's head slowly slink down onto June's arm and I can see that June is sad. She brings Skinny back over and I fill in the hole, trying to spread the excess dirt over the top as much as I can.
The vet comes over and stomps on the grave. Literally jumps up and down on it. Says something about packing in the dirt.
Don't want the dogs snooping around here too soon.
Lindy stayed with us for many years, maintaining the solitary role of pet and general generic guard dog until her later years when we decided to adopt a golden retriever puppy from, what I believe, was a traveling salesman. We named the dog Chester and he grew to be bigger than most average canines. A bit later two cats came into our lives via some friends named Butterscotch and Dusty (those were the cats, not the friends). Later still, I purchased two gerbils whom I dubbed Stan and Eddie after two characters in Stephen King's "IT". Eddie was friendly and liked to be held. Stan liked to stay to himself and decoupage. After the gerbils my mom decided to get some fish and then a stray cat decided to wander into our basement and have nine kittens and then a friend of ours decided to "adopt to us" three stray kittens from around their trailer park.
During this time, Lindy became ill with old age and his health began to descend at an alarming rate. Eventually we had to make the unfortunate end decision. My dad and I rolled her onto a blanket and carried her to the family suburban. The four of us loaded up and drove her to the vet and had her put to sleep.
A few years later Chester died of colic and my two gerbils each died of cancer, only to be replaced by two OTHER gerbils named Gizmo and Gadget who also suffered the unfortunate fates of C. My sister adopted the class albino rat named Mickey and the 13 cats in the basement were given to the Humane Society where they were probably put to sleep as well. Most of my mom's fish ate each other, Dusty ran away and my neighbor shot Butterscotch. Mickey died and was replaced by a hedgehog named Sonic who eventually had to have a leg amputated. Hedgehogs are horrible pets because you can't touch them. It's like having some dry ice for a friend.
Lastly, in the past few years, my mother has adopted a (now) fat farm cat named Toby, two, tiny, imbred dogs named Puggy and Chi-Chi. She's adopted a red terrier-ish animal from her brother and has received a dog named Poncho that finds it imperative to eat everything in sight (edible or not) from who knows where.
My gerbils died during the winter and the ground was too cold to bury them so we wrapped them up in an old towel and placed the towel inside of a Pop-Tart box which was then placed inside of a larger storage box in my treehouse. Spring came and went and I never found the time to give the little rodents a proper burial. Winter came and went AGAIN and finally, the following spring, I decided that it was time to put things to rest. I wondered what Gizmo and Gadget would've said if they'd known that the corpses of my old gerbils were resting in my treehouse. Would they have been nervous?
Once, during an outside sleepover I was having with some friends, I got into a particularly heated argument with my friend Derrick and he grabbed my deceased pet's dual casket and threw it from the treehouse where it crashed into my neighbor's driveway and slid across the cement. I pushed him and screamed at him and kicked over my neighbor's clothesline in anger.
When Lindy died we had him cremated. Today, his remains rest in a fine oak box on our encyclopedia shelf. For many years, when I would bring a new girlfriend home, my dad would enter the living room, pick up the box with the plaque "Our Beloved Pet", sit down across from us, open the box and pet the plastic bag filled with dirty gray ash while he whispered, "Good dog" to himself.
Jade was also raised in a pet friendly home. Actually, to be precise, she was raised on a pet friendly FARM populated by dogs, rabbits, horses, cats and one pot belly pig who liked to bite visitors. Living on a farm, death is much more prevalent, even when compared to my animal house. When a dog dies on the farm, it is a sad day. Someone digs a quick hole under a shady tree, they lower the dog down, cover it up and hope and pray that the other dogs don't come digging around too soon. They do not cremate their pets and turn them into home decorations.
The "other dogs" in question are Rhodesian Ridgebacks and Jade's mom raises them. Now, just like every company, every business must have gain and loss, so is the dog breeding world. A big litter was born in the summer and in this litter, a little puppy that refused to both live or die. The dog was clearly runty and couldn't seem to keep any of his food down. June fed him with an eyedropper until he was old enough to take bites on his own. However, everything he bit into seemed to come right on up again. But this dog didn't mind. It ate dinner, it ate puke, it puked up dinner, it puked up puke. Nothing would stay down and the puppy slowly started to lose weight. It was due to this unfortunate physical attribute that he was crowned with the name "Skinny". June took the dog to the vet. What was the problem? Ulcers? No. The vets think it's some kind of throat problem. They do surgery and it doesn't help anything except make the purse a bit lighter. Skinny is still getting skinnier.
One day we're all sitting about the kitchen island and June asks me if I'd be willing to go dig a hole, back by the barn, under a tree. There was a shovel in the garage. Just make it about two feet deep. Doesn't need to be that wide, she says. I comply and head out for the task at hand. As I'm digging, the hot afternoon sun burning down on me, I hear the kitchen door slide open and the puppies are all released into the yard. The pack comes tearing over towards me, running and screaming, tripping over their own and each other's feet. They role and play and bark and bite. They reach me only to realize that they don't know why they came over. I had nothing to offer but a shovel and a mysterious hole.
The puppies run off, disappearing in groups of two and three, disappearing to explore the rest of the driveway, the horses and the backyard. All but one. Skinny decided to stay by my side and keep me company. I stabbed the shovel down into the dark Earth and pulled out another mound. Skinny jumped down into the shallow hole and began pawing at the ground, loosening the soil for me. I laughed and poked him with my shovel. I scooped up some extra dirt and tossed it aside. I looked back down and there was Skinny, sitting on his haunches, ribs straining through his skink, scar stretched across his neck from the surgery, his sallow face upturned and happy.
It was then that I realized what I'd been called to do. It was then that the pieces all fit together. It was right then that I realized that Skinny was not sitting in a shallow hole. Skinny was resting in a shallow grave and he was playing with my shovel while I dug it. I tried pushing him aside and scooting him out of his final resting place, but he just pounced back in with all the enthusiasm of a Disney character, attacking the shovel with playful growls.
A truck engine. The vet. She's here. June meets with her briefly before grabbing Skinny from the grave she'll be laying him back into in moments. He curls up in her arms as he's been taught and June pets his head, whispering little words in his ear as the vet administers the drugs. I watch from a distance. Most of my animals run away or are killed and I don't do well with death. I haven't been exposed to it enough. I watch Skinny's head slowly slink down onto June's arm and I can see that June is sad. She brings Skinny back over and I fill in the hole, trying to spread the excess dirt over the top as much as I can.
The vet comes over and stomps on the grave. Literally jumps up and down on it. Says something about packing in the dirt.
Don't want the dogs snooping around here too soon.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Post Traumatic Soccer Disorder
Remember those tests you had to take in school? The ones that asked you which of the following did not fit? They went something like....
A. Pen
B. Pencil or
C. A bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's rich and thick syrup.
The choice was usually quite obvious. Here's another one:
A.) Jackie Robinson
B.) Bo Jackson or
C.) John Brookbank
Some things just stand out. Since the day I was born I have never been mistaken as a "sports type". Twice I've been mistaken for a girl and several times as gay but never has anyone EVER suspected that I played sports. I once tried to lie to a group of strangers, telling them all that I took karate classes every Monday night, upon which somebody immediately called my bluff, stating, "YOU take karate? Yeah, right." Are sports types born or bred? Who knows. All I can say for sure is that ever since I was a small boy on the playground, I was never one to chase after baseballs or footballs. Perhaps an occasional four-square and today I can be found on the mini golf course from time to time, but that's about as close as it comes.
I've tried, though. I've tried to be straight with sports. I've experimented.
During my junior year in high school a friend talked me into joining intramural volleyball. It was coed and was supposed to be pretty relaxed. This would be my first foray and would turn out to be an experience that would highlight all of my jockular fears. My friend Tom and myself showed up late, which, by this point in my life was sort of becoming my MO. I was now regularly spending almost all of my Saturdays in Saturday School due to tardiness. Saturday School was basically a punishment along the same train of thought as The Breakfast Club movie, minus the marijuana scene. We walked in and I was, if it was possible, underdressed for a casual volleyball game. While most of the kids sported sharp Nike shoes, Adidas shorts and Champion t-shirts, I merely wore a pair of Chuck Taylor's, cut-off shorts and a black Friday the 13th t-shirt bearing a picture of Jason Voorhees hockey mask, lying in a pool of blood with a knife shoved through the eye. On the back it read, in a haunting scrawl, "MADE IN HELL". I really was something else.
Teams were split up and, according to The Fates, Tom and I were to be on opposite teams. I was alone and horrified. I didn't even know the rules to this dumb game. We started and I tried to grasp what everyone was doing. I tried to watch the person who served. How did they hold their hands? What did they say before the serve? How did I know WHEN to serve? The ball came to me and I hit it. I HIT IT! I HIT IT! YES!!!! Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all - and it landed outside of the playing zone on my side of the net I am an idiot.
The team didn't really say anything, but you could sort of feel their silent guffaws as they judged me and my cool t-shirt. Things were off to a rocky start and pretty much stayed that way, me just running around the court, trying to avoid the ball and when it finally DID come to me, I tried to just bunt it (or whatever it's called) to another player. If I could just get it to someone else, someone who knew what they were doing and they got a score, I COULD BE HELD RESPONSIBLE! BEING GUILTY BY ASSOCIATION WOULD FINALLY HAVE IT'S MERITS! Just as I was initializing my plan, I found, to my utter and supreme horror, that it was my turn to serve. Everything went into slow motion. Somebody tossed the ball to me and I missed it. I chased it down and took my spot, blushing, hot and red in my face. I held out the big white ball, cocked my arm back and POW, released, sending the sphere CLEAR UP and out and RIGHT INTO THE NET I am an idiot what was I DOING here how did this happen? How close was the door? Could I run? Would they notice I'd left? Would the circle just rotate and someone else fill in for the vacant server, nobody even mentioning my absence?
A girl rolled the ball back to me, being polite not to embarrass me again by trying to make me catch. I swiped at the damned thing again, imagining myself looking like some kitten playing with a ball on a piece of string, mindlessly, hopelessly swatting at the air. This time it doesn't even arrive at the net. This time it veers off to the left and lands next to a teammate. The girl just decides to carry the ball over to me for some reason. Then my basic grammar teacher (who was playing on the opposite team) tries shouting a few pointers to me. "Make a fist! Hit it with your fist! Keep your arm straight! You can do it!"
I can DO IT? Oh. Problem solved.
I was humiliated for the first half of the game until Tom (who plays volleyball just fine) got bored and asked if it was okay if we split out early.
Sure, Tom. Just fine.
I understood that sports were not my niche and probably never would be. Later in college I'd realize just how far this problem stretched when I found that I couldn't win a game of foosball no matter who or what I played. I was at a party and had drunk three beers when I challenged a guy named Patrick to a friendly match. Patrick had helped finish the better part of a keg before topping it off with a handle of vodka followed by losing his pants somewhere. Certainly he was playing at a handicap and somehow still managed to beat me. If he knew what was happening, I would have felt shame.
A few years later, my wife (who was then my girlfriend) and I moved to Glendale, California where we met a photographer's assistant named Rachel. Rachel had tattoo sleeves on both arms and short hair ala Mia Farrow in "Rosemary's Baby" meets an early emo kid. She wore it well and was dead set on clawing her way through the assistant world into the actual photographer realm. In the meantime, she dated a boy named something or the other but for some reason I want to call him Gavin.
Gavin played soccer for a local team that, according to Rachel, consisted mainly of married couples that got together on Saturday afternoons at the local schoolyard, drank some beer and played some football (that's what soccer is called in Brazil. Are you impressed that I knew that?). None of them REALLY played so we'd fit in just fine. Jade and I were hesitant, but after some haranguing via Rachel, we decided to give it a go. What could go wrong? A bunch of idiots on a soccer field sounded like the story of my life.
We showed up on Saturday and it was The Volleyball Incident replayed to a tee. The team consisted of mostly males, none of whom were married, all of which brought their own cleats, knee pads, jerseys, etc. For warm up they bounced the ball back and forth using only their feet. As it turns out, they were all a little more experienced than "barely at all". It came time to pick teams. The captains stood before us and began to fire off names. Anderson. Rob. Steve. Beakman. Gavin. Pauly. Until finally there were only three. Rachel, Jade and myself. The choosing team stopped the rapid-fire names and just stared at us, unsure of what to do, probably sizing up our respective abilities. They chose Rachel. Probably because Gavin, Rachel's boyfriend said, "Choose Rachel".
Just me and Jade.
They stared at us. Everyone stared at us. Who were we? What were our names? Where did we come from? How did we get here? The captain points at Jade and says, "You". I stand there, not sure if I should even bother walking over to my team, who obviously didn't even want or desire me. I was the loose change that you don't bother picking up off the cement. I was the dirty kleenex. I was the last one picked, more of a hinderance to the game play than a desirable commodity. Even if they knew how to use me, I wouldn't understand what they were trying to say.
We began playing. At first I just ran back and forth with my team, trying to look busy. Trying to look like I knew just what was happening. I cheered at all the right spots and kicked the dirt in frustration when, what I could only assume was the other team, scored. Eventually, as it had to be, the ball rolled to me. I stopped it with my foot and began to tap it over to the opposite end of the field. People began shouting at me, everybody saying something, their guttural shouts drowning into a cacophony of noise. A wall of sound. One voice stuck out. It said, "Blue shirt! Blue shirt! Kick it!"
Blue shirt. Upon other circumstances this may have been an endearing nickname given to me by my friends or coworkers. Today it was neither endearing nor a nickname, but rather just an adjective used to distinguish me from the rest of the pack as no one had even bothered to ask my name. "Kick it, Blue Shirt!" I pull my leg back and release. I make a beautiful connection with the ball and it soars a few feet before being blocked by a Neanderthal that must have been in the Marines at one point in his life. The grass is wet and my shoes have no laces or traction. They are slip-ons and the only pair I own. Church / work / soccer. It's all the same shoe. It slips off and flips into the air, traveling higher than the ball ever dreamed of. My other foot slips on the grass and down I go, embarrassed and again red faced and hot.
But wait. There was no, "Oh, Blue Shirt! Are you okay?" or "Blue Shirt! Nice!". There was just nothing. The game went on as though I weren't there.
Someone had the ball. Someone was kicking it towards me. Not TO me, obviously, but just in my general direction. The Neanderthal grabbed the ball holder by the collar of his shirt and stole the ball. The guy pushed the Neanderthal and shouted at him, "WE'RE ON THE SAME TEAM!" The Neanderthal pulled his entire arm back and cold cocked the guy across the mouth, knocking him to the ground. He then proceeded to mount the man and slam his fists one after the other, into his teammate's white, skeletal face. The skinny guy tried blocking the blows, but it was useless. The flesh cannonballs continued their assault until a group of roughly seven guys jumped in and pulled The Neanderthal off, leaving the science teacher looking guy with broken glasses, a bloody nose and black eyes.
People tried to explain to The Caveman that this was just a game and that we just played for fun. They tried to explain that, at this field, we did not hit. A young black girl tried to explain things to him. Tried to reason with him. His response, while it couldn't be mistaken for "polite" was certainly to the point. I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.
Fuc_ you, Nigge_.
I hush fell over the crowd. The pandemonium died. I'd never heard a black person called that to their face before in real life and I didn't know what to expect. I think we all half assumed that she was going to shed her skin, become some sort of lycanthrope and tear all of our white throats out. No. In a very anti-climactic scene, she just said nothing. Instead, one of the guys just said, "Hey, hey, hey. I don't think we need to go there - we're just here to have fun".
The Neanderthal then tried to explain, mainly in cave paintings, how he'd just gotten back from the war and demanded respect. We all tried to soothe-say him, tried to calm him down. He eventually cooled his jets enough to storm off the field, jumped the fence and disappeared towards the parking lot. The game was only half done but everyone decided to call it off. Most of us were concerned that he was going to return with an array of semi-automatic weapons, perhaps a sherman tank.
The team captain glanced around and asked if it was okay if we just ended early and went home.
Sure, Tom. Just fine.
A. Pen
B. Pencil or
C. A bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's rich and thick syrup.
The choice was usually quite obvious. Here's another one:
A.) Jackie Robinson
B.) Bo Jackson or
C.) John Brookbank
Some things just stand out. Since the day I was born I have never been mistaken as a "sports type". Twice I've been mistaken for a girl and several times as gay but never has anyone EVER suspected that I played sports. I once tried to lie to a group of strangers, telling them all that I took karate classes every Monday night, upon which somebody immediately called my bluff, stating, "YOU take karate? Yeah, right." Are sports types born or bred? Who knows. All I can say for sure is that ever since I was a small boy on the playground, I was never one to chase after baseballs or footballs. Perhaps an occasional four-square and today I can be found on the mini golf course from time to time, but that's about as close as it comes.
I've tried, though. I've tried to be straight with sports. I've experimented.
During my junior year in high school a friend talked me into joining intramural volleyball. It was coed and was supposed to be pretty relaxed. This would be my first foray and would turn out to be an experience that would highlight all of my jockular fears. My friend Tom and myself showed up late, which, by this point in my life was sort of becoming my MO. I was now regularly spending almost all of my Saturdays in Saturday School due to tardiness. Saturday School was basically a punishment along the same train of thought as The Breakfast Club movie, minus the marijuana scene. We walked in and I was, if it was possible, underdressed for a casual volleyball game. While most of the kids sported sharp Nike shoes, Adidas shorts and Champion t-shirts, I merely wore a pair of Chuck Taylor's, cut-off shorts and a black Friday the 13th t-shirt bearing a picture of Jason Voorhees hockey mask, lying in a pool of blood with a knife shoved through the eye. On the back it read, in a haunting scrawl, "MADE IN HELL". I really was something else.
Teams were split up and, according to The Fates, Tom and I were to be on opposite teams. I was alone and horrified. I didn't even know the rules to this dumb game. We started and I tried to grasp what everyone was doing. I tried to watch the person who served. How did they hold their hands? What did they say before the serve? How did I know WHEN to serve? The ball came to me and I hit it. I HIT IT! I HIT IT! YES!!!! Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all - and it landed outside of the playing zone on my side of the net I am an idiot.
The team didn't really say anything, but you could sort of feel their silent guffaws as they judged me and my cool t-shirt. Things were off to a rocky start and pretty much stayed that way, me just running around the court, trying to avoid the ball and when it finally DID come to me, I tried to just bunt it (or whatever it's called) to another player. If I could just get it to someone else, someone who knew what they were doing and they got a score, I COULD BE HELD RESPONSIBLE! BEING GUILTY BY ASSOCIATION WOULD FINALLY HAVE IT'S MERITS! Just as I was initializing my plan, I found, to my utter and supreme horror, that it was my turn to serve. Everything went into slow motion. Somebody tossed the ball to me and I missed it. I chased it down and took my spot, blushing, hot and red in my face. I held out the big white ball, cocked my arm back and POW, released, sending the sphere CLEAR UP and out and RIGHT INTO THE NET I am an idiot what was I DOING here how did this happen? How close was the door? Could I run? Would they notice I'd left? Would the circle just rotate and someone else fill in for the vacant server, nobody even mentioning my absence?
A girl rolled the ball back to me, being polite not to embarrass me again by trying to make me catch. I swiped at the damned thing again, imagining myself looking like some kitten playing with a ball on a piece of string, mindlessly, hopelessly swatting at the air. This time it doesn't even arrive at the net. This time it veers off to the left and lands next to a teammate. The girl just decides to carry the ball over to me for some reason. Then my basic grammar teacher (who was playing on the opposite team) tries shouting a few pointers to me. "Make a fist! Hit it with your fist! Keep your arm straight! You can do it!"
I can DO IT? Oh. Problem solved.
I was humiliated for the first half of the game until Tom (who plays volleyball just fine) got bored and asked if it was okay if we split out early.
Sure, Tom. Just fine.
I understood that sports were not my niche and probably never would be. Later in college I'd realize just how far this problem stretched when I found that I couldn't win a game of foosball no matter who or what I played. I was at a party and had drunk three beers when I challenged a guy named Patrick to a friendly match. Patrick had helped finish the better part of a keg before topping it off with a handle of vodka followed by losing his pants somewhere. Certainly he was playing at a handicap and somehow still managed to beat me. If he knew what was happening, I would have felt shame.
A few years later, my wife (who was then my girlfriend) and I moved to Glendale, California where we met a photographer's assistant named Rachel. Rachel had tattoo sleeves on both arms and short hair ala Mia Farrow in "Rosemary's Baby" meets an early emo kid. She wore it well and was dead set on clawing her way through the assistant world into the actual photographer realm. In the meantime, she dated a boy named something or the other but for some reason I want to call him Gavin.
Gavin played soccer for a local team that, according to Rachel, consisted mainly of married couples that got together on Saturday afternoons at the local schoolyard, drank some beer and played some football (that's what soccer is called in Brazil. Are you impressed that I knew that?). None of them REALLY played so we'd fit in just fine. Jade and I were hesitant, but after some haranguing via Rachel, we decided to give it a go. What could go wrong? A bunch of idiots on a soccer field sounded like the story of my life.
We showed up on Saturday and it was The Volleyball Incident replayed to a tee. The team consisted of mostly males, none of whom were married, all of which brought their own cleats, knee pads, jerseys, etc. For warm up they bounced the ball back and forth using only their feet. As it turns out, they were all a little more experienced than "barely at all". It came time to pick teams. The captains stood before us and began to fire off names. Anderson. Rob. Steve. Beakman. Gavin. Pauly. Until finally there were only three. Rachel, Jade and myself. The choosing team stopped the rapid-fire names and just stared at us, unsure of what to do, probably sizing up our respective abilities. They chose Rachel. Probably because Gavin, Rachel's boyfriend said, "Choose Rachel".
Just me and Jade.
They stared at us. Everyone stared at us. Who were we? What were our names? Where did we come from? How did we get here? The captain points at Jade and says, "You". I stand there, not sure if I should even bother walking over to my team, who obviously didn't even want or desire me. I was the loose change that you don't bother picking up off the cement. I was the dirty kleenex. I was the last one picked, more of a hinderance to the game play than a desirable commodity. Even if they knew how to use me, I wouldn't understand what they were trying to say.
We began playing. At first I just ran back and forth with my team, trying to look busy. Trying to look like I knew just what was happening. I cheered at all the right spots and kicked the dirt in frustration when, what I could only assume was the other team, scored. Eventually, as it had to be, the ball rolled to me. I stopped it with my foot and began to tap it over to the opposite end of the field. People began shouting at me, everybody saying something, their guttural shouts drowning into a cacophony of noise. A wall of sound. One voice stuck out. It said, "Blue shirt! Blue shirt! Kick it!"
Blue shirt. Upon other circumstances this may have been an endearing nickname given to me by my friends or coworkers. Today it was neither endearing nor a nickname, but rather just an adjective used to distinguish me from the rest of the pack as no one had even bothered to ask my name. "Kick it, Blue Shirt!" I pull my leg back and release. I make a beautiful connection with the ball and it soars a few feet before being blocked by a Neanderthal that must have been in the Marines at one point in his life. The grass is wet and my shoes have no laces or traction. They are slip-ons and the only pair I own. Church / work / soccer. It's all the same shoe. It slips off and flips into the air, traveling higher than the ball ever dreamed of. My other foot slips on the grass and down I go, embarrassed and again red faced and hot.
But wait. There was no, "Oh, Blue Shirt! Are you okay?" or "Blue Shirt! Nice!". There was just nothing. The game went on as though I weren't there.
Someone had the ball. Someone was kicking it towards me. Not TO me, obviously, but just in my general direction. The Neanderthal grabbed the ball holder by the collar of his shirt and stole the ball. The guy pushed the Neanderthal and shouted at him, "WE'RE ON THE SAME TEAM!" The Neanderthal pulled his entire arm back and cold cocked the guy across the mouth, knocking him to the ground. He then proceeded to mount the man and slam his fists one after the other, into his teammate's white, skeletal face. The skinny guy tried blocking the blows, but it was useless. The flesh cannonballs continued their assault until a group of roughly seven guys jumped in and pulled The Neanderthal off, leaving the science teacher looking guy with broken glasses, a bloody nose and black eyes.
People tried to explain to The Caveman that this was just a game and that we just played for fun. They tried to explain that, at this field, we did not hit. A young black girl tried to explain things to him. Tried to reason with him. His response, while it couldn't be mistaken for "polite" was certainly to the point. I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.
Fuc_ you, Nigge_.
I hush fell over the crowd. The pandemonium died. I'd never heard a black person called that to their face before in real life and I didn't know what to expect. I think we all half assumed that she was going to shed her skin, become some sort of lycanthrope and tear all of our white throats out. No. In a very anti-climactic scene, she just said nothing. Instead, one of the guys just said, "Hey, hey, hey. I don't think we need to go there - we're just here to have fun".
The Neanderthal then tried to explain, mainly in cave paintings, how he'd just gotten back from the war and demanded respect. We all tried to soothe-say him, tried to calm him down. He eventually cooled his jets enough to storm off the field, jumped the fence and disappeared towards the parking lot. The game was only half done but everyone decided to call it off. Most of us were concerned that he was going to return with an array of semi-automatic weapons, perhaps a sherman tank.
The team captain glanced around and asked if it was okay if we just ended early and went home.
Sure, Tom. Just fine.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Ethan Embry
The first job that I truly enjoyed was when I worked at Coborn's Video Store in Mitchell, South Dakota during my senior year in high school. I was almost always late and could never be found dressed to code. Either my shirt wasn't white or it wasn't a button up or it was untucked or my tie was too loose or I wasn't wearing the stupid little black vest or I'd lost my name tag or I was wearing moccasins instead of dress shoes. You maybe couldn't count on me being on time but you certainly COULD count on me being dressed incorrectly. I was, in fact, sent home on numerous occasions to find my name tag / tie / white shirt upon which I would ask, "Can I at least punch in first?"
One day, during a lull, I found myself returning VHS tapes to their shelves - this was 2002, when all the stores were just beginning puberty, making The Big Change from VHS to DVD. I traveled through the new releases - "Orange County" starring Colin Hanks and Jack Black, "The Mothman Prophecies" starring Richard Gere and Debra Messing and "Kung Pow: Enter the Fist" starring Steve Oedekerk and Tonguey. I worked my way through horror. Some of my favorites; "Jack Frost: Attack of the Killer Snowman", "Head of the Family" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre part 2". I slowly massaged my way through comedy with "What About Bob", "Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie" and "Naked Gun 33 1/3" upon which I finally settled upon a little number entitled "Empire Records", a film starring Renee Zellwegger ("The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation"), Liv Tyler ("Empire Records") and Rory Cochrane ("A Scanner Darkly").
I picked up the box and, staring back at me was a young man, barely older than I was, who happened to bare an uncanny resemblance to myself. He had ear length, shaggy brown hair, thick eyebrows and a broad, charming smile.
A girl entered the store. I remember she was in the class below me until I flunked eleventh grade and then we were destined to graduate together. I can't remember her name, although I can recall that she was quite pretty and ran in circles far above me. In my excitement in finding my true doppleganger, I shouted out her name and signaled her over. Hesitantly, she made her way over to me, crouched down on the floor, probably looking as though I'd just walked out of a forest commune.
I looked up at her, pulled the box off the shelf and slowly handed it to her.
"Look," I said. "It's me."
I pointed at Ethan Embry and smiled, trying to recreate his exact expression. Trying to get his emotion just right. What was he thinking for that photo? What was his insperado? I tried to tap his thoughts and make them my own. We shared one body, we might as well share one mind.
While I pondered these things, the pretty girl just smiled nervously, laughed as though she were a captive in my basement and I were showing her my pinky toe collection and then walked away, probably towards "A Walk to Remember" starring Mandy Moore and Shane West.
I went home that night and told my mom about my strange experience. I pulled a picture of my life twin up on the computer to show her. She said, "Wow," like she really meant it.
A day, maybe months, maybe years later, I came home and found a picture of myself stuck to the fridge via a Jesus magnet. In the photo I sat on a rock, gazing off into the distance, my hair shorter than usual and on my feet I wore black and white plaid shoes. I looked at the photograph and wondered when it was taken. I couldn't make out the surroundings and I couldn't remember ever owning a pair of shoes like that in my life. My eyes wandered back to the face and then to the strange, glossy quality of the paper. It was then that I realized this was no ordinary photograph. This was a picture clipped straight from the pages of US Weekly or People or Tiger Beat. A picture of Ethan Embry (born Ethan Philian Randall). My mother saw the uncanny resemblance and flaunted my gemini to our extended family and friends whenever she could. Years later, on a trip home from college, I found the same photo, framed, sitting on the dining room table.
Fast forward roughly six years. I now live in Van Nuys, California and have spent almost the past decade being asked if I've ever been told that I look like Ethan Embry or rather, "that guy from "Dutch" and "Can't Hardly Wait". "Yes," I reply, "I have heard that before. And as a matter of fact, if you have just a minute, I have a pretty funny story about it............."
My wife and I lived right off of Basset and Woodman in a neighborhood populated mostly by Mexicans. The store signs and billboards all read like La Cucaracha and trailer made burritos were never far away.
Just down the block, resting on the corner of Woodman and Victory was a little restaurant called Harry's Golden Grill, which prided itself as being labeled one of "LA's finest" and for having a variety of ethnic foods and breakfast all day. Truly a jack of all trades. My wife and I would frequent the place, order some hummus and pita bread, play .75 cents worth of Marvel vs. Capcom, make very brief small talk with the owner, "how are you / hot out there, huh? / how are you?" and then we'd eat our food and go.
But one day....one day, the fates had an altogether different idea for us. On this day, Harry's was nearly packed - a rarity. Jade and I walked in, ordered the usual and sat down. Across the restaurant (roughly ten feet - it was quite a small place) sat a table of giddy young girls and a mother hen. As we waited for our food, I began to notice that a few of the girls were continually looking over in our direction and giggling. Eventually, our food came and eventually the girls got up and left. The door slowly swung shut behind them and, as it did, one of them sent a final look in my direction and said something that I could almost make out. I shrugged to myself and continued eating my pita bread, wondering why I had so much bread and so little hummus. My wife leaned over to me and asked if I heard what they'd said. i shook my head and shoved more bread in my mouth, mixed some of Harry's specialty hot sauce in with the hummus. She said that those girls thought I was Ethan Embry. She said that right before the door shut, the last one out said to her friend that I was "that guy from "Sweet Home Alabama" (starring Reese Witherspoon and Ethan Embry).
I shrugged again and laughed a little. What's new? I wonder if he ever got the "You look like John Brookbank" comment. I told my wife that I wished they would have come over and asked. I would've said that I was. She says, "Yeah, right" and calls my bluff just as the girl and the mother hen walk back into the restaurant. The young one's eyes are locked onto mine and I could sense the butterflies in her stomach and smell the sweat breaking out all over her body. She took tiny steps and ended up standing directly in front of me, hands held awkwardly at her sides, her mom smiling behind her with squinty little eyes.
She speaks.
"Hi - hey. Are you - I'm sorry - my friend and I thought you were - are you that guy from - have you seen - that movie with Reese Witherspoon?"
She plays dumb and I like it. I look over at my wife and smile before saying, "Sweet Home Alabama. Yeah, that's me. Ethan Embry." I shake her hand. I shake her mom's hand. I don't stand up. The girl turns to mush and begins fanning herself with her hands. She continues, "Oh my - Oh my gosh! I knew it! I knew it! My friend and I were talking and I knew it! Can I - could I have your autograph?" I pat my t-shirt even though there are no pockets on it and I say, "Yeah, sure - I mean - I don't have any paper or pen or anything, though".
She takes three leaps and lands in front of the counter, where Harry himself is cooking a kosher pizza. The girl, at the top of her lungs, shouts at him. "Hey - hey, mister! Can I have a piece of paper, oh my gosh - ANYTHING just to write on? Do you have a pencil? A pen? A PENNNN?"
Harry. "Uh......I've just got this sticky note.......why?"
"Yeah, yeah - that works - gimmie two and a PEN"
Harry. "Why?"
The girl turns and point at me. "Do you see that guy right THERE? Have you seen "Sweet Home Alabama"? He plays Bobby Ray!"
The restaurant turns and looks at me. Certainly, none of them know who Bobby Ray is and probably nearly as many have seen "Sweet Home Alabama" but the wolves are interested in rich blood. I blush and smile. I take another bite of pita bread. My hummus is gone. I just dip it in hot sauce.
She's back.
I take the little purple sticky note and the pen and ask her name. It's Amanda. I ask her how to spell it and she tells me. I figure real celebrities always write a little note to go along with their signature but I can't think of anything clever so I just write "Amanda. Awesome. Ethan Embry". She takes it from me, pinching it by the corner, probably not wanting to stain the tiny sheet with her sweat and looks at it as though I've just handed her the paper equivalent of the holy grail.
With shaky hands she holds out the second sticky note. "Could you sign one for my best friend?" "Sure. What's her name?" "Nina". "How do you spell it?"
In my most legible scribble I write, "Nina, COOOOOOOOOOOOL!!! Ethan Embry".
While I'm writing the girl looks at my wife, who's sitting right next to me at a four person table and asks, "Are you his wife?" and my wife says, "No. I'm just a friend".
The girl says, "Oh," and ignores her.
I hand her the paper and she thanks me so very very much. You can sort of tell that she wants a hug but I don't bother standing up. Instead she just says, "Thank you so much. You were really good in that movie - "Sweet Home Alabama". i watch it almost every day. It's one of my favorites". I tell her it was a great experience and that Reese Witherspoon was great to work with.
She shakes my hand again and so does her mom and they turn and leave. I feel good because I've lied and made this girl's day / month / year. Probably that little sticky note is framed somewhere in Los Angeles, sitting in her pink and purple room and that makes me feel all fuzzy. I feel weird though because the restaurant is still watching me so I decide it's time to leave. I go to the counter to ask for a box - way too much Pita bread to just throw away. I've got hungry dogs at home. Henry is suddenly more interested in talking to me. He no longer cares for "How are you? It's hot out, huh?" Today he says to me, "Hey...you live just down the street, right? Down on Basset?"
I nod. "Yeah - just around the corner. Nice neighborhood".
He smiles. "Me too. I see you outside sometimes. I live down the block. We're neighbors".
"Cool".
I'd say more to him, try to make his day as well, but I'm a familiar face to him. He knows where I live. I'm suddenly at risk of being caught, my cover blown, my identity revealed. I grab the box, shove the pita inside and bolt, never to return. See, I don't ever carry cash so I always pay with my card and my card, most definitely does not say Ethan Embry. It says John Brookbank, pressed into my plastic money like a row of scarlet letters.
Walking back home, we laugh about it. "Let's just say I was Ethan Embry," I say to my wife, "do you suppose I would be living in Van Nuys?"
One day, during a lull, I found myself returning VHS tapes to their shelves - this was 2002, when all the stores were just beginning puberty, making The Big Change from VHS to DVD. I traveled through the new releases - "Orange County" starring Colin Hanks and Jack Black, "The Mothman Prophecies" starring Richard Gere and Debra Messing and "Kung Pow: Enter the Fist" starring Steve Oedekerk and Tonguey. I worked my way through horror. Some of my favorites; "Jack Frost: Attack of the Killer Snowman", "Head of the Family" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre part 2". I slowly massaged my way through comedy with "What About Bob", "Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie" and "Naked Gun 33 1/3" upon which I finally settled upon a little number entitled "Empire Records", a film starring Renee Zellwegger ("The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation"), Liv Tyler ("Empire Records") and Rory Cochrane ("A Scanner Darkly").
I picked up the box and, staring back at me was a young man, barely older than I was, who happened to bare an uncanny resemblance to myself. He had ear length, shaggy brown hair, thick eyebrows and a broad, charming smile.
A girl entered the store. I remember she was in the class below me until I flunked eleventh grade and then we were destined to graduate together. I can't remember her name, although I can recall that she was quite pretty and ran in circles far above me. In my excitement in finding my true doppleganger, I shouted out her name and signaled her over. Hesitantly, she made her way over to me, crouched down on the floor, probably looking as though I'd just walked out of a forest commune.
I looked up at her, pulled the box off the shelf and slowly handed it to her.
"Look," I said. "It's me."
I pointed at Ethan Embry and smiled, trying to recreate his exact expression. Trying to get his emotion just right. What was he thinking for that photo? What was his insperado? I tried to tap his thoughts and make them my own. We shared one body, we might as well share one mind.
While I pondered these things, the pretty girl just smiled nervously, laughed as though she were a captive in my basement and I were showing her my pinky toe collection and then walked away, probably towards "A Walk to Remember" starring Mandy Moore and Shane West.
I went home that night and told my mom about my strange experience. I pulled a picture of my life twin up on the computer to show her. She said, "Wow," like she really meant it.
A day, maybe months, maybe years later, I came home and found a picture of myself stuck to the fridge via a Jesus magnet. In the photo I sat on a rock, gazing off into the distance, my hair shorter than usual and on my feet I wore black and white plaid shoes. I looked at the photograph and wondered when it was taken. I couldn't make out the surroundings and I couldn't remember ever owning a pair of shoes like that in my life. My eyes wandered back to the face and then to the strange, glossy quality of the paper. It was then that I realized this was no ordinary photograph. This was a picture clipped straight from the pages of US Weekly or People or Tiger Beat. A picture of Ethan Embry (born Ethan Philian Randall). My mother saw the uncanny resemblance and flaunted my gemini to our extended family and friends whenever she could. Years later, on a trip home from college, I found the same photo, framed, sitting on the dining room table.
Fast forward roughly six years. I now live in Van Nuys, California and have spent almost the past decade being asked if I've ever been told that I look like Ethan Embry or rather, "that guy from "Dutch" and "Can't Hardly Wait". "Yes," I reply, "I have heard that before. And as a matter of fact, if you have just a minute, I have a pretty funny story about it............."
My wife and I lived right off of Basset and Woodman in a neighborhood populated mostly by Mexicans. The store signs and billboards all read like La Cucaracha and trailer made burritos were never far away.
Just down the block, resting on the corner of Woodman and Victory was a little restaurant called Harry's Golden Grill, which prided itself as being labeled one of "LA's finest" and for having a variety of ethnic foods and breakfast all day. Truly a jack of all trades. My wife and I would frequent the place, order some hummus and pita bread, play .75 cents worth of Marvel vs. Capcom, make very brief small talk with the owner, "how are you / hot out there, huh? / how are you?" and then we'd eat our food and go.
But one day....one day, the fates had an altogether different idea for us. On this day, Harry's was nearly packed - a rarity. Jade and I walked in, ordered the usual and sat down. Across the restaurant (roughly ten feet - it was quite a small place) sat a table of giddy young girls and a mother hen. As we waited for our food, I began to notice that a few of the girls were continually looking over in our direction and giggling. Eventually, our food came and eventually the girls got up and left. The door slowly swung shut behind them and, as it did, one of them sent a final look in my direction and said something that I could almost make out. I shrugged to myself and continued eating my pita bread, wondering why I had so much bread and so little hummus. My wife leaned over to me and asked if I heard what they'd said. i shook my head and shoved more bread in my mouth, mixed some of Harry's specialty hot sauce in with the hummus. She said that those girls thought I was Ethan Embry. She said that right before the door shut, the last one out said to her friend that I was "that guy from "Sweet Home Alabama" (starring Reese Witherspoon and Ethan Embry).
I shrugged again and laughed a little. What's new? I wonder if he ever got the "You look like John Brookbank" comment. I told my wife that I wished they would have come over and asked. I would've said that I was. She says, "Yeah, right" and calls my bluff just as the girl and the mother hen walk back into the restaurant. The young one's eyes are locked onto mine and I could sense the butterflies in her stomach and smell the sweat breaking out all over her body. She took tiny steps and ended up standing directly in front of me, hands held awkwardly at her sides, her mom smiling behind her with squinty little eyes.
She speaks.
"Hi - hey. Are you - I'm sorry - my friend and I thought you were - are you that guy from - have you seen - that movie with Reese Witherspoon?"
She plays dumb and I like it. I look over at my wife and smile before saying, "Sweet Home Alabama. Yeah, that's me. Ethan Embry." I shake her hand. I shake her mom's hand. I don't stand up. The girl turns to mush and begins fanning herself with her hands. She continues, "Oh my - Oh my gosh! I knew it! I knew it! My friend and I were talking and I knew it! Can I - could I have your autograph?" I pat my t-shirt even though there are no pockets on it and I say, "Yeah, sure - I mean - I don't have any paper or pen or anything, though".
She takes three leaps and lands in front of the counter, where Harry himself is cooking a kosher pizza. The girl, at the top of her lungs, shouts at him. "Hey - hey, mister! Can I have a piece of paper, oh my gosh - ANYTHING just to write on? Do you have a pencil? A pen? A PENNNN?"
Harry. "Uh......I've just got this sticky note.......why?"
"Yeah, yeah - that works - gimmie two and a PEN"
Harry. "Why?"
The girl turns and point at me. "Do you see that guy right THERE? Have you seen "Sweet Home Alabama"? He plays Bobby Ray!"
The restaurant turns and looks at me. Certainly, none of them know who Bobby Ray is and probably nearly as many have seen "Sweet Home Alabama" but the wolves are interested in rich blood. I blush and smile. I take another bite of pita bread. My hummus is gone. I just dip it in hot sauce.
She's back.
I take the little purple sticky note and the pen and ask her name. It's Amanda. I ask her how to spell it and she tells me. I figure real celebrities always write a little note to go along with their signature but I can't think of anything clever so I just write "Amanda. Awesome. Ethan Embry". She takes it from me, pinching it by the corner, probably not wanting to stain the tiny sheet with her sweat and looks at it as though I've just handed her the paper equivalent of the holy grail.
With shaky hands she holds out the second sticky note. "Could you sign one for my best friend?" "Sure. What's her name?" "Nina". "How do you spell it?"
In my most legible scribble I write, "Nina, COOOOOOOOOOOOL!!! Ethan Embry".
While I'm writing the girl looks at my wife, who's sitting right next to me at a four person table and asks, "Are you his wife?" and my wife says, "No. I'm just a friend".
The girl says, "Oh," and ignores her.
I hand her the paper and she thanks me so very very much. You can sort of tell that she wants a hug but I don't bother standing up. Instead she just says, "Thank you so much. You were really good in that movie - "Sweet Home Alabama". i watch it almost every day. It's one of my favorites". I tell her it was a great experience and that Reese Witherspoon was great to work with.
She shakes my hand again and so does her mom and they turn and leave. I feel good because I've lied and made this girl's day / month / year. Probably that little sticky note is framed somewhere in Los Angeles, sitting in her pink and purple room and that makes me feel all fuzzy. I feel weird though because the restaurant is still watching me so I decide it's time to leave. I go to the counter to ask for a box - way too much Pita bread to just throw away. I've got hungry dogs at home. Henry is suddenly more interested in talking to me. He no longer cares for "How are you? It's hot out, huh?" Today he says to me, "Hey...you live just down the street, right? Down on Basset?"
I nod. "Yeah - just around the corner. Nice neighborhood".
He smiles. "Me too. I see you outside sometimes. I live down the block. We're neighbors".
"Cool".
I'd say more to him, try to make his day as well, but I'm a familiar face to him. He knows where I live. I'm suddenly at risk of being caught, my cover blown, my identity revealed. I grab the box, shove the pita inside and bolt, never to return. See, I don't ever carry cash so I always pay with my card and my card, most definitely does not say Ethan Embry. It says John Brookbank, pressed into my plastic money like a row of scarlet letters.
Walking back home, we laugh about it. "Let's just say I was Ethan Embry," I say to my wife, "do you suppose I would be living in Van Nuys?"
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Electric Love
I am not an engineer. This is a fact. I don't have the slightest knowledge of how any piece of machinery works, from flashlights to atom bombs. I don't understand how I can fire electricity into something through a battery and spark it to life; a remote control car, a radio, an electric turkey cutter. And yet.....God has instilled in me some sort of interest in taking things apart. I love the process of meticulously opening up mechanics. Finding the tiny screws on the outside housing, taking them out, lifting off the hood like Darth Vader's helmut, and viewing the machine within. All those green microchips with little buttons and switches, being held down by electric friendly glue. I don't know what it does. I find more screws. I pull out the motherboard (which, in my mind, is just the biggest, most "technology looking" thing I can find). I collect the screws in a small pile, sure not to lose them. I look for more screws - almost all electronics are held in place by tiny little screws. That's it. I pull out everything I can and then I look at it and stare at what I've done. I feel like a scientist. Sometimes I imagine somebody coming over unexpectedly and catching me in the throws of machine passion. What would they think? They'd think I was a genius. They'd think, "Wow, John really knows a lot about stuff - robot stuff". They would inquire about what I was doing and I'd say something about how I was just "takin' it apart to see what made it tick". They'd think I really knew my stuff. If I said the word "motherboard" or something along the lines of, "trying to reroute the AC current" it would really blow their hair back. They'd tell our friends what they caught me doing. They'd all think I was Rick Morranis.
The problem I have, however, is that, while I have an immense interest in tearing things down, I really have no idea how to put them back together again. Once I remove the first screw, the appliance is as good as dead. I pulled apart a remote control car when I was a kid to impress my dad but could never get it back together again. I saved the mangled pieces for months, hoping some spark of genius would strike me as I lay sleeping in my bed. I would suddenly remember HOW it was, exactly, that I had taken it apart.
No.
The car remained in three pieces - the shiny plastic housing, the motherboard and all the little pieces I'd cannibalized along the way. It found it's way to my closet, which was sort of the VA hospital for toys and then, finally, to the trash can (toy graveyard).
In fact, I recently found a computer just sitting on the curb, waiting to be thrown away. I picked it up, brought it home and took it apart without a shirt on. This machine was even more primitive than the remote control car as it's insides were mainly held together with zip ties. This, however, was not a concern as I had the proper primitive tools. I ripped and twisted through the chords, pulled out everything I could until I was left with just the big tube monitor and the motherboard. The pieces are now residing in a junkyard somewhere.
Now, where has my training and experience led me? To now.
I am the proud parent of an original 1986 8-bit Nintendo Entertainment System. A classic amongst gamers, it is, in my opinion, the revolutionary piece of machinery that not only defined a generation, but paved the way for the barrage of gaming competitors alive today. The games were almost innumerable and some were nearly impossible.
Just as I love my grandparents, I love my Nintendo and I would do whatever I could to help it live a little longer. Would I give it my liver? Only if I knew it was going to stop drinking so much..............right, Grandma?
Yesterday a friend of mine and myself went to a newly discovered video game extravaganza called "The Game Dude", a place I discovered on Sherman Way in Van Nuys that carries every title to every game for every system ON HAND for cheap cheap CHEAP! I purchased NARC for my NES yesterday for a mere $2. This is a game where your character understands the importance of keeping a clean street no matter what and he sets out to murder every drug dealer he can get his mitts on. You just can't compete with that.
So I bought five great games: Wizards & Warriors, Swords & Serpents, Road Blasters, NARC and Rush'n Attack. I got home, my hands sweaty with glee, my stomach churning with butterflies to relive how incredible these games were. I could tell Brett felt the same way. I kept trying to talk to him but his eyes were just locked on the console and his hands were shaking while he was trying to shove a game in. You could almost see the fantasy playing out behind his eyes. He was six again. His mom was letting him play the Nintendo because his homework was done. He chose his favorite game because, since it was a weekday, he only had limited time with his system and had to distribute the seconds carefully. But not today. Today Brett and I are 26 and NOBODY TELLS US HOW LONG WE CAN PLAY NINTENDO FOR!!!! NOBODY!
He slowly inserted his thick, gray cartridge into the Nintendo's eager slot. He gently pressed down, feeling the gears moan under the pressure. The pieces clicked into placed and he worked his thumb down over the stiff power button and pressed. On the 65 inch television, painted for our waiting eyes was the most glorious vision of.............nothing. A flashing grey screen.
Everything was broken. This old stupid piece of crap. I wanted to kick it and scream at it, just like I do with Grandma when she doesn't do what she's supposed to. We blew in it. We blew in the games. We shook it. We held it sideways. Nothing.
A. Complete. Failure.
And so, ol' Rick Morranis has had to resort to desperate and extreme measures. I hopped online and ordered a brand new 72-pin connector for the grey boy. What is a 72-pin connector? Don't worry about it. Unless you're a scientist you probably wouldn't understand.
It is scheduled to arrive in just a few days and when it does, I'll pull out my bone saws - my screwdrivers. I'll find it's joints and I'll start the mantra "lefty loosey, right tighty" inside my head. I'll remove the dull casing. I'll remove the motherboard. I'll remove the old 72-pin connector and I will replace it with a new beating heart and it will live again...........if, for once, I can figure out how to do more than simply deconstruct.
The problem I have, however, is that, while I have an immense interest in tearing things down, I really have no idea how to put them back together again. Once I remove the first screw, the appliance is as good as dead. I pulled apart a remote control car when I was a kid to impress my dad but could never get it back together again. I saved the mangled pieces for months, hoping some spark of genius would strike me as I lay sleeping in my bed. I would suddenly remember HOW it was, exactly, that I had taken it apart.
No.
The car remained in three pieces - the shiny plastic housing, the motherboard and all the little pieces I'd cannibalized along the way. It found it's way to my closet, which was sort of the VA hospital for toys and then, finally, to the trash can (toy graveyard).
In fact, I recently found a computer just sitting on the curb, waiting to be thrown away. I picked it up, brought it home and took it apart without a shirt on. This machine was even more primitive than the remote control car as it's insides were mainly held together with zip ties. This, however, was not a concern as I had the proper primitive tools. I ripped and twisted through the chords, pulled out everything I could until I was left with just the big tube monitor and the motherboard. The pieces are now residing in a junkyard somewhere.
Now, where has my training and experience led me? To now.
I am the proud parent of an original 1986 8-bit Nintendo Entertainment System. A classic amongst gamers, it is, in my opinion, the revolutionary piece of machinery that not only defined a generation, but paved the way for the barrage of gaming competitors alive today. The games were almost innumerable and some were nearly impossible.
Just as I love my grandparents, I love my Nintendo and I would do whatever I could to help it live a little longer. Would I give it my liver? Only if I knew it was going to stop drinking so much..............right, Grandma?
Yesterday a friend of mine and myself went to a newly discovered video game extravaganza called "The Game Dude", a place I discovered on Sherman Way in Van Nuys that carries every title to every game for every system ON HAND for cheap cheap CHEAP! I purchased NARC for my NES yesterday for a mere $2. This is a game where your character understands the importance of keeping a clean street no matter what and he sets out to murder every drug dealer he can get his mitts on. You just can't compete with that.
So I bought five great games: Wizards & Warriors, Swords & Serpents, Road Blasters, NARC and Rush'n Attack. I got home, my hands sweaty with glee, my stomach churning with butterflies to relive how incredible these games were. I could tell Brett felt the same way. I kept trying to talk to him but his eyes were just locked on the console and his hands were shaking while he was trying to shove a game in. You could almost see the fantasy playing out behind his eyes. He was six again. His mom was letting him play the Nintendo because his homework was done. He chose his favorite game because, since it was a weekday, he only had limited time with his system and had to distribute the seconds carefully. But not today. Today Brett and I are 26 and NOBODY TELLS US HOW LONG WE CAN PLAY NINTENDO FOR!!!! NOBODY!
He slowly inserted his thick, gray cartridge into the Nintendo's eager slot. He gently pressed down, feeling the gears moan under the pressure. The pieces clicked into placed and he worked his thumb down over the stiff power button and pressed. On the 65 inch television, painted for our waiting eyes was the most glorious vision of.............nothing. A flashing grey screen.
Everything was broken. This old stupid piece of crap. I wanted to kick it and scream at it, just like I do with Grandma when she doesn't do what she's supposed to. We blew in it. We blew in the games. We shook it. We held it sideways. Nothing.
A. Complete. Failure.
And so, ol' Rick Morranis has had to resort to desperate and extreme measures. I hopped online and ordered a brand new 72-pin connector for the grey boy. What is a 72-pin connector? Don't worry about it. Unless you're a scientist you probably wouldn't understand.
It is scheduled to arrive in just a few days and when it does, I'll pull out my bone saws - my screwdrivers. I'll find it's joints and I'll start the mantra "lefty loosey, right tighty" inside my head. I'll remove the dull casing. I'll remove the motherboard. I'll remove the old 72-pin connector and I will replace it with a new beating heart and it will live again...........if, for once, I can figure out how to do more than simply deconstruct.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Raw food diet. Tenth grade biology. A boy named David Hatwan.
I don't eat ham.
I RARELY eat ham.
The one time that I will eat ham is when it is thinly sliced and at a wedding reception on little buttered buns.
This is not a joke.
I used to work at Subway. When you work at Subway you receive ONE, count 'em, ONE free six inch sub, a bag of chips and unlimited refills on the cola of your choice while carrying your shift. Often times I would get a ham sandwich with a little lettuce, a few black olives and a crap ton of mayo.
I used to be in tenth grade. And when I was in tenth grade, we were required (by law???) to dissect a baby pig. Was it a fetus? Was it a piglet? Looking back I really don't remember. All I can remember for sure is that, once we had completed the exercises the teacher told us to just continue dissecting and to continue to explore it's inner body. The piglet had died for our education and we should fully exploit the opportunity.
So in a white tile room that reeked of formaldehyde, under the green fluorescence, I cut open it's skull with my blade and pulled out it's brain. I held it in my hand and stared at it long and hard, thinking about how it had the consistency of jello, thinking about what it was I had here.
After a moment or two the realization of what I'd done and the imagery of the infant pig pinned down with butterfly needles in wax washed over me and I started to gag. I never lost it (my lunch - bio was split. First half BEFORE lunch; cut open pig, fool around with guts, wash hands, leave for lunch, come back on full stomachs, tear open rest of pig) but since that day in class, I no longer eat ham.
...unless it's thinly sliced and at a wedding reception on little buttered buns...
A funnier story that also happened to me in biology...........this one, I hope, will make me sound less like a serial killer......
We had tables to sit at. Two people to a table. Black tops, wooden legs. Every table had initials and messages scratched into the part by your pelvis. "F U!" "I WUZ HERE" "Thiz suks". I sat next to a boy named David Hatwan, a tall, thin kid with short black hair and almond shaped eyes. For this class experiment we had a giant pink pig lung resting on a thin aluminum tray in front of us. The point of the project was to insert a wide straw into the throat of the lung (what's it called? I don't know. Did I mention I had the unique experience of taking tenth grade biology twice?). Once the tube was fully inserted we were to place our mouths on the opposing end of the tube and blow and then move our mouths away, thus creating the illusion of breathing.
How interesting.
I suppose a simpler, cheaper, and less smelly version of this could have been illustrated by giving each of us a pink balloon.....a black balloon if the pig was a smoker...
We were instructed - SPECIFICALLY instructed - to blow into the tube and REMOVE our faces. There was dead air in the pig lung and it would probably expel once we'd created the pressure. This air, it was said, would smell disastrous.
David and I inserted the straw together, one of us holding the glass tube, one of us maneuvering the fleshy mouth of the lung. By the sheer luck of boys, David was the choice to place his lips on the tube. David blew into the tube. David did not move his face away from the straw. A strange, foamy, white and yellow substance burst forth from the lung, from the tube and sprayed itself fully across David's pert lips. Shock was painted across his face along with just a SQUEEZE of disgust.
I couldn't stop laughing.
After doing a little research, we've recently discovered that cancer THRIVES off of carbohydrates. My dog just had seven cancerous tumors removed from her body. What is standard, run-of-the-mill dog food filled with? Carbs. So what did we do? We've started making our own dog food.
Once a week we get out a GIANT cauldron and drop in five pounds of ground hamburger and then we use our juicer and run through every vegetable that's on sale at the store. We mix in a few cups of rice and viola! you have a heart healthy stew that is good for the dogs and they like it better than their old crunchy brown stuff.
So yesterday we find ourselves sweating over a giant pot of mush. We cook the hamburger, we cut up the lettuce, we juice the tomatoes and then, as a little special treat.....we chop up chicken hearts and gizzards....
Actually.....to say we chopped them up isn't really fair. We began by trying to juice them. I shoved a chicken gizzard into the juicer and struck down on it with the plunger. The metal grates slowed, almost came to a stop and them varoooosh! pulled it through and spat gizzard chunks into the "pulp" container. There was surprisingly less blood or "juice" than one would think. My kitchen immediately smelled like tenth grade biology. The smell of dried, dead organs. The smell of the weird brown and red wetness inside. I am thinking of David Hatwan. I am thinking of my first biology teacher, Mrs. Kritzberger. I am thinking of my SECOND biology teacher, Mr. Bailey. I am thinking about a kid named Brian who told me he carved a swastika into his pig's forehead when told he could do anything he wanted. I'm thinking about Brian, who told me he named his pig (fetus?) Mr. Pigglesworth.
The process of juicing chicken organs, however, proved inconsequential when we realized that the juicer wasn't so much grinding up the gizzards and hearts so much as it was just SHOVING them through it's gears in big chunks because it couldn't tear through the heavy ligaments. SO....can't toss that stuff in as is! Little Clementine might accidentally choke on it! You gotta man up and DO something.
You shut your eyes. You say, "It's just meat. It's just steak." You grab a big knife in your right hand. You grab a tiny chicken heart in your left hand. You shut your eyes and you repeat, "I am in tenth grade biology. I am in tenth grade biology. I am in tenth grade biology. It is just meat."
The dogs.
They love it.
And if it helps the tiniest bit to fight that bastard child cancer, I love it too.
I RARELY eat ham.
The one time that I will eat ham is when it is thinly sliced and at a wedding reception on little buttered buns.
This is not a joke.
I used to work at Subway. When you work at Subway you receive ONE, count 'em, ONE free six inch sub, a bag of chips and unlimited refills on the cola of your choice while carrying your shift. Often times I would get a ham sandwich with a little lettuce, a few black olives and a crap ton of mayo.
I used to be in tenth grade. And when I was in tenth grade, we were required (by law???) to dissect a baby pig. Was it a fetus? Was it a piglet? Looking back I really don't remember. All I can remember for sure is that, once we had completed the exercises the teacher told us to just continue dissecting and to continue to explore it's inner body. The piglet had died for our education and we should fully exploit the opportunity.
So in a white tile room that reeked of formaldehyde, under the green fluorescence, I cut open it's skull with my blade and pulled out it's brain. I held it in my hand and stared at it long and hard, thinking about how it had the consistency of jello, thinking about what it was I had here.
After a moment or two the realization of what I'd done and the imagery of the infant pig pinned down with butterfly needles in wax washed over me and I started to gag. I never lost it (my lunch - bio was split. First half BEFORE lunch; cut open pig, fool around with guts, wash hands, leave for lunch, come back on full stomachs, tear open rest of pig) but since that day in class, I no longer eat ham.
...unless it's thinly sliced and at a wedding reception on little buttered buns...
A funnier story that also happened to me in biology...........this one, I hope, will make me sound less like a serial killer......
We had tables to sit at. Two people to a table. Black tops, wooden legs. Every table had initials and messages scratched into the part by your pelvis. "F U!" "I WUZ HERE" "Thiz suks". I sat next to a boy named David Hatwan, a tall, thin kid with short black hair and almond shaped eyes. For this class experiment we had a giant pink pig lung resting on a thin aluminum tray in front of us. The point of the project was to insert a wide straw into the throat of the lung (what's it called? I don't know. Did I mention I had the unique experience of taking tenth grade biology twice?). Once the tube was fully inserted we were to place our mouths on the opposing end of the tube and blow and then move our mouths away, thus creating the illusion of breathing.
How interesting.
I suppose a simpler, cheaper, and less smelly version of this could have been illustrated by giving each of us a pink balloon.....a black balloon if the pig was a smoker...
We were instructed - SPECIFICALLY instructed - to blow into the tube and REMOVE our faces. There was dead air in the pig lung and it would probably expel once we'd created the pressure. This air, it was said, would smell disastrous.
David and I inserted the straw together, one of us holding the glass tube, one of us maneuvering the fleshy mouth of the lung. By the sheer luck of boys, David was the choice to place his lips on the tube. David blew into the tube. David did not move his face away from the straw. A strange, foamy, white and yellow substance burst forth from the lung, from the tube and sprayed itself fully across David's pert lips. Shock was painted across his face along with just a SQUEEZE of disgust.
I couldn't stop laughing.
After doing a little research, we've recently discovered that cancer THRIVES off of carbohydrates. My dog just had seven cancerous tumors removed from her body. What is standard, run-of-the-mill dog food filled with? Carbs. So what did we do? We've started making our own dog food.
Once a week we get out a GIANT cauldron and drop in five pounds of ground hamburger and then we use our juicer and run through every vegetable that's on sale at the store. We mix in a few cups of rice and viola! you have a heart healthy stew that is good for the dogs and they like it better than their old crunchy brown stuff.
So yesterday we find ourselves sweating over a giant pot of mush. We cook the hamburger, we cut up the lettuce, we juice the tomatoes and then, as a little special treat.....we chop up chicken hearts and gizzards....
Actually.....to say we chopped them up isn't really fair. We began by trying to juice them. I shoved a chicken gizzard into the juicer and struck down on it with the plunger. The metal grates slowed, almost came to a stop and them varoooosh! pulled it through and spat gizzard chunks into the "pulp" container. There was surprisingly less blood or "juice" than one would think. My kitchen immediately smelled like tenth grade biology. The smell of dried, dead organs. The smell of the weird brown and red wetness inside. I am thinking of David Hatwan. I am thinking of my first biology teacher, Mrs. Kritzberger. I am thinking of my SECOND biology teacher, Mr. Bailey. I am thinking about a kid named Brian who told me he carved a swastika into his pig's forehead when told he could do anything he wanted. I'm thinking about Brian, who told me he named his pig (fetus?) Mr. Pigglesworth.
The process of juicing chicken organs, however, proved inconsequential when we realized that the juicer wasn't so much grinding up the gizzards and hearts so much as it was just SHOVING them through it's gears in big chunks because it couldn't tear through the heavy ligaments. SO....can't toss that stuff in as is! Little Clementine might accidentally choke on it! You gotta man up and DO something.
You shut your eyes. You say, "It's just meat. It's just steak." You grab a big knife in your right hand. You grab a tiny chicken heart in your left hand. You shut your eyes and you repeat, "I am in tenth grade biology. I am in tenth grade biology. I am in tenth grade biology. It is just meat."
The dogs.
They love it.
And if it helps the tiniest bit to fight that bastard child cancer, I love it too.
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