The other day, I made the mistake of paying attention while a friend of mine was talking. It’s an error that I commonly make with her. Now, she isn’t boring or wanting of intellect. And she’s not annoying either, for the sake of this conversation. The trouble is that she is quite the opposite. She can be pretty hilarious while recounting various tales. However, these yarns will inevitably involve any number of themes from beheadings to hospital mix-ups. At their cheeriest, you’re going to hear about a man with big-toes for thumbs.
Anyway, she calls me and begins to tell the story of a poor woman whose deadbeat husband decided to smoke, inhale, ingest, and inject their savings in a manner resembling Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Leaving Las Vegas, and any number of other movies filmed in Las Vegas. Considering the amount of narcotics involved and the fact that he wasn’t a blue whale, it shouldn’t surprise you that the husband died. At first, I reacted to the woman’s plight but became uneasy when I took into account the messenger. This was too pedestrian a tale of woe to be worthy of the horror stories of ironic misfortune and just plain weirdness I’ve grown accustomed to. And that’s when she dropped the bomb. “So, apparently, in his will… His last wishes were to be cremated and made into diamonds for his relatives.”
Pardon me?
Yes, you read that right. Apparently, there is a service that will take your remains, purge the carbon, and make “tasteful” diamond jewelry out of you… After all, nothing says “Final Resting Place” like a tennis bracelet or a tasteful anklet. The thought of this was so foreign to me that I did a little research on the subject and the company LifeGem. According to their website, they need a good 8 ounces of hair or ash to get the ball rolling. After they have the needed hairball or ashtray full of the dearly departed, they can capture the carbon from the remains with technology “pioneered by GE in the 1950’s.” I assume they made these breakthroughs during the heated, but lesser publicized, “Turning-Your-Aunt-Into-Cufflinks-Race with the Soviets.
After they have the carbon, they must “purify it.” I dropped out of Chem II in high school so I can only speculate this is to get out “the cat smell.” Once that’s done, it’s off to high heat and enough pressure to crack even the most stubborn of Brazil nuts. Then, just sit back and take in the compliments. One person wrote, “I had earrings made of my husband’s 2 Princess cut diamonds and have been offered money for them!” Now, the woman went on to write that they are not for sale, which is big of her, but you made your husband into Princess cuts? I like how that’s the part that jumped out at me. Linda in western Australia was given the continent’s first LifeGem on TV and became a “town celeb.” I’m sure her late husband would wish her to capitalize on this fame before Kangaroo-Boxing season begins.
As I went through the countless testimonials, I really found myself getting used to the idea of doing this. I began to wonder how much it would cost to have someone close to me, who was obviously more loved than alert at busy intersections, made into one of these keepsakes. You can get any size between .1 and 1.5 Carats. However, this could range anywhere from $2,500 to $20,000! Of course, I am the youngest of a very large family. If money were no object, I could fashion one giant ring and take them with me wherever I go. Sure, onlookers would often mistake my great love for something gaudy or perhaps that I defeated the Buffalo Bills in a Super Bowl, but I would have my family with me.
The company says that “LifeGem diamonds are molecularly identical to natural diamonds found in any high-end jewler…” I thought, “Except that they’re made from your slightly racist Uncle Lou who smelled of pastrami and cigars and didn’t buckle up.” You can also get your pet made into one too, you know. Just think, your dead pet ferret “Ferrets Bueller” would be molecularly identical to diamonds in any high-end store that wouldn’t be caught dead letting you in, much less your stinky ferret. I found it ironic.
Apparently, there is a bigger market for this sort of thing than I thought. More research discovered a company in Alabama that promised to let you “Continue to protect your home and family even after you’re gone…” This is done by turning your ashes into fully-functioning bullets. This is not a joke. The company is called Holy Smoke… I’m going to pause here, while you climb back into your chair and wipe your beverage off the computer screen… Yes. Holy Smoke puts your loved one’s ashes into ammunition so you can blast would-be intruders with Grampa. Although, I’m not sure how you would react after you’ve defended yourself. Would it be in poor taste to ask for the bullets back from the hospital? What if your dead relative has just become evidence in a home invasion? I don’t know. I’m just happy that a region, often chided for its homophobia, has no problems with pumping a few rounds of Uncle Bill into another man.
Well, I’m not big into guns. So, I guess I’d stick with the diamonds. Although, I’d never really want to own something that precious. While my relatives’ graves are not always near me physically, who they are is always with me… Plus, there is little chance of accidentally dropping one of their coffins down a strip club sink. But if I sound jaded, I apologize. I do have to admit that there were a lot of heartfelt and touching messages on that website. Truly. The more I read, the more I could begin to see where having a nice pair of Auntrings may help you through the grieving process. Having lost a parent years ago, I really don’t want to judge how anyone copes with their grief… For instance, for me, it’s thinking about people turning their relatives into jewelry. But seriously, I never knew how chemically accurate the old country song was. As it turns out, I AM an old chunk of coal! And, depending on the actions of my beneficiaries, I may just be a diamond someday…
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
A Breath of Fresh Chicken
Austin is many things to many people. And whether you believe it to be an exciting town full of possibilities or a chamber pot filled with patchouli and unwashed hippies, everyone seems to agree we have some pretty good places to eat. The city is awash in aioli, racked with ribs, and glazed in ganache. For heaven’s sake, it’s the town that gave me my first taste of foie gras. And if you haven’t had it, imagine the logical conclusion of butter and bacon- where butter is an ignored housewife and bacon is home on shore leave after a long deployment. It is because of this bounty, I sometimes feel ashamed, or at least ungrateful, when the baser elements of Austin’s menu makeup my periodic table.
With this admission, I recently found myself taking advantage of Wing Tuesday at one of the chain restaurants in town. Alone with my thoughts and man’s instinctual need for hot wings, I eagerly began to devour my order. Now, if you ask me, wing places should only be allowed to serve wings. This, or have a special room where people who aren’t eating wings are not allowed. This would be the male equivalent to those “women only” rooms at fitness centers. It would be a place where wing-eaters can be themselves without the judging eyes of someone nibbling on a wrap. Without this refuge, I had what many addicts refer to as “a moment of clarity” when I was slathered in barbecue sauce, looked up, and saw a pretty woman, eating a Cesar salad, and looking at me in horror.
After hurriedly wiping the sauce/clown makeup off my face, I thought, “It’s a Goddamn wings place, lady!” Although, to her, it must have been like turning on your headlights on a dark country road and interrupting some wild-eyed predator in mid-possum. I shook this image from my mind and thought the “Whatever” of a recalcitrant teenager that doesn’t have a better retort. Besides, I had other things on my mind. While I was dealing with Judgy McSalad, I had literally inhaled a small piece of chicken. Now, I assure you, it was far more innocent than the picture I must have just painted. However, the fact of the matter was that I took a deep breath and a miniscule piece of chicken was sucked down.
It’s truly remarkable how such a minute piece of chicken, when inhaled, feels like a 1964 Buick Sport Wagon in your throat. As I grabbed for my water, my mind actually debated if someone could drown from inhaling chicken and the probability of that person being me. It came back with “Maybe” and “100%…” When the cold water rushed down my gullet, it seemed to immediately do the trick. My heart slowed, and it was like the moment after an ice cream headache vanishes. You can’t believe that something that caused you such consternation just a moment ago was gone without a trace.
This is why wings are best eaten alone or, at the very least, in the company of people you’ve heard fart. You can’t just go ordering them willy-nilly. In fact, they should be avoided at any number of situations from first dates to state dinners. Unless you’re dating a wolverine or hammering out a treaty with “Sven the Dismemberer,” you’ll be at a great disadvantage. I mean, if Reagan had wings during the START negotiations, it would have most likely invited a Russian invasion.
By the time things had settled down a bit at lunch, I began working on my smart phone. “Working” is what I call looking very busy and important to the world while I play a game of Scrabble against the computer. While I did this, it began to occur to me just how difficult it was to eat wings with one hand while your other typed out the word “leper.” So much so, I eventually had to put the phone down altogether. I realized just how time-consuming it must be for a one-armed man to eat hot wings. I’m not kidding. I value these moments of perspective. Often, they’re wasted on my myopia, but not this time. And no prosthesis is going to be much help either- not with slippery hot wings. I imagine if The Fugitive’s wife’s assailant had wings for dinner, she’d still be alive today. Anyway, it’s an outrage. They should amend the Americans With Disabilities Act to force wing places to exclusively give drumsticks to one-armed patrons.
Of course, there are other foods that I find difficult with the use of both arms. Crab is a great example of this. Now, I love crab the way Paula Dean loves saturated fat. However, I rarely order it. I’ve even been known to ask waiters about the crab, let out a dreamy moan of pleasure, and say, “That sounds great… I’ll take the Grouper.” It’s because it’s too damn hard to eat. It’s particularly frustrating when you look at the table next to you and a small, Vietnamese lady expertly pulls out about a pound-and-a-half of crab meat while talking about her window treatments. Despite it’s allure, I just don’t have the patience for it. I once read that morality was a sustainable system of determination between two competing desires. In these cases, my Gluttony is squared off against my Sloth in a middle-weight bout of Dante’s deadly sins. Sloth-1. Deadliest Catch-0.
I feel the same way about Crawfish. I love it, but I’ll always eat something light before going to a crawfish boil. It’s more of an activity than a meal. For any reader who has never eaten crawfish out of its shell, imagine having to solve a side of a Rubick’s cube for a thimbleful of meat. Oh, and that meat may have a turd on it, but somehow, it’s okay. The way I figure it is that crawfish is the perfect diet food. You’re standing up at the table, cracking it open, using your right knee to keep a Labrador’s snout off the table, and consuming about 1/86th of a pound of meat. You’re actually burning more energy than you’re consuming. Science has proven that you get over 97% of your calories at a crawfish boil from drinking a twelve pack of beer. For the uninitiated who thought this would actually be a lunch or a dinner, they throw in whole potatoes with the crawfish. Tell me, outside of Ireland, what other meal do people feverishly eat whole potatoes like apples?
That being said, if you are invited to a crawfish boil, I wholeheartedly encourage you to go. It’s a wonderful experience. You’re outside, there’s music, you’re having fun with your friends, and did I mention the twelve pack? It’s also totally different from the wing situation. First of all, I’ve never seen Cesar salad served at a crawfish boil. And men, while it’s messy, it’s more of an activity. Apparently, that makes you “fun” and not like a honey badger ripping into a squirrel.
Maybe, I should take the same approach to crab. One time, I was at a buffet in Vegas and they had a mountain of crab. It looked as though someone had cut it length-wise on a table saw, and all you had to do was scoop out the delicious meat with a Lilliputian fork. That was it. To me, it was a triumph of American ingenuity unequaled since the moon landing. It was such a beautiful sight, I imagined it being promised to on-the-fence suicide bombers after the 72 virgins didn’t seal the deal. After the initial euphoria, I made sweet love to the northwest face of Mt. Crustacean and spent the next hour regretting it in my hotel room. I guess, certain things are better off being hard to get. And perhaps, if I just learn to enjoy the journey, I’ll wind up enjoying the entire experience more. Then, the next time I catch the judging eye of someone at a wings place, I can just smile back.
With this admission, I recently found myself taking advantage of Wing Tuesday at one of the chain restaurants in town. Alone with my thoughts and man’s instinctual need for hot wings, I eagerly began to devour my order. Now, if you ask me, wing places should only be allowed to serve wings. This, or have a special room where people who aren’t eating wings are not allowed. This would be the male equivalent to those “women only” rooms at fitness centers. It would be a place where wing-eaters can be themselves without the judging eyes of someone nibbling on a wrap. Without this refuge, I had what many addicts refer to as “a moment of clarity” when I was slathered in barbecue sauce, looked up, and saw a pretty woman, eating a Cesar salad, and looking at me in horror.
After hurriedly wiping the sauce/clown makeup off my face, I thought, “It’s a Goddamn wings place, lady!” Although, to her, it must have been like turning on your headlights on a dark country road and interrupting some wild-eyed predator in mid-possum. I shook this image from my mind and thought the “Whatever” of a recalcitrant teenager that doesn’t have a better retort. Besides, I had other things on my mind. While I was dealing with Judgy McSalad, I had literally inhaled a small piece of chicken. Now, I assure you, it was far more innocent than the picture I must have just painted. However, the fact of the matter was that I took a deep breath and a miniscule piece of chicken was sucked down.
It’s truly remarkable how such a minute piece of chicken, when inhaled, feels like a 1964 Buick Sport Wagon in your throat. As I grabbed for my water, my mind actually debated if someone could drown from inhaling chicken and the probability of that person being me. It came back with “Maybe” and “100%…” When the cold water rushed down my gullet, it seemed to immediately do the trick. My heart slowed, and it was like the moment after an ice cream headache vanishes. You can’t believe that something that caused you such consternation just a moment ago was gone without a trace.
This is why wings are best eaten alone or, at the very least, in the company of people you’ve heard fart. You can’t just go ordering them willy-nilly. In fact, they should be avoided at any number of situations from first dates to state dinners. Unless you’re dating a wolverine or hammering out a treaty with “Sven the Dismemberer,” you’ll be at a great disadvantage. I mean, if Reagan had wings during the START negotiations, it would have most likely invited a Russian invasion.
By the time things had settled down a bit at lunch, I began working on my smart phone. “Working” is what I call looking very busy and important to the world while I play a game of Scrabble against the computer. While I did this, it began to occur to me just how difficult it was to eat wings with one hand while your other typed out the word “leper.” So much so, I eventually had to put the phone down altogether. I realized just how time-consuming it must be for a one-armed man to eat hot wings. I’m not kidding. I value these moments of perspective. Often, they’re wasted on my myopia, but not this time. And no prosthesis is going to be much help either- not with slippery hot wings. I imagine if The Fugitive’s wife’s assailant had wings for dinner, she’d still be alive today. Anyway, it’s an outrage. They should amend the Americans With Disabilities Act to force wing places to exclusively give drumsticks to one-armed patrons.
Of course, there are other foods that I find difficult with the use of both arms. Crab is a great example of this. Now, I love crab the way Paula Dean loves saturated fat. However, I rarely order it. I’ve even been known to ask waiters about the crab, let out a dreamy moan of pleasure, and say, “That sounds great… I’ll take the Grouper.” It’s because it’s too damn hard to eat. It’s particularly frustrating when you look at the table next to you and a small, Vietnamese lady expertly pulls out about a pound-and-a-half of crab meat while talking about her window treatments. Despite it’s allure, I just don’t have the patience for it. I once read that morality was a sustainable system of determination between two competing desires. In these cases, my Gluttony is squared off against my Sloth in a middle-weight bout of Dante’s deadly sins. Sloth-1. Deadliest Catch-0.
I feel the same way about Crawfish. I love it, but I’ll always eat something light before going to a crawfish boil. It’s more of an activity than a meal. For any reader who has never eaten crawfish out of its shell, imagine having to solve a side of a Rubick’s cube for a thimbleful of meat. Oh, and that meat may have a turd on it, but somehow, it’s okay. The way I figure it is that crawfish is the perfect diet food. You’re standing up at the table, cracking it open, using your right knee to keep a Labrador’s snout off the table, and consuming about 1/86th of a pound of meat. You’re actually burning more energy than you’re consuming. Science has proven that you get over 97% of your calories at a crawfish boil from drinking a twelve pack of beer. For the uninitiated who thought this would actually be a lunch or a dinner, they throw in whole potatoes with the crawfish. Tell me, outside of Ireland, what other meal do people feverishly eat whole potatoes like apples?
That being said, if you are invited to a crawfish boil, I wholeheartedly encourage you to go. It’s a wonderful experience. You’re outside, there’s music, you’re having fun with your friends, and did I mention the twelve pack? It’s also totally different from the wing situation. First of all, I’ve never seen Cesar salad served at a crawfish boil. And men, while it’s messy, it’s more of an activity. Apparently, that makes you “fun” and not like a honey badger ripping into a squirrel.
Maybe, I should take the same approach to crab. One time, I was at a buffet in Vegas and they had a mountain of crab. It looked as though someone had cut it length-wise on a table saw, and all you had to do was scoop out the delicious meat with a Lilliputian fork. That was it. To me, it was a triumph of American ingenuity unequaled since the moon landing. It was such a beautiful sight, I imagined it being promised to on-the-fence suicide bombers after the 72 virgins didn’t seal the deal. After the initial euphoria, I made sweet love to the northwest face of Mt. Crustacean and spent the next hour regretting it in my hotel room. I guess, certain things are better off being hard to get. And perhaps, if I just learn to enjoy the journey, I’ll wind up enjoying the entire experience more. Then, the next time I catch the judging eye of someone at a wings place, I can just smile back.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
"Don't Give Me That So-So Soda"
A few weeks ago, the inevitable occurred and my laptop fell victim to a virus. Until that moment, I had been cruising around the internet and opening countless emails on a computer that was not protected with any kind of firewall or security countermeasures. I explained this to one of the workers of a computer store staffed exclusively with pale men in ponytails and Led Zeppelin t-shirts. He then explained to me this is the electronic equivalent to having unprotected sex with a Haitian prostitute. A week-and-a-half later, I would have my computer back but without any of the stuff I mindlessly piled on it. No pictures, documents, or music. Crap! I just remembered the music. Anyway, it was like a loved one coming home from the hospital with a clean bill of health and no memory of owing you $200 to make their rent payment that one time. Heartbreaking.
I really didn’t think the wiping of it’s memory. or even being without it, would be that big a deal for me. I’m not technically savvy or even like the thing that much. To me, adding a document to an email is how a normal person must view hacking into the Pentagon. Also, I have a computer at work and a phone with literally more computing power than an Apollo spacecraft. Surely, that would be enough to check my email, look at risqué pictures of Jennifer Aniston, and drunkenly Google the name of the big, white dog thing in “The Never Ending Story.” As it turned out, I missed my computer greatly… Also, Germans think “luck dragons” look like albino Saint Bernards.
I don’t know why my longing for my computer surprised me so much. I guess I believed that I wouldn’t miss something I had no talent for. However, this really got me thinking. One of the few things I am good at, besides Trivial Pursuit and drinking rum, is talking to people and I have real qualms with doing that. Despite once being paid to speak to crowds of thousands at a time, I have gone to great lengths of near “Three’s Company” proportions to avoid talking to individual people before. One of the best examples happened when I was just seven years old. I was throwing a tennis ball against the side of my house and catching it in my baseball mitt. I loved doing this because I could imagine any number of game 7 scenarios which I would inevitably become the hero.
As I reared back to throw an assured third strike to a hated Yankee to win the World Series and the undying affection of Erin Gray from Silver Spoons, I noticed this kid named Chris franticly peddling his Schwinn in my direction. He was an okay kid, with a couple of older brothers, and glasses that had the kind of lenses one rarely sees outside of major university observatories. He would also constantly remind me that I had a brother named Chris. However, it wasn’t done in a joking or matter-of-fact way. His tone was always of a sincere reminder like your Mom might remind you to do your homework or go to the bathroom before a prolonged car ride.
Because of this small annoyance, I decided he should be avoided if the opportunity presented itself. However, it rarely did. These days, it’s easy to forget how small my world was back then. Going down the street seemed like going on vacation. And, going to the next block was more like a polar expedition which may require snacks and juice boxes. So, you were bound to see the same kids over and over again. It was unavoidable. So, as Chris stood on his pedals, sloshing from side to side as he biked up the hill, I decided to run.
I should probably reiterate here that this kid was not a bully or even a jerk. There were no “Indian Sun Burns” or any “Two For Flinching” type situations. I even knew the constant reminders of his and my brother’s shared name were meant to be ingratiating. He was a nice kid, who liked me, and whom I would stop at nothing to avoid. Therefore, I desperately ran around the side of my house, throwing my mitt over the chain link fence as I ran toward it. The toe of my right sneaker jammed into one of the diamond-shaped chinks in the fence and vaulted me up. My left toe grabbed another near the top because I was too small to just go over like my bigger brothers. And, as I reached the apex of my jump and easily cleared the fence, time froze. It was in this, what had to be the most imperceptible of moments, that I realized that my left foot was still stuck in the fence.
As I began my descent, my toe came free. However, I landed so awkwardly my leg still broke and buckled under me. Our dogs, Muggs and Pepper, found me writhing on the grass. Understanding the gravity of the situation their beloved master was in, they jumped into action and instinctively began to lick themselves. My screams would alert my friend Kevin across the street and he would tell my parents. And, as I lay there holding the pieces of my left leg, I learned the invaluable lesson of “It happens to you.” After that, I didn’t need to be told to “buckle up,” “look both ways,” or “for God’s sake, don’t jump off the roof like your damn brother Chris.” Suddenly, horrible things weren’t the misfortunes of exclusively other people. They were just the misfortunes of people… People I still didn’t want to talk to.
A month later, I was still in pain. They told us the leg wasn’t healing properly and had to be rebroken. “Rebroken?!” I wanted to tell them they could go screw and then rescrew themselves, but I was only seven and didn’t talk like that. So, they gave me a general anesthesia (which is from the Greek word meaning “Huge Fucking Headache”) and that was that. My head pounded so violently even the lights hurt. All of a sudden, I understood how primitive people may have thought that headaches were caused by gnomes or, at the very least, a miniature percussion section living in their heads.
Later, while in a fitful sleep, I accidentally pulled the IV from my arm. Rather than be bothered with calling the nurse, to her horror, I deliriously reinserted it myself. When she came back to check on me, she asked me what nurse had done this. I told her what happened, she fixed it, and told me not to be so crazy in her absence. I agreed, sipped some Shasta, and passed back out. Presumably, not from the Shasta.
While it seems that I have gotten off track from my original point with this whole leg business, I wanted to illustrate the lengths I will go to in order to avoid talking to certain people. Of course, I didn’t know back then I would break a leg, but the point is I wouldn’t have thought about it before I acted. This instinct has caused me to quietly marine crawl out of a room when someone knocked on my door. One time, I was visiting my friend Andy, and I pretended to be asleep on the couch rather than meet his future wife and one of my eventual closest friends. You would think I would learn from this and all the other instances where I have been forced to get out and meet people.
And, it is just that. It is a matter of learning. This isn’t some agoraphobic response to uncontrolled social situations. It’s more of a “Son of a bitch. I got to talk to this guy?” disorder. Hopefully, I can overcome this before I begin to harangue neighbor children to keep off my lawn. But, I’m not hopeful. And, as I just found out moments ago, my orneriness has been unchanged for 28 years like the damn Shasta jingle. Hopefully, we both can make some changes in the next 28.
I really didn’t think the wiping of it’s memory. or even being without it, would be that big a deal for me. I’m not technically savvy or even like the thing that much. To me, adding a document to an email is how a normal person must view hacking into the Pentagon. Also, I have a computer at work and a phone with literally more computing power than an Apollo spacecraft. Surely, that would be enough to check my email, look at risqué pictures of Jennifer Aniston, and drunkenly Google the name of the big, white dog thing in “The Never Ending Story.” As it turned out, I missed my computer greatly… Also, Germans think “luck dragons” look like albino Saint Bernards.
I don’t know why my longing for my computer surprised me so much. I guess I believed that I wouldn’t miss something I had no talent for. However, this really got me thinking. One of the few things I am good at, besides Trivial Pursuit and drinking rum, is talking to people and I have real qualms with doing that. Despite once being paid to speak to crowds of thousands at a time, I have gone to great lengths of near “Three’s Company” proportions to avoid talking to individual people before. One of the best examples happened when I was just seven years old. I was throwing a tennis ball against the side of my house and catching it in my baseball mitt. I loved doing this because I could imagine any number of game 7 scenarios which I would inevitably become the hero.
As I reared back to throw an assured third strike to a hated Yankee to win the World Series and the undying affection of Erin Gray from Silver Spoons, I noticed this kid named Chris franticly peddling his Schwinn in my direction. He was an okay kid, with a couple of older brothers, and glasses that had the kind of lenses one rarely sees outside of major university observatories. He would also constantly remind me that I had a brother named Chris. However, it wasn’t done in a joking or matter-of-fact way. His tone was always of a sincere reminder like your Mom might remind you to do your homework or go to the bathroom before a prolonged car ride.
Because of this small annoyance, I decided he should be avoided if the opportunity presented itself. However, it rarely did. These days, it’s easy to forget how small my world was back then. Going down the street seemed like going on vacation. And, going to the next block was more like a polar expedition which may require snacks and juice boxes. So, you were bound to see the same kids over and over again. It was unavoidable. So, as Chris stood on his pedals, sloshing from side to side as he biked up the hill, I decided to run.
I should probably reiterate here that this kid was not a bully or even a jerk. There were no “Indian Sun Burns” or any “Two For Flinching” type situations. I even knew the constant reminders of his and my brother’s shared name were meant to be ingratiating. He was a nice kid, who liked me, and whom I would stop at nothing to avoid. Therefore, I desperately ran around the side of my house, throwing my mitt over the chain link fence as I ran toward it. The toe of my right sneaker jammed into one of the diamond-shaped chinks in the fence and vaulted me up. My left toe grabbed another near the top because I was too small to just go over like my bigger brothers. And, as I reached the apex of my jump and easily cleared the fence, time froze. It was in this, what had to be the most imperceptible of moments, that I realized that my left foot was still stuck in the fence.
As I began my descent, my toe came free. However, I landed so awkwardly my leg still broke and buckled under me. Our dogs, Muggs and Pepper, found me writhing on the grass. Understanding the gravity of the situation their beloved master was in, they jumped into action and instinctively began to lick themselves. My screams would alert my friend Kevin across the street and he would tell my parents. And, as I lay there holding the pieces of my left leg, I learned the invaluable lesson of “It happens to you.” After that, I didn’t need to be told to “buckle up,” “look both ways,” or “for God’s sake, don’t jump off the roof like your damn brother Chris.” Suddenly, horrible things weren’t the misfortunes of exclusively other people. They were just the misfortunes of people… People I still didn’t want to talk to.
A month later, I was still in pain. They told us the leg wasn’t healing properly and had to be rebroken. “Rebroken?!” I wanted to tell them they could go screw and then rescrew themselves, but I was only seven and didn’t talk like that. So, they gave me a general anesthesia (which is from the Greek word meaning “Huge Fucking Headache”) and that was that. My head pounded so violently even the lights hurt. All of a sudden, I understood how primitive people may have thought that headaches were caused by gnomes or, at the very least, a miniature percussion section living in their heads.
Later, while in a fitful sleep, I accidentally pulled the IV from my arm. Rather than be bothered with calling the nurse, to her horror, I deliriously reinserted it myself. When she came back to check on me, she asked me what nurse had done this. I told her what happened, she fixed it, and told me not to be so crazy in her absence. I agreed, sipped some Shasta, and passed back out. Presumably, not from the Shasta.
While it seems that I have gotten off track from my original point with this whole leg business, I wanted to illustrate the lengths I will go to in order to avoid talking to certain people. Of course, I didn’t know back then I would break a leg, but the point is I wouldn’t have thought about it before I acted. This instinct has caused me to quietly marine crawl out of a room when someone knocked on my door. One time, I was visiting my friend Andy, and I pretended to be asleep on the couch rather than meet his future wife and one of my eventual closest friends. You would think I would learn from this and all the other instances where I have been forced to get out and meet people.
And, it is just that. It is a matter of learning. This isn’t some agoraphobic response to uncontrolled social situations. It’s more of a “Son of a bitch. I got to talk to this guy?” disorder. Hopefully, I can overcome this before I begin to harangue neighbor children to keep off my lawn. But, I’m not hopeful. And, as I just found out moments ago, my orneriness has been unchanged for 28 years like the damn Shasta jingle. Hopefully, we both can make some changes in the next 28.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Classless
The week before my birthday this year, I had something between the common cold and what that monkey had in the movie Outbreak. By the time it went from the familiar tickle in the back of the throat to my learning how to spell “euthanasia,” I called my older sister Michele for some Vitamin Pity. Being a mother and a much nicer person than myself, she is perfect for this kind of thing. Also, we have a history. You see, she is 13 years older than me. She’s the eldest to my youngest- bookends. When I was a child, she would kindly read to me, tuck me in, and defend me from the other siblings who saw through my bullshit.
Since old habits are like Bruce Willis, I made the call. After providing me the needed sympathy, she immediately went into Mom-Mode. “Are you taking any medications? Prescribed or over the counter? Did you get the DM?” Of course, I was mostly confused and kind of tuning her out after the “poor you’s” ended. So, I said, “Yeah. I’m taking something.” Truth be told, I was taking everything. I was grabbing anything with a childproof lid and slinging it in my mouth with great abandon. My medicating was so enthusiastic, at one point, my addled mind wondered if you could accidentally make meth in your stomach.
Then, Michele asked me matter-of-factly what my temperature was. “What’s my temperature,” I asked? “How am I supposed to know my temperature?” I went on to explain to my sister that I had not had any children without her knowledge. And as a single man, I had no use for one. “Thermometers are for proving to someone else you’re sick,” I protested. “I know I’m sick! The damn things should be called what they are: lie detectors.” Although, I am curious what she would have said if I had thrown out a figure. When she asked, I would say with certainty, “101.6, Michele.” My guess is that she’d respond, “Yep, you’re sick.”
Of course, the greatest trick the Devil ever played on parents is that there are illnesses which aren’t accompanied by easily and accurately determined fevers. But why should this be any different than anything else in life? Very rarely can you determine the true nature of things with such an exact measurement. It’d be nice if you could. “Did she lose a contact or is she coming on to me? - Miss, could you put this under your tongue?”
At one time, in the distant past, my very life revolved around the fact that sick kids didn’t always have fevers. Because of it, I don’t remember a school year that didn’t require a doctor’s note to expunge some absences. Hell, I would even make one of my best friends in something called Saturday School. For those of you with better attendance than me, Saturday School was a way of making up absences so you could graduate high school and go to college rather than having to get a GED and join the Army.
However, taking it’s name from the parchments of ancient Rome and Egypt, when a major paper was due, one might still catch what I referred to as “the papyrus virus.” While this affliction was enough to garner you a few extra hours sleep and, if timed right, a three day weekend, it would not show up on any doctor’s swabs or throat cultures. Because of this, one of the many unfortunate symptoms of the “papyrus virus” was Saturday School. Now, although I had a penchant for skipping class, I was a pretty well liked kid and had a foot in the world of the teachers. If you were to believe them, Saturday School was less like normal class and more like the supermax facility at Pelican Bay.
So when I was finally sentenced to do a stretch of Saturday School in the Spring of my 18th year, I kissed my mother goodbye and franticly made peace with Jehovah, Allah, and that Volcano God in Joe Versus the Volcano. I realize that all this seems reactionary, but there were a lot of rumors floating around. First, Saturday School wasn’t at my high school, Douglas MacArthur. It was in the industrial area of San Antonio. I didn’t even know we had an industrial area. What were they making- tostadas, miniature Alamos? Next, I discovered it was at an “alternative school” for troubled teens. I was used to the cushy confines of an Exemplary School. “For God’s sake, that’s two levels above ‘Academically Acceptable,’” I thought! I knew with my delicate features and soft hands I’d be passed around like currency in there. My only hope was to become a jailhouse snitch and curry favor with the guards.
As the car slowly pulled up, I studied the exterior of the building. It was built like a fortress. Its imposing masonry was not so much painted as whitewashed. And the calcimine covering, more sealant than aesthetic, just pulled any happy memory right out of you. Right then, I looked up in the sky for contrast and it had never seemed so blue. I just stared straight up. And I knew it was so beautiful but the situation made it also seem alien, like listening to people joyfully laugh at a good joke in another language. It was as if Monday morning and burnt popcorn had a child and entitled Ferris Buellers were sent there to get scared straight.
I reconnoitered the room we’d be doing our time in from the hall. The swath that I could see was mostly empty chairs and magazines. I was one of the first ones there. I’m odd in that my habitually frequent absences were juxtaposed with a compelling need for punctuality, but it was the case back then. I hated to be late. Even in college, if I had to walk into a class just moments after it had started, I probably wouldn’t go in at all. But maybe these qualities are not so different. I guess it demonstrated an innate unwillingness to be around others while trying to sell the ones I had to be with.
I slowly walked all the way into the room and spied a large figure thumbing through a fanned out magazine collection on one of the front desks. It was a classmate of mine named Andy who sat in front of me in my A. P. Economics class. I knew him to be a happy and quiet guy. He was also a brilliant pianist and, in just the right light, resembled the Chrysler Building. Up until that point, most of our conversations consisted of me rudely yelling “Head! Down!” when I couldn’t see the chalkboard. Why they placed me, at 5’9”, behind such a behemoth is a mystery. All I could ever see were the sadly estranged tops of the supply and demand curves and had no idea there was even a line for prices. To me, economics was like seeing the first half of Sleepless in Seattle, the two never meet and I kept questioning how much I paid for this.
Anyway, I struck up a conversation with the gorilla and felt more at ease. Like most of my social interactions, it wasn’t nearly as horrible as I thought it would be. As it turns out, the class was populated by people not unlike myself. Apparently, all the real hard cases aren’t as concerned with college as I expected. Then, the young teacher who would be overseeing the class walked in even more gingerly than I did. He moved slowly and purposefully like he was carrying explosives. I guessed he had a hangover and had drawn the short straw when they needed a teacher. He said with a desperate seriousness, “Keep. It. Quiet. . . Read, sleep, whatever. Just- keep it quiet.” And we did. And I don’t blame the guy. At least, ironically, he showed up for us. I learned long ago that Saturday mornings often follow too closely to Friday evenings with Monday right around the corner. . . That is, if you don’t take a sick day.
Since old habits are like Bruce Willis, I made the call. After providing me the needed sympathy, she immediately went into Mom-Mode. “Are you taking any medications? Prescribed or over the counter? Did you get the DM?” Of course, I was mostly confused and kind of tuning her out after the “poor you’s” ended. So, I said, “Yeah. I’m taking something.” Truth be told, I was taking everything. I was grabbing anything with a childproof lid and slinging it in my mouth with great abandon. My medicating was so enthusiastic, at one point, my addled mind wondered if you could accidentally make meth in your stomach.
Then, Michele asked me matter-of-factly what my temperature was. “What’s my temperature,” I asked? “How am I supposed to know my temperature?” I went on to explain to my sister that I had not had any children without her knowledge. And as a single man, I had no use for one. “Thermometers are for proving to someone else you’re sick,” I protested. “I know I’m sick! The damn things should be called what they are: lie detectors.” Although, I am curious what she would have said if I had thrown out a figure. When she asked, I would say with certainty, “101.6, Michele.” My guess is that she’d respond, “Yep, you’re sick.”
Of course, the greatest trick the Devil ever played on parents is that there are illnesses which aren’t accompanied by easily and accurately determined fevers. But why should this be any different than anything else in life? Very rarely can you determine the true nature of things with such an exact measurement. It’d be nice if you could. “Did she lose a contact or is she coming on to me? - Miss, could you put this under your tongue?”
At one time, in the distant past, my very life revolved around the fact that sick kids didn’t always have fevers. Because of it, I don’t remember a school year that didn’t require a doctor’s note to expunge some absences. Hell, I would even make one of my best friends in something called Saturday School. For those of you with better attendance than me, Saturday School was a way of making up absences so you could graduate high school and go to college rather than having to get a GED and join the Army.
However, taking it’s name from the parchments of ancient Rome and Egypt, when a major paper was due, one might still catch what I referred to as “the papyrus virus.” While this affliction was enough to garner you a few extra hours sleep and, if timed right, a three day weekend, it would not show up on any doctor’s swabs or throat cultures. Because of this, one of the many unfortunate symptoms of the “papyrus virus” was Saturday School. Now, although I had a penchant for skipping class, I was a pretty well liked kid and had a foot in the world of the teachers. If you were to believe them, Saturday School was less like normal class and more like the supermax facility at Pelican Bay.
So when I was finally sentenced to do a stretch of Saturday School in the Spring of my 18th year, I kissed my mother goodbye and franticly made peace with Jehovah, Allah, and that Volcano God in Joe Versus the Volcano. I realize that all this seems reactionary, but there were a lot of rumors floating around. First, Saturday School wasn’t at my high school, Douglas MacArthur. It was in the industrial area of San Antonio. I didn’t even know we had an industrial area. What were they making- tostadas, miniature Alamos? Next, I discovered it was at an “alternative school” for troubled teens. I was used to the cushy confines of an Exemplary School. “For God’s sake, that’s two levels above ‘Academically Acceptable,’” I thought! I knew with my delicate features and soft hands I’d be passed around like currency in there. My only hope was to become a jailhouse snitch and curry favor with the guards.
As the car slowly pulled up, I studied the exterior of the building. It was built like a fortress. Its imposing masonry was not so much painted as whitewashed. And the calcimine covering, more sealant than aesthetic, just pulled any happy memory right out of you. Right then, I looked up in the sky for contrast and it had never seemed so blue. I just stared straight up. And I knew it was so beautiful but the situation made it also seem alien, like listening to people joyfully laugh at a good joke in another language. It was as if Monday morning and burnt popcorn had a child and entitled Ferris Buellers were sent there to get scared straight.
I reconnoitered the room we’d be doing our time in from the hall. The swath that I could see was mostly empty chairs and magazines. I was one of the first ones there. I’m odd in that my habitually frequent absences were juxtaposed with a compelling need for punctuality, but it was the case back then. I hated to be late. Even in college, if I had to walk into a class just moments after it had started, I probably wouldn’t go in at all. But maybe these qualities are not so different. I guess it demonstrated an innate unwillingness to be around others while trying to sell the ones I had to be with.
I slowly walked all the way into the room and spied a large figure thumbing through a fanned out magazine collection on one of the front desks. It was a classmate of mine named Andy who sat in front of me in my A. P. Economics class. I knew him to be a happy and quiet guy. He was also a brilliant pianist and, in just the right light, resembled the Chrysler Building. Up until that point, most of our conversations consisted of me rudely yelling “Head! Down!” when I couldn’t see the chalkboard. Why they placed me, at 5’9”, behind such a behemoth is a mystery. All I could ever see were the sadly estranged tops of the supply and demand curves and had no idea there was even a line for prices. To me, economics was like seeing the first half of Sleepless in Seattle, the two never meet and I kept questioning how much I paid for this.
Anyway, I struck up a conversation with the gorilla and felt more at ease. Like most of my social interactions, it wasn’t nearly as horrible as I thought it would be. As it turns out, the class was populated by people not unlike myself. Apparently, all the real hard cases aren’t as concerned with college as I expected. Then, the young teacher who would be overseeing the class walked in even more gingerly than I did. He moved slowly and purposefully like he was carrying explosives. I guessed he had a hangover and had drawn the short straw when they needed a teacher. He said with a desperate seriousness, “Keep. It. Quiet. . . Read, sleep, whatever. Just- keep it quiet.” And we did. And I don’t blame the guy. At least, ironically, he showed up for us. I learned long ago that Saturday mornings often follow too closely to Friday evenings with Monday right around the corner. . . That is, if you don’t take a sick day.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
No Beneficiaries
I have nothing against children. You only hear people without kids having to utter these words. But it’s true. I really don’t. I realize that they are necessary to continue the species and several diaper companies. They’re cute when opening Christmas presents. Also, many of my favorite films probably would not have been made if, let’s say, Danny Devito was the closest thing to a child on the planet. The only real concern I had about them was their ability to spew forth, like some Yellowstone geyser, from any number of orifices. That also includes the piercing screams of my niece Madeline, who once shrieked so loud it interrupted our satellite reception.
Since the closest I’d ever been to having a baby was one scare in college and a particularly gluttonous evening at a pizza buffet, they really didn’t enter my mind much at all. They were like boats to me. I would hear that people wanted them and they were very expensive, but I’d have to go out of my way to see one. You would think that would all change when my siblings started having babies, but to their credit, it really didn’t. You see, I’m the youngest of six kids. I’m so far down the babysitting list, it would be like the Secretary of Agriculture being elevated to President. So when my sister Monica asked me to watch her children, I desperately asked, “What happened? Is everyone okay?!”
While events had conspired against Monica, it luckily didn’t include the surprise nuclear attack from the Russians I’d semi-expected. Relieved, I agreed to watch her two children Jacob and Madeline. Now, my sister has subsequently had three more children and two slightly smaller kidney stones since then. But I would have to disagree with the ABC classic sitcom and tell you: two is enough. That day included the first and second times I’ve ever changed a diaper and another bathroom story I don’t want to go into. When asked, I honestly told my sister Monica, “They behaved better than I literally thought possible… And it was still horrible.”
I chalked this bump in the road up to experience and got back to living life. However, my relationship with children would become slightly more complex once I took a job working for Citibank. I was in my mid twenties and going through my favorite part of any job- the lengthy training period. It was just like school except there was no homework and they paid you to go. Our class had all sorts in it. This included a woman suffering from night-blindness and a tall, oaf who had a peculiar mix of arrogance and incompetence. We called him “Knuckles” because he would get so frustrated when he got a question wrong, he’d tightly make fists bearing his white knuckles. Moments later, he would assuredly answer another question incorrectly or misuse the word “idyllic” and the cycle would begin again. I am confident that, by the writing of this, Knuckles is either murdered or in jail for murder.
One day in training, I was approached by two well-meaning, middle-aged women with puzzled looks on their faces. This happened often in this class. However, instead of a question about the FDIC or funds availability, one of them said, “Paul, we noticed you don’t wear a wedding ring.” Now, it was my turn to look puzzled. “I also don’t wear a turban,” I responded. They looked at each other and didn’t know quite how to respond. So, they just asked the same question. “So, you’re not married?” After I told them I wasn’t, the shorter of the two replied, “Oh, you’re divorced.” I told them I wasn’t married, nor have I ever been married and they were astonished. This should have prepared me for the follow-up, “Well, how many kids do you have?”
We had practiced assumptive closing techniques in class, but this was getting ridiculous. It was like they were asking, “Paul, what is it going to take to get you into a broken marriage with two kids today?” I would have been more annoyed but these ladies, who I had already decided would fight crime under the aliases of “Nightblind” and “Short Round,” meant no harm by any of this. Then one of them chimed, “Oh! You’re gay!” After I explained to them I was too messy and out of shape to be gay, they felt like they were out of options. They couldn’t fathom that I didn’t have kids by 25. I would soon find out that at Citibank in San Antonio, I was the oddball.
Back then, the Department of Labor seemed to think that only 34% of Americans in the workplace had a child under the age of 18. Unless the majority of these people worked at our site, I just don’t know how that could be the case. At our Citibank campus, you could get a girl pregnant by borrowing her pen. If you drank from the same glass, mazel tov, twins! They even constructed a separate childcare facility just for Citibank employees after I got there. I noticed this, but it really didn’t matter that much to me. I didn’t want kids and had taken a high school health class so I knew how to keep from having them.
Then, the holidays rolled around. As we inched closer to Christmas, our workload was dropping and the company started offering voluntary time off. Now, I volunteer for time off the way Justin Bieber volunteers for ridicule- enthusiastically. However, I was told by a diminutive manager-in-training he was starting with people who “had families.” Like the oaf, I clenched my fists and could feel my rage pooling in my whitening knuckles. I calmly explained to the manager that all of Citibank’s scheduling was done on a merit basis because, if they put what he just told me on paper, they would be begging for lawsuits. I went on to explain that he was inviting the fury of any number of people who had no family and therefore, in his eyes, nothing to lose by throwing him out the window. He immediately told me to go home and wished me a Merry Christmas.
Apparently, this happens a lot. 80% of American workers feel that childless workers get less attention to their needs then their counterparts. 81% feel that childless workers carry more of the burden. One H.R. representative explained in an L.A. Times article that many of the childless workers also get more looks when they call in sick saying, “The boss thinks they stayed out late and not that their baby was sick.” Having often done this myself, I feel partially responsible for this one. But for years, a friend of mine has had to work every Christmas, despite his seniority and title, because he didn't have children. Another friend recently told her mother she was running late for work and her mom responded, “You can’t be late until you have a child.”
That stings. It was because of these inequities, that noted spinster Leslie Lafayette started the ChildFree Network in 1992. Their platform, like the Lakers’ Triangle Offense, was three-pronged. First, abolish all tax breaks for getting knocked up. Second, childless people should not be forced to cover for parents at work. Finally, insurance carriers who pool resources should not pay for in-vitro fertilizations. I also think they were trying to get “Baby on Board” signs to read “I May Not Have a Baby on Board, But Please Don’t Hit Me Anyway.”
As with most cases, my research into this matter revealed that you were only hearing the loudest voices. Many parents had concerns that they weren’t being promoted because of their family commitments and that they weren’t as visible. That seemed like a real concern from reasonable people. Then I read about people who weren’t anti-child but worried the company didn’t realize it was their priority versus someone else’s priority. That seemed reasonable too.
I decided to go to the ChildFree Network’s website for more information. However, I couldn’t find it. It didn’t exist. I wondered, “Had all the ChildFree Network supporters died off and had no children to replace them?” I also considered that none of them had any twelve year-olds to teach them how to use their computers. Neither was the case. Apparently, Leslie Lafayette left her organization after getting pregnant… I’m just kidding. Although, that’d be pretty funny. No, she went on to work on other commitments and the national ChildFree Network organization sort of died. The 33 local chapters were swallowed by Vancouver based “No Kidding.” As the stupid pun would imply, this is not a joke. Their name is actually “No Kidding.” I went to their website and it was typically Canadian. While it was careful not to offend, it really didn’t stand for anything either. It’s website reads, “We are non-political, non-religious, and do not endorse or oppose any cause.”
Wow. I’ll say that again and backwards… Wow. If a group doesn’t support or oppose anything, I’m not really sure what it does. I mean, even a bowling league supports bowling. When I first started at Citibank, I had to fill out my benefits form. They wanted to know who my beneficiary was in case I was listening carefully to upper management and had a sudden and massive aneurism. I asked, “What happens if I don’t list one?” The HR rep told me my check would revert back to my estate. “My estate,” I thought? My estate consisted of a pretty nice beer cooler, a used Toyota Corolla, and $35,000 in student loans. I would eventually leave Citibank in 2008 and a few months later their stock would drop 96%. I tell those who will listen, the two are related. Maybe, that would be my legacy? For now, it’ll have to do. But I really don’t have anything against real children… No kidding.
Since the closest I’d ever been to having a baby was one scare in college and a particularly gluttonous evening at a pizza buffet, they really didn’t enter my mind much at all. They were like boats to me. I would hear that people wanted them and they were very expensive, but I’d have to go out of my way to see one. You would think that would all change when my siblings started having babies, but to their credit, it really didn’t. You see, I’m the youngest of six kids. I’m so far down the babysitting list, it would be like the Secretary of Agriculture being elevated to President. So when my sister Monica asked me to watch her children, I desperately asked, “What happened? Is everyone okay?!”
While events had conspired against Monica, it luckily didn’t include the surprise nuclear attack from the Russians I’d semi-expected. Relieved, I agreed to watch her two children Jacob and Madeline. Now, my sister has subsequently had three more children and two slightly smaller kidney stones since then. But I would have to disagree with the ABC classic sitcom and tell you: two is enough. That day included the first and second times I’ve ever changed a diaper and another bathroom story I don’t want to go into. When asked, I honestly told my sister Monica, “They behaved better than I literally thought possible… And it was still horrible.”
I chalked this bump in the road up to experience and got back to living life. However, my relationship with children would become slightly more complex once I took a job working for Citibank. I was in my mid twenties and going through my favorite part of any job- the lengthy training period. It was just like school except there was no homework and they paid you to go. Our class had all sorts in it. This included a woman suffering from night-blindness and a tall, oaf who had a peculiar mix of arrogance and incompetence. We called him “Knuckles” because he would get so frustrated when he got a question wrong, he’d tightly make fists bearing his white knuckles. Moments later, he would assuredly answer another question incorrectly or misuse the word “idyllic” and the cycle would begin again. I am confident that, by the writing of this, Knuckles is either murdered or in jail for murder.
One day in training, I was approached by two well-meaning, middle-aged women with puzzled looks on their faces. This happened often in this class. However, instead of a question about the FDIC or funds availability, one of them said, “Paul, we noticed you don’t wear a wedding ring.” Now, it was my turn to look puzzled. “I also don’t wear a turban,” I responded. They looked at each other and didn’t know quite how to respond. So, they just asked the same question. “So, you’re not married?” After I told them I wasn’t, the shorter of the two replied, “Oh, you’re divorced.” I told them I wasn’t married, nor have I ever been married and they were astonished. This should have prepared me for the follow-up, “Well, how many kids do you have?”
We had practiced assumptive closing techniques in class, but this was getting ridiculous. It was like they were asking, “Paul, what is it going to take to get you into a broken marriage with two kids today?” I would have been more annoyed but these ladies, who I had already decided would fight crime under the aliases of “Nightblind” and “Short Round,” meant no harm by any of this. Then one of them chimed, “Oh! You’re gay!” After I explained to them I was too messy and out of shape to be gay, they felt like they were out of options. They couldn’t fathom that I didn’t have kids by 25. I would soon find out that at Citibank in San Antonio, I was the oddball.
Back then, the Department of Labor seemed to think that only 34% of Americans in the workplace had a child under the age of 18. Unless the majority of these people worked at our site, I just don’t know how that could be the case. At our Citibank campus, you could get a girl pregnant by borrowing her pen. If you drank from the same glass, mazel tov, twins! They even constructed a separate childcare facility just for Citibank employees after I got there. I noticed this, but it really didn’t matter that much to me. I didn’t want kids and had taken a high school health class so I knew how to keep from having them.
Then, the holidays rolled around. As we inched closer to Christmas, our workload was dropping and the company started offering voluntary time off. Now, I volunteer for time off the way Justin Bieber volunteers for ridicule- enthusiastically. However, I was told by a diminutive manager-in-training he was starting with people who “had families.” Like the oaf, I clenched my fists and could feel my rage pooling in my whitening knuckles. I calmly explained to the manager that all of Citibank’s scheduling was done on a merit basis because, if they put what he just told me on paper, they would be begging for lawsuits. I went on to explain that he was inviting the fury of any number of people who had no family and therefore, in his eyes, nothing to lose by throwing him out the window. He immediately told me to go home and wished me a Merry Christmas.
Apparently, this happens a lot. 80% of American workers feel that childless workers get less attention to their needs then their counterparts. 81% feel that childless workers carry more of the burden. One H.R. representative explained in an L.A. Times article that many of the childless workers also get more looks when they call in sick saying, “The boss thinks they stayed out late and not that their baby was sick.” Having often done this myself, I feel partially responsible for this one. But for years, a friend of mine has had to work every Christmas, despite his seniority and title, because he didn't have children. Another friend recently told her mother she was running late for work and her mom responded, “You can’t be late until you have a child.”
That stings. It was because of these inequities, that noted spinster Leslie Lafayette started the ChildFree Network in 1992. Their platform, like the Lakers’ Triangle Offense, was three-pronged. First, abolish all tax breaks for getting knocked up. Second, childless people should not be forced to cover for parents at work. Finally, insurance carriers who pool resources should not pay for in-vitro fertilizations. I also think they were trying to get “Baby on Board” signs to read “I May Not Have a Baby on Board, But Please Don’t Hit Me Anyway.”
As with most cases, my research into this matter revealed that you were only hearing the loudest voices. Many parents had concerns that they weren’t being promoted because of their family commitments and that they weren’t as visible. That seemed like a real concern from reasonable people. Then I read about people who weren’t anti-child but worried the company didn’t realize it was their priority versus someone else’s priority. That seemed reasonable too.
I decided to go to the ChildFree Network’s website for more information. However, I couldn’t find it. It didn’t exist. I wondered, “Had all the ChildFree Network supporters died off and had no children to replace them?” I also considered that none of them had any twelve year-olds to teach them how to use their computers. Neither was the case. Apparently, Leslie Lafayette left her organization after getting pregnant… I’m just kidding. Although, that’d be pretty funny. No, she went on to work on other commitments and the national ChildFree Network organization sort of died. The 33 local chapters were swallowed by Vancouver based “No Kidding.” As the stupid pun would imply, this is not a joke. Their name is actually “No Kidding.” I went to their website and it was typically Canadian. While it was careful not to offend, it really didn’t stand for anything either. It’s website reads, “We are non-political, non-religious, and do not endorse or oppose any cause.”
Wow. I’ll say that again and backwards… Wow. If a group doesn’t support or oppose anything, I’m not really sure what it does. I mean, even a bowling league supports bowling. When I first started at Citibank, I had to fill out my benefits form. They wanted to know who my beneficiary was in case I was listening carefully to upper management and had a sudden and massive aneurism. I asked, “What happens if I don’t list one?” The HR rep told me my check would revert back to my estate. “My estate,” I thought? My estate consisted of a pretty nice beer cooler, a used Toyota Corolla, and $35,000 in student loans. I would eventually leave Citibank in 2008 and a few months later their stock would drop 96%. I tell those who will listen, the two are related. Maybe, that would be my legacy? For now, it’ll have to do. But I really don’t have anything against real children… No kidding.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Wonderland Sydney, New South Wales, Oz
In the winter of 1998, I flew to Australia to write and announce a water-ski show for an amusement park named “Wonderland.” The theme park was wrought with roving packs of Scooby-Doo’s and an appropriately lazy sloth of Yogi Bears that delighted children and the mentally ill alike. Either they had some affiliation with Hanna-Barbara or legally benefited from the anonymity of the park’s hemorrhoidal position on the Earth. I didn’t care. It was a job and they paid me in, what I could only assume was, some sort of cash. I really didn’t know. Their money is blue, pink, and a shade of green that doesn’t appear in nature. Aside from pictures of British royalty gleefully swimming in shark infested waters, it was also plastic. I found this to be ingenious because it didn’t rip and would only annoy those insensitive few who garishly light cigars with $100 bills. I’m looking at you Monopoly Man!
I arrived a few weeks after the park happily celebrated its 13th birthday. Triskaidekaphobia aside, the date was dubious for other reasons. This joyous occasion, a girl innocently mentioned, was “a very festive day here- December 7th!” I instinctively recoiled from her. However, it’s difficult for a 22 year-old bloke to recoil that much from a flaxen-haired, tan-skinned, harebrained Sheila who didn’t mean any harm. While her blunder hung in the air, she just batted her eyelashes innocently like a puppy who just laid a giant turd on your carpet. But, I’d probably never see this puppy again and I knew it’d never lick me if I slapped it with a rolled up newspaper. So, ashamed, I let it slide and made my quiet apologies to the men of the battleship Arizona.
Now, besides the upside down field of stars, Orion looked like he was doing a headspin in a break dancing competition, there were other differences I dazzled myself with. First, being a savvy man of the world, I knew the toilets all spun counter-clockwise. On my first day, I was more excited than usual after my morning bowel movement because of this fact. After I pressed the lever, like a game show contestant might spin a wheel listing fabulous prizes, a great woosh washed my dreams and my breakfast straight down the commode. “What the hell,” I managed in my disappointment. After the toilet filled, I pressed the lever again the way a distraught sports fan might replay a close play that went against him. “Maybe, it’ll be different this time?” But no. The water didn’t spin. It was sucked down like an airplane toilet. I’ve ridden on airplanes! I was more disappointed than I wanted to admit. So, I hunted out the other differences with that much more gusto.
Next, there was the enormous time difference. Apparently, it’s still the 19th century in Australia. How else could you explain that in a city of 4 million people, you couldn’t get a pizza delivered past ten on a Saturday? And the hourly difference was spectacular as well. Eating lunch on January 7th, I remembered I had missed my brother Christopher’s birthday the previous day. Realizing that my birthday was in a scant few months, I frantically called him. Coincidentally, the family was sitting down for his birthday dinner on the other side of the international dateline. The conversation was cut short, however, when I noticed a four foot red-bellied black snake in a planter by my hand. I had read they’re “not generally fatal,” but you’d be surprised how little comfort that gives you when it recoils in the striking position. Regardless, my brother is still both impressed I remembered and oblivious to the fact I was a day late.
That was actually my second most memorable lunch at Wonderland. My first, was the time a friend of mine named Bree decided to grab a hamburger with me at one of the park stands. I handed over the pink, plastic visage of Queen Elizabeth boxing a kangaroo and the kid handed me a beautiful burger. I had to admit, the thing looked great. Bree was asked if she wanted onions and she replied in the standard Aussie three-syllable “Ynooooooyuw.” I’ve tried often to reproduce this but to no avail. I’m convinced scientific studies would show this to be the most adorable way for a girl to say “No.” I still insist that it must be at least a small comfort to hear this charming growl after a girl turns down even the most desperate of requests. “Will you marry me or, at the very least, remove your Buick Regal from my right foot? No? That’s okay, then.” That’s how nice these people are!
While she collected her onion free burger, a lazy Yogi was refused a soda. I wondered what he would do with it had they gave it to him, and I took an American-sized bite into my burger. Now, I should have known something was up when it made the squish sound- like a sponge being squeezed over a sink after the dishes were done. But I blindly started to chew. Somewhere in the maelstrom of meat and ketchup, my mouth began to sense something amiss. My eyebrows furrowed and my face took the serious expression of a gazelle’s when a lion is near. Squish, again?! It was a beet and I spit it onto my plate like an eight year old.
Now, this maybe no big deal for you or countless Ukrainians. But ever since I mistook one for a sugary slice of jellied cranberry sauce as a child at Thanksgiving, I have had a basic and instinctual hatred of beets. Since that fateful day in Australia, I have eaten beets only once and just enough to politely get through a small dinner party. In distinct contrast, I had no problem with two whole octopi inexplicably served at a barbecue restaurant. And this wasn’t like calamari, or a steak, or some other thing that you’d need a butcher and a biology degree to know where it came from on the animal. Plopped on my plate, they looked as though a couple of well-placed breaths and compressions may revive them fully. No. Big. Deal… I. Hate. Beets.
After I threw out the burger entirely, I ate my fries and most of Bree’s as some sort of punitive action. I got back to our area and immediately brushed my teeth like a germaphobe might wash after sitting on Charlie Sheen’s cloth sofa. And as I came slowly down from my bad beet trip, I noticed the sink filling up with water and I recognized this as my opportunity. Only one day from leaving Australia, I turned the water on full blast and the pressure was too much for the tiny drain to match. When the water, still foamy from enough toothpaste to brush the teeth of a fully grown crocodile- which Wonderland also had- reached the top, I abruptly turned off the faucet. At first, the water belched quietly under the surface. But I knew it was going down from the “legs” the slurry on its surface made against the edges. Then, it happened. The water began to spin counter-clockwise and a great wave of peace and satisfaction washed over me. So much so, I left the sink a bubbly mess for the next confused user.
A couple of years after I left, another American disaster would signal the end of Wonderland. As tourism dropped sharply after the 9/11 attacks, the park became completely insolvent. They managed to keep the doors open for a few more years, but in 2004, the world would witness the largest single lay-off of Yogi Bear costume characters to date. Lackadaisically mismanaged and ridiculously strewn with beets as it was, it was a pretty good time. Sure, there would be the occasional red-bellied black snake, but remember they’re not generally fatal. Besides, they had plenty of rides, a live crocodile, and the best damn water-ski announcer I’ve ever seen.
I arrived a few weeks after the park happily celebrated its 13th birthday. Triskaidekaphobia aside, the date was dubious for other reasons. This joyous occasion, a girl innocently mentioned, was “a very festive day here- December 7th!” I instinctively recoiled from her. However, it’s difficult for a 22 year-old bloke to recoil that much from a flaxen-haired, tan-skinned, harebrained Sheila who didn’t mean any harm. While her blunder hung in the air, she just batted her eyelashes innocently like a puppy who just laid a giant turd on your carpet. But, I’d probably never see this puppy again and I knew it’d never lick me if I slapped it with a rolled up newspaper. So, ashamed, I let it slide and made my quiet apologies to the men of the battleship Arizona.
Now, besides the upside down field of stars, Orion looked like he was doing a headspin in a break dancing competition, there were other differences I dazzled myself with. First, being a savvy man of the world, I knew the toilets all spun counter-clockwise. On my first day, I was more excited than usual after my morning bowel movement because of this fact. After I pressed the lever, like a game show contestant might spin a wheel listing fabulous prizes, a great woosh washed my dreams and my breakfast straight down the commode. “What the hell,” I managed in my disappointment. After the toilet filled, I pressed the lever again the way a distraught sports fan might replay a close play that went against him. “Maybe, it’ll be different this time?” But no. The water didn’t spin. It was sucked down like an airplane toilet. I’ve ridden on airplanes! I was more disappointed than I wanted to admit. So, I hunted out the other differences with that much more gusto.
Next, there was the enormous time difference. Apparently, it’s still the 19th century in Australia. How else could you explain that in a city of 4 million people, you couldn’t get a pizza delivered past ten on a Saturday? And the hourly difference was spectacular as well. Eating lunch on January 7th, I remembered I had missed my brother Christopher’s birthday the previous day. Realizing that my birthday was in a scant few months, I frantically called him. Coincidentally, the family was sitting down for his birthday dinner on the other side of the international dateline. The conversation was cut short, however, when I noticed a four foot red-bellied black snake in a planter by my hand. I had read they’re “not generally fatal,” but you’d be surprised how little comfort that gives you when it recoils in the striking position. Regardless, my brother is still both impressed I remembered and oblivious to the fact I was a day late.
That was actually my second most memorable lunch at Wonderland. My first, was the time a friend of mine named Bree decided to grab a hamburger with me at one of the park stands. I handed over the pink, plastic visage of Queen Elizabeth boxing a kangaroo and the kid handed me a beautiful burger. I had to admit, the thing looked great. Bree was asked if she wanted onions and she replied in the standard Aussie three-syllable “Ynooooooyuw.” I’ve tried often to reproduce this but to no avail. I’m convinced scientific studies would show this to be the most adorable way for a girl to say “No.” I still insist that it must be at least a small comfort to hear this charming growl after a girl turns down even the most desperate of requests. “Will you marry me or, at the very least, remove your Buick Regal from my right foot? No? That’s okay, then.” That’s how nice these people are!
While she collected her onion free burger, a lazy Yogi was refused a soda. I wondered what he would do with it had they gave it to him, and I took an American-sized bite into my burger. Now, I should have known something was up when it made the squish sound- like a sponge being squeezed over a sink after the dishes were done. But I blindly started to chew. Somewhere in the maelstrom of meat and ketchup, my mouth began to sense something amiss. My eyebrows furrowed and my face took the serious expression of a gazelle’s when a lion is near. Squish, again?! It was a beet and I spit it onto my plate like an eight year old.
Now, this maybe no big deal for you or countless Ukrainians. But ever since I mistook one for a sugary slice of jellied cranberry sauce as a child at Thanksgiving, I have had a basic and instinctual hatred of beets. Since that fateful day in Australia, I have eaten beets only once and just enough to politely get through a small dinner party. In distinct contrast, I had no problem with two whole octopi inexplicably served at a barbecue restaurant. And this wasn’t like calamari, or a steak, or some other thing that you’d need a butcher and a biology degree to know where it came from on the animal. Plopped on my plate, they looked as though a couple of well-placed breaths and compressions may revive them fully. No. Big. Deal… I. Hate. Beets.
After I threw out the burger entirely, I ate my fries and most of Bree’s as some sort of punitive action. I got back to our area and immediately brushed my teeth like a germaphobe might wash after sitting on Charlie Sheen’s cloth sofa. And as I came slowly down from my bad beet trip, I noticed the sink filling up with water and I recognized this as my opportunity. Only one day from leaving Australia, I turned the water on full blast and the pressure was too much for the tiny drain to match. When the water, still foamy from enough toothpaste to brush the teeth of a fully grown crocodile- which Wonderland also had- reached the top, I abruptly turned off the faucet. At first, the water belched quietly under the surface. But I knew it was going down from the “legs” the slurry on its surface made against the edges. Then, it happened. The water began to spin counter-clockwise and a great wave of peace and satisfaction washed over me. So much so, I left the sink a bubbly mess for the next confused user.
A couple of years after I left, another American disaster would signal the end of Wonderland. As tourism dropped sharply after the 9/11 attacks, the park became completely insolvent. They managed to keep the doors open for a few more years, but in 2004, the world would witness the largest single lay-off of Yogi Bear costume characters to date. Lackadaisically mismanaged and ridiculously strewn with beets as it was, it was a pretty good time. Sure, there would be the occasional red-bellied black snake, but remember they’re not generally fatal. Besides, they had plenty of rides, a live crocodile, and the best damn water-ski announcer I’ve ever seen.
Kids Drink Free
I moved back to Austin, TX three years ago. It is the site of my misspent youth, the part of your adolescence where there’s a good chance you may drink blue liquor out of a fishbowl but you can still be tried as an adult. It’s when you consider dropping a class to get a refund of a student loan as “making money.” Aside from me, a flourishing music scene, and a bunch of people who are trying too hard to look like they’re not trying at all, Austin is home to one of the largest universities in the United States.
With a larger population than twelve state capital cities, The University of Texas boasts an enrollment of precisely one-and-half craploads of people. And they are everywhere. Once you add these students to those not attending the school (but also not doing anything else), a thriving sub-genre of Austinites, I can’t drive around this town without getting the feeling that everyone is having a better time than I am. And as this group is constantly replenished with new blood, as I age, they are frozen in time like a vampire, Dorian Gray, or Bob Costas.
But, I thought back to my trip to South Carolina. I was in my early twenties and went there because I was sure I was madly in love with a girl I had met twice. It would be the first of a litany of out-of-state, recently divorced, or otherwise impossible infatuations in my life. Unfortunately, she only liked me for my mind and I had far more tangible ways of expressing my interest in her. These were ways that required precautionary stretching and Gatorade to replenish eagerly worked off electrolytes. She would later visit me in Austin, but this would only serve to lengthen my delusions. It was like treating dementia with copious amounts of hallucinogens- just a waste of good drugs… or in this case, Bare Naked Ladies concert tickets.
Mind you, I’m not ashamed of having liked her. She was brilliant, funny, and could order great take-out. It was just the fact that I only care to invest myself in lost causes. I find that I’m still prone to these types from time to time but, thankfully, not as much as I used to be. Sure, the star-crossed romanticism always appealed to me on some level. However, that was the most innocent aspect; the most easily tenable. I mainly flock to women too unobtainable because there’s a built in, no-fault, rejection. “Well, she was great but will be moving back to Guam soon, and with my American education, I can’t readily locate that on a map.” Happily, the fear of being rejected by someone you are deeply drawn to isn’t the only problem the “out-of-towner” alleviates. You also don’t have to worry about any type of commitment either.
Historically, my feelings regarding commitment could be summed up by the fact that I have three brands of mustard in my refrigerator. Another example is when my boss once visited my office and asked for a stapler. I had to confess to him that I had no idea where the stapler was. You see, I preferred paperclips because I didn't like the commitment of staples. He stared at me blankly. “Merino, you got problems,” he said while his wife laughed out loud. Minutes after he found a stapler, he sheepishly asked me for a staple remover. Apparently, he had joined the wrong set of files and needed the saber-toothed instrument that violently rips the staples out of your now tattered papers. “One divorce, coming up,” I snorted as I handed it to him.
This kind of attitude is fine, even advisable in your early twenties. I feel that it’s a time best spent on you and who you are going to be. However, once you get into your thirties and still have this bearing, you realize you’re just spinning your wheels and wasting time. Or worse, you're hiding from a fear of failure. This can easily happen when your same talent for observation that allows you to mercilessly eviscerate the lady with 32 items in the express line, turns on you when no one else is around. It is such a sharp and unforgiving instrument, it amazes me when others are oblivious to their own shortcomings.
I was once complimented at work when my manager said, “Paul’s strength is that he knows what he’s doing wrong. He’s great at self-assessment.” I wanted to jump up in the meeting and say, “That’s nothing, Boss! I snore, I drink too much, and have a completely irrational fear of drowning as well!” These things are all true, by the way. Come to think of it, they all reared their ugly heads simultaneously in Las Vegas one early morning. After twelve straight hours at a blackjack table, I realized I had set the land speed record for rum. Feeling particularly rotten, I ran a bath in my equally rotten hotel room.
You see, my college roommate and I decided to spend our precious few dollars on booze and gambling rather than luxuries like cable television and working door locks. There was also a suspicious dark stain on the floor one could easily imagine a chalk outline around. As I slipped into the bath, I yelled out to Neil, “If you can’t hear me snoring, it means I’m drowning.” Then, I passed out to the deafening silence of a close friend debating whether to let me die or fish my drunken, naked body from the tub. Luckily for both of us, he didn’t have to make that Sophie’s choice. So, I guess it’s good to be able to recognize your faults but, maybe, not dwell on them so Goddamn much.
I was once asked the awkward question by a well-meaning idiot, “Don’t you love yourself?” Uncharacteristically, I replied honestly and said, “It’s more of a physical relationship… You know? We’re just having a good time.” And, ultimately, there lies the problem. I wonder if you get the kinds of relationships you deserve. Now, a few more miles have rolled on my odometer and I realize that I’m not old, but I am too old to still be pulling the kinds of crap I did in my twenties. But it’s a slow process, and it’s not like touching a hot stove. These lessons have to be periodically relearned.
Recently, under the guise of kind curiosity, I asked a mutual friend about a married woman the way a New Yorker thumbs through the obituaries looking for apartments. I was charmed by the thought of another brief dalliance with a recent divorcee and scolded myself. It’s not that I find anything wrong with it, per se. I guess I’m just curious about something that means a little more and is actually a little more demanding. Of course, this would mean having to find someone I wouldn’t mind taking a long road trip with. Not that I go on them often, but it always seems to be my measure of someone’s worth. If you could stand to be trapped with this person in a confined space, between Fort Stockton and El Paso, and you don’t find yourself calculating your odds of survival if you leapt from the vehicle, you might have someone worth keeping.
Driving near campus yesterday, I found myself stopped at a light in front of a bar with a full patio of students and half-emptied pitchers of beer. It was a beautiful March day in the low 70’s. Knowing much of the country was still under a blanket of snow, I rolled down my windows to appreciate the mild temperatures- like a child finishing his plate because people were starving in China. With yet another birthday bearing down on me, I turned down the blaring classic rock that was already old when I was their age. I saw them laughing, and horsing around, and obviously not using terms like “horsing around.” But, it actually made me happy this time. I still have this and probably will for quite sometime- maybe, for the rest of my life. However, it doesn’t mean that I can’t move onto other things too. And as I see those countless students floating through life from disc golf course to happy hour, I paused and truly realized that I’ve been just as much stuck in time as they are.
With a larger population than twelve state capital cities, The University of Texas boasts an enrollment of precisely one-and-half craploads of people. And they are everywhere. Once you add these students to those not attending the school (but also not doing anything else), a thriving sub-genre of Austinites, I can’t drive around this town without getting the feeling that everyone is having a better time than I am. And as this group is constantly replenished with new blood, as I age, they are frozen in time like a vampire, Dorian Gray, or Bob Costas.
* * *
Recently, I saw a 17 year-old holding a press conference to announce he was going to play football at The University of South Carolina. Now, I have actually been to South Carolina. I saw a turkey the size of a Volkswagen there. I believe it was the only living thing not smoking. Regardless, I started thinking about how this kid on T.V. was literally half my age. This means I have a t-shirt which says “Betty Ford Clinic” in my possession that, except for the ability to overcome the block of an interior lineman, is old enough to hold its own nationally televised press conference. Of course, it is just a t-shirt, so I guess it would probably have to go to Arizona St.But, I thought back to my trip to South Carolina. I was in my early twenties and went there because I was sure I was madly in love with a girl I had met twice. It would be the first of a litany of out-of-state, recently divorced, or otherwise impossible infatuations in my life. Unfortunately, she only liked me for my mind and I had far more tangible ways of expressing my interest in her. These were ways that required precautionary stretching and Gatorade to replenish eagerly worked off electrolytes. She would later visit me in Austin, but this would only serve to lengthen my delusions. It was like treating dementia with copious amounts of hallucinogens- just a waste of good drugs… or in this case, Bare Naked Ladies concert tickets.
Mind you, I’m not ashamed of having liked her. She was brilliant, funny, and could order great take-out. It was just the fact that I only care to invest myself in lost causes. I find that I’m still prone to these types from time to time but, thankfully, not as much as I used to be. Sure, the star-crossed romanticism always appealed to me on some level. However, that was the most innocent aspect; the most easily tenable. I mainly flock to women too unobtainable because there’s a built in, no-fault, rejection. “Well, she was great but will be moving back to Guam soon, and with my American education, I can’t readily locate that on a map.” Happily, the fear of being rejected by someone you are deeply drawn to isn’t the only problem the “out-of-towner” alleviates. You also don’t have to worry about any type of commitment either.
Historically, my feelings regarding commitment could be summed up by the fact that I have three brands of mustard in my refrigerator. Another example is when my boss once visited my office and asked for a stapler. I had to confess to him that I had no idea where the stapler was. You see, I preferred paperclips because I didn't like the commitment of staples. He stared at me blankly. “Merino, you got problems,” he said while his wife laughed out loud. Minutes after he found a stapler, he sheepishly asked me for a staple remover. Apparently, he had joined the wrong set of files and needed the saber-toothed instrument that violently rips the staples out of your now tattered papers. “One divorce, coming up,” I snorted as I handed it to him.
This kind of attitude is fine, even advisable in your early twenties. I feel that it’s a time best spent on you and who you are going to be. However, once you get into your thirties and still have this bearing, you realize you’re just spinning your wheels and wasting time. Or worse, you're hiding from a fear of failure. This can easily happen when your same talent for observation that allows you to mercilessly eviscerate the lady with 32 items in the express line, turns on you when no one else is around. It is such a sharp and unforgiving instrument, it amazes me when others are oblivious to their own shortcomings.
I was once complimented at work when my manager said, “Paul’s strength is that he knows what he’s doing wrong. He’s great at self-assessment.” I wanted to jump up in the meeting and say, “That’s nothing, Boss! I snore, I drink too much, and have a completely irrational fear of drowning as well!” These things are all true, by the way. Come to think of it, they all reared their ugly heads simultaneously in Las Vegas one early morning. After twelve straight hours at a blackjack table, I realized I had set the land speed record for rum. Feeling particularly rotten, I ran a bath in my equally rotten hotel room.
You see, my college roommate and I decided to spend our precious few dollars on booze and gambling rather than luxuries like cable television and working door locks. There was also a suspicious dark stain on the floor one could easily imagine a chalk outline around. As I slipped into the bath, I yelled out to Neil, “If you can’t hear me snoring, it means I’m drowning.” Then, I passed out to the deafening silence of a close friend debating whether to let me die or fish my drunken, naked body from the tub. Luckily for both of us, he didn’t have to make that Sophie’s choice. So, I guess it’s good to be able to recognize your faults but, maybe, not dwell on them so Goddamn much.
I was once asked the awkward question by a well-meaning idiot, “Don’t you love yourself?” Uncharacteristically, I replied honestly and said, “It’s more of a physical relationship… You know? We’re just having a good time.” And, ultimately, there lies the problem. I wonder if you get the kinds of relationships you deserve. Now, a few more miles have rolled on my odometer and I realize that I’m not old, but I am too old to still be pulling the kinds of crap I did in my twenties. But it’s a slow process, and it’s not like touching a hot stove. These lessons have to be periodically relearned.
Recently, under the guise of kind curiosity, I asked a mutual friend about a married woman the way a New Yorker thumbs through the obituaries looking for apartments. I was charmed by the thought of another brief dalliance with a recent divorcee and scolded myself. It’s not that I find anything wrong with it, per se. I guess I’m just curious about something that means a little more and is actually a little more demanding. Of course, this would mean having to find someone I wouldn’t mind taking a long road trip with. Not that I go on them often, but it always seems to be my measure of someone’s worth. If you could stand to be trapped with this person in a confined space, between Fort Stockton and El Paso, and you don’t find yourself calculating your odds of survival if you leapt from the vehicle, you might have someone worth keeping.
Driving near campus yesterday, I found myself stopped at a light in front of a bar with a full patio of students and half-emptied pitchers of beer. It was a beautiful March day in the low 70’s. Knowing much of the country was still under a blanket of snow, I rolled down my windows to appreciate the mild temperatures- like a child finishing his plate because people were starving in China. With yet another birthday bearing down on me, I turned down the blaring classic rock that was already old when I was their age. I saw them laughing, and horsing around, and obviously not using terms like “horsing around.” But, it actually made me happy this time. I still have this and probably will for quite sometime- maybe, for the rest of my life. However, it doesn’t mean that I can’t move onto other things too. And as I see those countless students floating through life from disc golf course to happy hour, I paused and truly realized that I’ve been just as much stuck in time as they are.
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