On My Thirteenth Birthday, Gravity Nearly Beat Me to Death With a Skateboard

I think every male born in the late-eighties to early-nineties has played and loved the game "Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 2."  I owned this game for Game Boy Advance, which allowed me to carry it with me at all times and play continuously for hours.

This game was particularly engrossing because you were able to earn and spend points to improve the skill of your character and the skateboard that he used.  My character was so juiced up on points that he could ollie 7 feet in the air from a standstill and survive a 40 foot fall onto a vertical pole.  Hell, I could skate perpendicularly up to a rail at 40 miles per hour and just by hitting a button I could instantly turn ninety degrees and grind down the rail at the same speed.  My character was indestructible and superhumanly talented.  This gave me the false courage to try it for myself.  So, for my birthday, I asked for a skateboard.

Though I asked, I wasn't sure if I was going to get one.  My parents had expressed that they were worried that I might hurt myself since skateboards have a reputation for occasionally putting teenagers in wheelchairs.

When my birthday finally rolled around, I was excited when I was presented a suspiciously skateboard-shaped box.

I tore open the packaging to see the bulkiest, heaviest skateboard I'd ever seen.  It was the Volvo of the skateboarding world.  My parents must have thought that the boxier and clumsier the skateboard was physically, the better the crash test ratings must be.  Just because it's shaped like a toaster, it doesn't mean it comes with side curtain airbags, Mother.

Despite the form-factor, I was still excited about the skateboard and I wanted to try it out.  Immediately.

I hoisted the skateboard up over my shoulder like a fireman carrying a chunky lady out of a burning apartment building and marched it outside.

My mom met me in front of the house with a helmet and a warning.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Oh, yeah, it's easy.  You hit A to jump and Y to rail grind.  It's gonna be awesome."  I reassured her confidently.

I took the helmet and put it on.  Then I walked the skateboard over to the top of my driveway.

I placed the skateboard down and aimed it generally in the direction I wanted to go.  I gave my mother and father a thumbs up and jumped onto the skateboard with both feet.

The skateboard began to roll forward.

The feeling was euphoric.  The sensation of floating along above the ground was amazing.  I thought my extensive video game playing would afford me some experience, so I tried to emulate what I saw the guys do in the video game.

I knew you had to tilt the board to turn so I tried it, but the leaning thing was new and it made me feel off balance.  I was probably going to have to put in a little bit more practice before I knew what it was supposed to feel like.

Then I realized how quickly I was going.  I had picked up some substantial speed.  I hadn't remembered my driveway being quite this steep.  Also, I had forgotten about those menacing thorn bushes lining the bottom of the driveway.

Then a new thought that should have shown up long ago casually strolled across my consciousness:  "How do I stop?"

Uh oh.  I had no idea.  Usually in my game I was never not moving unless my character had just fallen face first into a wall, but then he would just pop up and skate away like nothing happened.  I had never, ever seen how anyone had stopped a moving skateboard.

I better figure it out quick.  I only had a few seconds before I was going to be crowd-surfing those thorn bushes.

I decided that I was only going to go faster, so the sooner I took action, the more mild the consequences.  So, I took one foot off of the board and stepped onto the ground that was rushing by beneath me; I kept the other foot on the board to keep it from careening off somewhere.

My ground foot and my skateboard foot had different agendas.  They couldn't agree, so they asked Gravity for a little input.

After very little deliberation, Gravity took me down like a DEA attack dog looking to get its next crack fix from a junkie's jugular blood.

I was driven down headfirst into the asphalt with such unbridled fury that I was sure Gravity was God's bouncer for Earth and I was getting kicked out of the club.

My body bounced like a ragdoll down the driveway, finally coming to a stop a few feet from where I fell.  I don't remember that, of course.  That little nugget of the story has been recounted for me.

A bit later, I woke up with my parents and sister huddled around me.

"Are you okay?"  My mom questioned frantically, grabbing desperately at my head.

"Yeah, I'm thuper."  I lisped.

"It's a good thing you were wearing your helmet."  My dad said, holding up two halves of my former helmet.

I was too woozy to understand the weight of the situation at the time, but I think that might be as close to I've ever come to a mortal wound.

I'm not usually a proponent of helmets (it messes with my doo) but in this instance, one of those silly foam hats gave its life to keep me from drinking the rest of my meals through a straw.

--

This is going to turn into a little PSA:  If you're on something that has wheels but no windows, please wear a helmet.

Wear a helmet or go faster.

When people come to the hospital to ask how you're doing, you don't want the doctor to use air quotes when he says you "survived."

The Worst Superheroes I Can Think Of

"Adequate Man"

"Inebriation Boy"

"The Incredible Cardigan"

"The Editor"

"Petroleum" the Oil-Soaked Pelican

"Type II" and his trusty sidekick, "Insulin"

"Feeding Tube"

"Iron Man"

Grandpa

George Orwell's Pizza

So, here's another short scene that I've written.  If you've ever ordered Dominoes online, then I think you'll get the joke.


                                   GEORGE ORWELL'S PIZZA

               INT. COLLEGE APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT

               Andy and Dennis are sitting in front of a computer.

                                   ANDY
                         I think a large pepperoni pizza
                         sounds good.

               Dennis clicks a few times on the computer.

                                   DENNIS
                         Alright...and there go the
                         pepperonis.  This new interface is
                         kinda cool.  Seems like a lot of
                         features for just ordering pizza,
                         though.

                                   ANDY
                         I don't know, I think it's kinda
                         fun.  It adds to it.

                                   DENNIS
                         Okay, submitted.

                                   ANDY
                         How soon will it be here?

                                   DENNIS
                         Uh, I'm not...wait...what's this?

                                   ANDY
                         What?

                                   DENNIS
                         There's a meter or something.  It
                         says "Julian is preparing our
                         ingredients."

                                   ANDY
                         Oh, cool.  That might actually be
                         too much information though.  I
                         don't really care who makes it.

                                   DENNIS
                         There's more.  It says Julian is a
                         Sagittarius and that he has a
                         birthmark on his left ankle that
                         looks like France.
                                                                 
                                   ANDY
                         Okay, well that's way too much
                         information.

                                   DENNIS
                         It's like constantly saying new
                         things.  Now Julian has passed the
                         pizza to Tommy who is constructing
                         the pizza.  There are currently 5
                         pepperonis on our...no 7...8...9.
                         It's a live count of how many
                         pepperonis are on our pizza.

                                   ANDY
                         That's absurd!

               He leans over Dennis's shoulder to see better.

                                   ANDY (CONT'D)
                         Why do they think we want to know
                         all this?

                                   DENNIS
                         It's in the oven.  There's a button
                         that says "click here for an
                         ultrasound of the oven".

                                   ANDY
                         An ultrasound?

                                   DENNIS
                         Apparently.  Should I click?

                                   ANDY
                         Uhh.  I guess so, why not.

               Dennis clicks the link and they both hunch closer to the
               computer.

                                   DENNIS
                         My god.  Well there it is.

                                   ANDY
                         Huh.  I thought it would be
                         smaller.

                                   DENNIS
                         He has your eyes.

                                   ANDY
                             (laughs and leans away
                              from computer)
                         Yeah, right.
                                                                 
                                   DENNIS
                         Oh, a pop-up.  It says "would you
                         like to name your pizza?"

                                   ANDY
                         No it doesn't.

                                   DENNIS
                         Yeah, right here.

                                   ANDY
                         God, why do we have these options.

                                   DENNIS
                         I don't know.

                                   ANDY
                         How about Charles?

                                   DENNIS
                         Charles who?

                                   ANDY
                         For the pizza.  How do you like
                         Charles?  That was my grandfather's
                         name.

                                   DENNIS
                         Uhhhh, sure.

               Dennis types into the field.

                                   DENNIS (CONT'D)
                         Charles it is.

                                   ANDY
                             (smiling)
                         Okay, cool.  I like that.

                                   DENNIS
                         Dude, by the time the pizza gets
                         here, our emotional bond with it is
                         going to be so strong, we aren't
                         gonna to be able to eat it.

                                   ANDY
                         It's out for delivery!

                                   DENNIS
                         That was fast.
                             (reading)
                         Our driver, Jonathan, is driving a
                         gray Nissan Sentra.  He's going 22
                         miles per hour on Elm street.
                                                                 
                                   ANDY
                         When was this pizza place founded?
                         1984?

                                   DENNIS
                             (laughs)
                         I don't know.  This does seem a
                         little Big-Brother-esque doesn't
                         it.

                                   ANDY
                         A little bit?  I feel like I was in
                         the room with these people as they
                         made the pizza.

               The doorbell RINGS.

                                   DENNIS
                             (looking at the computer
                              screen)
                         Jonathan has rung your doorbell.
                         Yup, that's him.

               The two walk a short ways to the door.  They open it to
               reveal JONATHAN.

                                   DENNIS (CONT'D)
                         Hi there.

                                   JONATHAN
                         Hey, I'm...

                                   DENNIS
                         Jonathan.

                                   ANDY
                         Jonathan.

               Jonathan looks up with a faint look of annoyance on his face.

                                   JONATHAN (CONT'D)
                         That's me.  I'm here to deliver...
                             (reads box)
                         "Charles."

               Andy grabs Dennis's arm like a woman would through the crook
               near his elbow.

                                   ANDY
                         That's our little guy!

                                   DENNIS
                         Hey, Charlie!
                                                                 
                                   ANDY
                         Charlie, I like that!

               Andy looks up at Dennis.  Their eyes meet as they realize how
               close together they are.  They shake it off and pull their
               arms away from each other.

                                   JONATHAN
                         Okay, well here you go.

                                   DENNIS
                             (lowering his voice)
                         Thank you sir.

                                   ANDY
                             (also trying to sound
                              butch)
                         Right, we're gonna eat this pizza
                         now.

               Jonathan turns and walks back to his car.  Dennis closes the
               door.  Andy walks with the pizza into the kitchen.  Dennis
               follows.

                                   DENNIS
                         Alright, lets eat, I guess.

                                   ANDY
                         Maybe a slice.

               Andy opens the box.  Dennis and Andy stare at it for a bit
               and make a few attempts at finding a piece to pull out.

                                   DENNIS
                         I can't do it.

                                   ANDY
                             (immediately after)
                         I know me neither!

                                   DENNIS
                         I think naming it might have tipped
                         it over the edge.

                                   ANDY
                         Yeahhh...

               They look at the pizza for a beat.  Then, at the same time,
               they look up at each other.

                                   DENNIS
                         So...Chinese food?

Sleepytime Regrets Ch.1

It never fails that in the moments immediately before I slip into the tender embrace of sleep, my mind relives every single moment that has ever brought me shame in my entire life.

Though I have a unfortunately large deck of regrets to select from, a few favorites always seem to find their way to the top.  In honor of these, I've decided to start a little mini-series of sorts which will highlight my very favorite regrets.

The first installment of this series is one afternoon when I gave my sister an injury that is usually reserved for football O-linemen.

Sleepytime Regrets

Chapter One:  Walking On Air

One day a half decade ago, when our parents were away at work or doing errands or something, my sister and I were left to our own devices.  I was bored and decided that annoying my sister would be a good way to spend my time, especially now that the sherrifs were out of town.

I followed her around doing various boy things like flicking her in the back of the ears and mimicking her pleas for me to stop in a nasal voice.  This quickly devolved into me simply chasing her around the house.

At some point I got tired of running around so I grabbed at her feet in a dramatic dive that sent me sliding across the floor.   My belt buckle created a large, ugly scar in the hardwood.

I managed to somehow ensnare one of her legs and I held her captive by a single ankle.  She started to squirm and kick me with the other foot, so I grabbed it too.

She asked exasperatedly that I please just let her go so she could go play with her Polly Pocket or whatever.  I said nothing, but just kept holding on.  I was quite pleased with myself.

She started taking little-bitty baby steps which I found very hard to stop.  She started dragging me forward.

I felt immasculated.  "I'm a boy and strong and older!  I should be able to hold her!"  But I couldn't; she was literally dragging me across the floor.

I don't know what particular lobe of my brain thought that this would be a good idea, but the words "you should try lifting her feet" popped into my head.

So I did.

My sister hit the ground so hard a painting came loose from the wall.  And she didn't hit the ground just with her knees or butt or something.  It was upper body smashed fully into the floor.

She lied motionless for a few terrifying moments.  Then she stirred groggily.

"Oh, gosh.  My shoulder really hurts."  She muttered, rolling over.

Two physical therapists later, we discover that my sister has a dislocated collar bone.  We had to go to the second physical therapist because the first one only specialized in mundane family-type injuries, not gruesome, professional-sports-career-ending manglings.

It turns out a collar bone can dislocate in two directions:  out into the skin, or inward into the heart which can punch a hole in one of the chambers.  So, needless to say, I shit my pants when the doctor revealed that little tidbit.  I had almost killed my sister in the dumbest way possible.

When my sister lifts her arm up to wave at someone or do anything, her collar bone cracks.  It might as well be hissing venemously:  How dare you do this to your sister!  She trusted you and you gave her a football injury!  She could have died!

It's a miracle my brain lets me get any sleep.

--

Please comment and follow!  Feel free to share any grisly injuries you've given your siblings.

Board Games Would Not Make Good Stripper Names

A stripper name is like an author's pen name.  You want the name you choose to appeal to your demographic.  That's why strippers always have names like "Scarlet" or "Cristal" or "Sierra."  They pick these names because they sound mysterious and alluring.  I was recently thinking that board games probably would not achieve this desired result.  Here is my analysis:

  - Risk
This isn't a very sexy name.  In fact, this implies that there is some sort of inherent danger in being around this particular stipper.  You'd probably want to keep a wide berth around her pole and wear a cup for lap dances.  Whatever you do, don't follow her to the champagne room.  That would be...risky.

  - Sorry!
Risk implies something might go wrong, "sorry" is what someone says after something goes wrong.  You can pretty much be sure that this girl will do something to apologize for, whether it's losing her wig into your dinner or getting so dizzy spinning around in front of you that she pukes daiquiri into your lap.

  - Uno
I realize that this isn't a board game, but it still deserves mention, I think.  Strippers generally should have things in pairs.  Uno means one.  I'm not particularly into the whole cycloob thing, but I'm sure there's a niche that would enjoy it.

  - Jenga
Eventually she's going to fall down and snap her ankles on her 8 inch pumps.  Don't be the guy trying to put your peg in when it happens.

  - Hungry Hungry Hippos
This is such a throughoughly bad name, presumably for a team of women.  Their shift meal probably didn't fill them up, so play it safe and keep your little white balls away from them.

  - Checkers
This makes me think of a woman who looks like a checker board.  Be it measles, shingles, boils, or just good old fashion chicken pox, I want this girl the hell away from me.

  - Chinese Checkers
Replace boils with Avian Flu?  Even though I'm excited by the idea that this game can accomodate up to six players, I still don't want to chance you coughing into my mouth.  Don't cough on me!  Like a Vampire!  Cough into your elbow, like a Vampire!

  - Guess Who?
Um... does your person have a lower back tattoo?
Yes.  Does your person have low self-esteem?
Sure does.  Okay, does your person have daddy issues?
Uh, huh.  Does your person have fake boobs?
Yes...Hmm, I still haven't eliminated anyone.
Me either.

  - Community Chest
This isn't the title of a board game, but it IS a stack of cards in Monopoly.  Also, it is a strikingly accurate description of a stripper's set of boobs.  If I'm at a stripclub, though, I don't want to be reminded about how this girl caters to a neighborhood of gentlemen.

  - Life
If you've played the board game "Life", you know that it isn't fair.  One person gets a huge salary and an awesome house and rolls perfectly and gets to retire in luxury while the rest of the players get stuck floundering in the lucky one's wake.  This woman is in the wake.  She's dancing around in leathery skin, bleach-blasted hair, and a keyloid c-section scar winding up her midsection like ET's finger.  Ouuuuuchh.

--

That might have ended up a little meaner than I had intended it.  I'm willing to make it up to any strippers by letting them give me a dance for free.  Leave a comment if you're interested.

My School Tried to Exterminate My People. I was the Sole Survivor.

In my freshman year of high school, my favorite class was World History.  The subject matter is not why I liked the class (history is so yesterday), I liked it because I had an awesome teacher.

My teacher would use an old fly fishing rod as a pointer and would draw a little meter on the board to indicate his present level of anger toward his delinquent students.  He was generally full of personality, and I appreciated him for it.

I was, unfortunately, one of the students that got on his nerves and contributed to his eventual decision to put the class under a system of assigned seating.

He strategically arranged quiet girls around the boys who would frequently talk and distract other students.  I'm not sure if he did this on purpose, but he buffered me with two girls who also had red hair.  He put one in the chair beside me and one in the chair behind and suddenly all of the redheads in the class were concentrated in one location.

Neither one would speak to me.  They performed their job dutifully.

One day it was revealed that we were going to have a pop quiz.  I groaned and took out a pencil as the quiz sheets were passed around.

I received my sheet and hunkered over it.  I read problem one.

Hmmm.. I have no idea.  Pass.  Next question.

I read the second question.  A vague memory of some distant lesson flickered across my mind.  This was shaping up to be a pretty difficult quiz.

A moment later, my teacher pushed hastily past me down the aisle of desks.  I wasn't sure what he was doing, so I kept working on my quiz.

He started to pull the redheaded girl behind me out of her chair.  He dragged her through the rows of desks and out into the clearing in the center of the room.

What.

What was happening?

Had she been cheating?  This seemed like an odd punishment for cheating.

She just lied in the center of the room.

Had she passed out?  The quiz wasn't THAT hard.  I mean, this is a little dramatic for a freshman history quiz.  Just take the grade, lady.  You'll still probably do better than me.

Then she began to shake.

I didn't know what I was seeing at first, but when my teacher ran over to the phone he said into it that one of his students was having a seizure.

We watched with our hands over our mouths as our classmate seized in the center of the room.  It wasn't a strong one, but it was still hard to watch.  It was about a minute before our teacher decided to take us into the hall.

We lined up against the wall of lockers outside of the room.  No one really spoke.  We were all too shocked and confused by what had happened.

Two people with black bags came running down the hall and into the room.  Our teacher went in with them and closed the door.

We stood in continued silence.

Then I felt something on my shoulder.  My typical reaction would not have been as visceral, but I was a little freaked out by what I had just seen.  I jumped to the side.

The other redheaded girl had started to feel lightheaded and tried to rest her head on my shoulder, but now, since I was no longer there to support her, she began to fall.

She slid toward me down the wall of lockers.  Her head banged against the locks and handles that protruded from them and then cracked loudly against the floor.

She laid motionless on the ground in front of me.

Everyone turned around to see me with this girl unconscious at my feet.

"THEY'RE DROPPING LIKE FLIES!"  I exclaimed, pulling my shirt over my mouth like some sort of makeshift SARS mask.  My brain struggled to find an explanation.  Of the many plausible options, it landed finally on the hypothesis that my school was killing off the redheads.

"BIOLOGICAL WAREFARE!  OH GOD!  I'M NEXT!"  I began to get a bit hysterical.  I truly did believe that I was next on Death's collection list.

The girl gurgled below me.  I hyperventilated into my shirt.

A few of my classmates had more rational reactions and knelt down to help the girl up.  Her eyes rolled in their sockets.  She mumbled incoherently.

I couldn't take it.  I wormed my way out of the crowd and burst through the double doors that led to the courtyard in the middle of the school.

I ran in erratic circles, my shirt still stretched tight over my mouth.  I yelled nonsense to anyone that might hear.

"TELL MY FAMILY I LOVE THEM.  OH GOD, I CAN FEEL THE SPORES EATING AT MY INSIDES!  I HAVE NO REGRETS!  WELL, I NEVER GOT TO SEE THIS SEASON'S FINALE OF 'FRIENDS', BUT OTHER THAN THAT I AM REGRETLESS!"

I did a few delirious laps before I finally collapsed in a grassy patch, resigning myself to my fate.

--

I survived that day.  So did the other two girls, but THEY didn't get a week of detention for being disruptive.

Confederate Flag Dreamcatcher

I was on my way to visit my sister at her university when the red "Check Fuel" light came on accompanied by an underwhelming "ting."  I looked at my fuel gauge to see the indicator pin tickling the bottom of a capital "E."  It seemed as though I would imminently run out of gas.

My Garmin, bastard that it is, had decided that it would be best to avoid main highways, preferring to follow only minor, single-lane roads.  This is how I found myself in the middle of a rural county in which every house's front lawn was decorated by plastic child toys and sharp tools.  I swore that I could hear the dim warning of banjo music in the distance, but I needed to stop and get gas as soon as possible.

A rickety shanty with a solitary pump came into view.  The word "Exxon" was scribbled messily on two large pieces of poster board which were hung in a window.  The "E" was backwards.

Against my every instinct, I pulled into the station.

The tires of my car ground through the gravel up to the pump.  I stepped out and walked around to the pump to find another handwritten sign.  This one requested that I pay inside before pumping.  I am, of course, paraphrasing and correcting spelling for the sake of the reader.

The cowbell tied to the door jangled as I entered the shanty that served as the main house of the gas station.

The toothless woman behind the counter looked up from an issue of "Guns and Liquor Quarterly" and silently met my gaze.  Her eyes did not reflect the harsh light of the single halogen bulb which hung like a boxing announcer's microphone from the ceiling.  In fact, they seemed completely devoid of feeling or understanding.

I shuffled hesitantly up to the counter.  The words "What do you want?" slipped wetly past her gums.

I tried to hide a cringe.  I did not succeed.

"..Uh, the sign outside said that I would have to pay inside before I pumped anything."

She said nothing.  She didn't even move.

"So...I guess I'll take twenty dollars' worth."  I said reaching into my back pocket for my wallet.

I pulled out a bill and began to hold it out to the woman when something behind the counter caught my eye.

Hanging above the back wall, which was nearly covered with tobacco products, was a dreamcatcher which bore the design of a Confederate Flag.

I stood, mouth agape, the twenty dollar bill wilting out of my hand in the direction of the woman.

"Are you getting gas or not?"  The woman drooled.

I absently handed it to her.  My eyes had not left the dreamcatcher.

I was trying to understand the significance of this object.

What were dreamcatchers supposed to do again?  I had made a dreamcatcher at a camp when I was a child and I could vaguely remember the camp counselors telling us that dreamcatchers were supposed to keep you from getting nightmares.  But what nightmares were so specific that they would require a Confederate Flag?

Were there people waking up in a cold sweat after having a nightmare that a well dressed black man was making a hefty withdrawal from an ATM?

Instead of a boogieman under their bed, did some people have a gay dude quietly sipping a frappuccino and knitting mittens for their boyfriend?  Or perhaps, instead of under their bed, he's in their closet?

For these people, was a chase by a phantom apparition instead replaced by a conversation with a confident and slightly condescending woman in a pantsuit?

These people were fine with typical nightmare creatures but were terrified to the point of superstition by the idea that minorities aren't subjugated and discriminated against in all parts of the country?

Was this the over-the-counter solution for open-mindedness in the south?

"Liberal ideas are leaking into my head parts through my sleep dreams!  What should I do, Doc?"

"Ah, still having those dude-kissing nightmares, Frank?  Here.  Take this dreamcatcher- See it's got a Confederate Flag right on it!  That should clear this whole mess up."

"Thanks doc, you're a life saver!"

My mind was nearly crippled with a sudden deluge of these types of thoughts.  The sound of the woman slurping spit back from the brink of her lips finally snapped me back to reality.

"You can get your gas now."  She said into her magazine.

I backed slowly out of the shanty, my mouth open and my eyes drawn into slits.  The cowbell jangled again as I slunk through the door.

I pumped my gas as fast as I could.
I jumped into my car.
I punched my Garmin right in the face.
And I pulled away.

--

I have a hunch that it's still a form of bigotry to hate bigots, but it's a hypocrisy that I can live with.

The Underachieving Soothsayer

This is just a short scene I wrote.  I thought this would be a nice way to mix it up the content as a small departure from the typical fare of self-deprecation.


                              THE UNDERACHIEVING SOOTHSAYER

               INT. DARK ROOM - NIGHT

               STEVE is dressed in a dirty poncho and has a wrap messily
               placed on his head.  He hasn't shaved in a few days and is a
               little tipsy.  JENNY sits across a table from him.  She is
               wearing tennis whites and speaks with a slight southern
               drawl.  There is a crystal ball in the center of the table.

                                   STEVE
                         So what brings you here?

               Steve takes a swig from a dark bottle.

                                   JENNY
                         Well, I'm not sure what I should do
                         with my future.  I can't really
                         seem to make up my mind.

                                   STEVE
                         So you came to me.  You want me to
                         tell you what to do.

                                   JENNY
                         That'd be great.

                                   STEVE
                         Sure.

               Steve takes another swig and puts the bottle on the floor
               beside his chair.

                                   STEVE (CONT'D)
                         Well, lets get this started I
                         guess.

               Steve puts his hands on the crystal ball and closes his eyes.

                                   STEVE (CONT'D)
                         Okay.  I'm looking into your
                         future.  I see...darkness...
                         blackness.

                                   JENNY
                         That's probably because your eyes
                         are closed.

               Steve opens his eyes and blinks.

                                   STEVE
                         Oh, yep...lenscap.
                             (rubs eyes)
                         That's better.  You know, I do
                         that about once a day.

                                   JENNY
                         It's okay.  What do you see now?

                                   STEVE
                         Oh, you're still into this-
                             (gets partially back into
                              character)
                         Okay, uhhh.  I see a man.

                                   JENNY
                         Is that my father?  Does he have
                         white hair?

                                   STEVE
                         Sure.

                                   JENNY
                         Then that's him!  What's he doing?

                                   STEVE
                         He's...walking?

                                   JENNY
                         That sounds just like him!  How are
                         you doing this?

                                   STEVE
                         Many years of training.

               Steve takes a swig.

                                   JENNY
                         Does my father know what I should
                         do?

                                   STEVE
                         Lets ask.

               Steve waves his hands around in the air.

                                   STEVE (CONT'D)
                         Will the spirit of...what's his
                         name?

                                   JENNY
                         James.

                                   STEVE
                         Right I knew that.  Will the spirit
                         of James please tell us what his
                         daughter should do with her future?

               As he finishes the question, be brings his hands down and
               yawns.  There's a beat.

                                   JENNY
                         Well what'd he say?

                                   STEVE
                         Uhh, he said follow your dreams.

                                   JENNY
                         He thinks I should become a
                         neurosurgeon?

                                   STEVE
                             (chuckles)
                         No-o-o.  That can't be right.
                         Don't you have any other, perhaps
                         less ambitious, dreams?

                                   JENNY
                         Well, my second plan was to marry
                         rich.

                                   STEVE
                         That sounds closer.

                                   JENNY
                         Okay, well does my dad know how I
                         should do that?

                                   STEVE
                         Okay, here's a risky one.  I'm
                         seeing that you went to college.

                                   JENNY
                         I did!

                                   STEVE
                         Whew.
                             (beat)
                         And you dropped out.

                                   JENNY
                         I did.

                                   STEVE
                         That one was easier.  Okay, well
                         you could try going back.  Meet
                         someone to marry.

                                   JENNY
                         Well, that is why I went the first
                         time.

                                   STEVE
                         See?  There you go.  You've got a
                         plan.  Don't you feel better.

                                   JENNY
                         I do!  I'm gonna go find a man to
                         marry.  That's what I'll do.  My
                         future seems so bright now!

                                   STEVE
                         Yeah.  Glad I could help.  Wait,
                         one more thing.  I'm seeing an
                         animal.

                                   JENNY
                         Is it Sprinkles?  She was such a
                         good dog.

                                   STEVE
                         A dog.  Yup it's definitely a dog.
                         The dog says hi.

                                   JENNY
                         Tell Sprinkles I said hey!  Tell
                         her Momma's got a new lease of
                         life!

                                   STEVE
                         I sure will.  That'll be sixty
                         dollars.

                                   JENNY
                         Thank you!

               Jenny roots around in her purse and pulls out some cash.

                                   JENNY (CONT'D)
                         You can't put a price on a good
                         future.

               Jenny smiles at Steve.

                                   STEVE
                         Sixty dollars sounds good though.

                                   JENNY
                         Okay, take care!  I'm gonna go
                         follow my dreams!

                                   STEVE
                         Me too.

               Steve takes a long swig from the brown bottle as Jenny leaves
               the small tent.

Middle School Gym Almost Made Me Gay

When I Was 11, Billy Blanks had the best boobs that I had ever seen.

For those of you who are unaware, or had normal childhoods, Billy Blanks is the black dude who dances around in a teal leotard center stage in the "Tae Bo" exercise videos.

My middle school was poorly funded and had an athletic department crippled by apathy. The two gym teachers at my middle school, a balding man with a receding hairline and a militant lesbian, would put on the same Tae Bo exercise video nearly every single day. They would roll out televisions and play the grainy, bootlegged VHS tapes for us to follow while they would sit in the back of the gym playing Truth or Dare or whatever adults did in the 90s.

This particular Tae Bo video, which has been irreversibly etched into my subconscious, stars one Billy Blanks dressed in a very low cut spandex jumpsuit. He would introduce himself, the crowd of track suit wearing 20-somethings behind him would cheer, and he would begin leading everyone in a warm-up routine.

Everything would be fine until shoulder rolls.

Billy Blanks would shout out "Shoulder Rolls" and begin to heave his shoulders about. When his shoulders would come forward, they would mash his oversized pectorals together creating cleavage peaking out over his deep v-neck the likes of which my young eyes had never experienced.

LOOKIT DEM TITTIES

I didn't know what to think. I was pretty sure that I liked girls, but this middle-aged black man was looking at me encouragingly while mashing his chest into the best set of C-cups that I had ever seen. Better than a middle school girl's at least.

This is already a time of horrible confusion and frustration for a child. Why would a school subject a room full of 11 year old children to this kind of material? The boys all immediately have sneaking suspicions that they're gay and all of the girls begin a lifetime of battling with thoughts of inadequacy.

--

On the occasional days when we wouldn’t have Tae Bo forced upon us, there was another reason to hate gym class. On these days, the gym teachers themselves would directly lead us in exercises.

These warm-ups consisted of a seemingly random hodgepodge of various activities. However, there was always one commonality throughout every single permutation. Pushups would always directly precede jumping-jacks.

For those who have been an 11 year old boy or for people who have known 11 year old boys, it is common knowledge that this is a time of constant struggle with an unfortunate phenomenon. This phenomenon is the acquisition of a tiny little soldier standing at full attention with little to no provocation. Laying face down on the ground, hugging a tree, opening a letter, riding in the backseat of a van down a bumpy road, getting a phone call, finishing a crossword puzzle: all of these can be the culprit of an uprising south of the equator. These miniature teepees are never welcome. Every moment after you begin to fly the flag at full mast is spent praying that it will quickly go away before you're required to stand up.

(Short aside: there are some fabrics that make it easier to veil the disturbance. Corduroy and Denim do a fairly good job. Unfortunately for me, my middle school required that we wear a gym uniform whose shorts had the thickness of aged papyrus. There weren't even pleats that I could blame it on.)

So imagine a classroom full of boys doing pushups and laying on their stomachs in between sets. That quickly becomes a classroom full of boys laying uncomfortably on their stomachs each with a painful secret. I used to think that if I strangled it by crushing it ruthlessly against the ground maybe I could kill it and it would never come back again and I could finally do pushups in peace.

After 3 sets of pushups, we would be told that we'd have to do jumping jacks.

The face of every guy in the class would immediately become ashen and would twitch with nervousness. The girls would have already started and done half a dozen while some of us were still getting slowly and unwillingly to our feet. Most of the time, we couldn't scare our turtles back into their shells fast enough and what resulted is what I'm sure looked like a hundred little minnows flopping around on the deck of a fishing vessel.

I’m glad I’ve managed to repress most of these memories. I don’t think there’s a single person on the face of this planet that can recall middle school with fondness.

--

What I’m trying to say is that we should invent a machine that lets us skip ages 11-17. The world would be a lot happier. Acne medication sales would plummet, though.

Delusions of Grandeur

I sing in the Virginia Glee Club, which is an all-male singing organization, and this weekend we went to sing for a wedding in NYC. When people found this out, they assumed a lot more glamour was associated with the occasion and were inappropriately impressed. Eventually I stopped correcting people because they seemed so disappointed when I told them the truth. Here is what people let themselves believe vs. what actually happened:

DAY 1

	Assumption	Reality
5:55 AM	I am sleeping soundly in my bedroom while my bruised but ever-loyal chambermaid Paolo plays panflute softly in the corner.	I exhaustedly try to mash both my luggage and myself into a 10 passenger van which is already carrying 11 people.
5:58 AM	I snort and roll over in my bed. I kick at my satin sheets. They get a little too warm sometimes.	Three tired and already sweaty guys curse at me as I climb over them to get to my half-a-seat by the window. I also start to get sweaty.
6:01 AM	Paolo pulls out a photo of his family in Guatemala and begins to weep. As soon as the panflute music stops, I wake and chastise him. He'll be getting half-rations this week.	The van rumbles slowly to a start as I continue to try to find a comfortable way to sit. I'm wedged painfully in the corner of the van between the wheel well and someone's pointy backpack. Why is their backpack so damn pointy?
6:15 AM	A ray of light peers into my window in between the silken curtains. Paolo draws them quietly.	My ass has already fallen asleep. 7 hours to go.
6:57 AM	I am asleep and blissfully unaware of the world.	My head is bent sideways like I'm being hung from a noose as I try to nap. The van hits a large pothole and bounces my face hard into the window. I bang my nose leaving a smear on the glass. My eyes well up from the impact a moistness on my chest informs me that I've been drooling profusely onto my shirt. I try to rub it off but all I do is make the wet spot bigger. 6 and a half hours to go.
7:49 AM	I stir in my bed. The butler, Pendleton, brushes roughly past Paolo into my bedroom. He holds two pictures up before me. I point lazily at the picture with ham and cheese biscuits with sausage. Breakfast will be ham and cheese biscuits with sausage.	The van pulls over to make its first pit stop at a rest station. There is a junkie twitching under a gum-covered park bench. We pile out of the van and shamble like a hoard of zombies inside to the food court. After waiting in line for 24 minutes I order a McGriddle. The lady informs me that they are out of McGriddles. I curse loudly. The woman brandishes a knife. We are kicked out of the rest area. 5 hours and forty-five minutes to go.
8:22 AM	Pendleton brings in my breakfast on a silver platter. Paolo props me up carefully in bed on my large, down pillows. Pendleton puts the tray next to the bed, takes off his white gloves, and feeds me my breakfast. Paolo waits eagerly for the scraps.	My balls are sweaty and I am so uncomfortable that I am on the verge of tears. My stomach growls loudly. I look in my backpack for my book. Apparently, I have forgotten my book. 5 hours and 10 minutes to go.
9:05 AM	After breakfast, Paolo lifts me from my bed and carries me into the bathroom. He feels weak and struggles at this task as he has not yet had breakfast; there were no scraps. I assure him that I will leave him something at lunch time. Paolo lays me down and calls in Brenda. She brings with her the tools she needs to adminster my morning sponge bath. Paolo leaves the bathroom but waits just outside the door in case he is called.	I'm staring at my shoes. The guy beside me has fallen asleep on my shoulder. In his sleep he mutters threats. I'm not sure if they're directed at me. 4 and a half hours to go.
10:31 AM	After a thorough sponge bathing, Brenda dresses me. Once I am satisfied, Pendleton comes and escourts me out into the courtyard where a limosine is waiting to take me to my jet. There are 3 scantily clad women waiting in the limosine, all weilding various brands and flavors of champagne. I climb into the car and request that the driver take his time getting to the airport.	I must have fallen asleep, finally. I wake and rub my eyes. I look out the window to look for a roadsign to see how far we've gone. I hear a grumble from my lap. The guy who had fallen asleep on my shoulder now has his head resting peacefully on my groin. I'm at a loss as to what to do. 3 hours to go.
10:32 AM	The girls begin to pop the champagne bottles and pour the contents into golden chalices.	I poke the guy in my lap in the ear to try to get him to wake up. It doesn't work. 2 hours and fifty nine minutes to go.
11:48 AM	We arrive at the airport. I am very exhausted from the ride. The girls and I have been playing twister on the rollout mat and I am the indisputed champion with zero losses and five wins. The driver opens the door and I step out into the bright sun. I see a fleet of other limosines parked in formation on the tarmac. Glee Club guys are filing onto the nearby jet while their various servants lug heavy designer bags to stow them in the plane's underbelly. I bid the girls farewell and join my friends on the plane.	The guy is still asleep in my lap. Someone's tux bag has shifted so it is pushing against my seatbelt, strangling me. Two guys are bickering in the seat in front of me about the finer points of shotgunning Natural Light. 1 hour and forty minutes to go.
12:02 PM	The plane begins to taxi to the runway. A stewardess in pumps and a white miniskirt hands me a tumbler with Scotch. She says "Good afternoon, Patrick." and gives me a wink between large fake eyelashes. I am sitting in a large overstuffed chair with my legs stretched out in front of me. I'm a little disappointed we couldn't take a helicopter, but I guess a plane will be fine too.	I look at the seatbelt next to me and wonder how hard it would be to asphyxiate myself with it. I pull out my phone to do some Google research. My phone is out of batteries.1 hour and thirty minutes to go.
12:58 PM	The plane touches down in Newark. 20 teams of muscled men are waiting with palankeens to carry us into the city.	We're stuck in the Holland Tunnel in traffic so thick that I'm convinced that this is where I'm going to die. I'm desperately trying to suppress a panic attack when I twitch involuntarily and jostle the guy in my lap awake. He sits up but seems unfazed by the fact that his head had been in my crotch. He asks, "are we there, yet?" I've now broadened my plans to murder-suicide. 30 minutes to go.
2 PM	The palankeens are very comfortable and the men carrying us are able to navigate through foot traffic to avoid the huge lines of traffic waiting to get into Manhattan.	We're out of the tunnel, but still stuck in an absurd amount of traffic. We aren't sure where to park. I have no idea how much longer this journey through hell will last. ? minutes to go.
2:33 PM	The men take us and our luggage straight to our very tall hotel. The hostess of the hotel gives us our room keys and has the bell hops take our things up to our respective rooms. One of the muscled men sweeps me up like a new bride and carries me the 24 flights of stairs to my room. Sure, it might be a little gay, but what am I going to do, take the elevator like a poor?	Mercifully, we've found a parking garage. The rates are exorbitantly high, but we don't care because all we want to do is get out of this vehicle of misery. The attendant of the garage takes the keys to the van and drive-smashes it haphazardly in between 4 other cars. In hindsight we wish we would have bought renters insurance.
2:45 PM	The hotel room is opulent beyond compare. The wall between the kitchen and the bedroom is a fishtank filled with exotic salt-water fish, the floor is made of alternating blocks of black granite and ivory, and I'll eventually discover that the bathtub comes complete with a complementary mermaid.	We pull our bags and wrinkled tuxes out of the van and begin to walk through the filthy street toward our hotel.
3:35 PM	A call interrupts my conversation with the Mermaid. It is an invitation for the group and I to go to a meet and greet at the Mayor's office. I reluctantly accept and tell the Mermaid that I'd be back later that evening. I call down to the lobby for someone to come carry me down the stairs.	After a long journey of dodging street performers and stumbling alcoholics, we arrive at our lodging: A crumbling Best Western hotel. Screams can be heard coming from within. Some of the lights are burnt out in the sign, so it reads: B s We te n.
4:01 PM	The hostess had offered to call for us transportation to the Mayor's office, but we decide that we'd rather walk and see what New York City is like for ourselves.	After quickly dropping off our bags, we hurry back out of the fleebag hotel for fear of catching something or getting murdered. We have some time to burn, so we decide to wander around the city.
4:28 PM	We are starting to get recognized on the street. People are stopping and staring and asking for autographs. We each pull out a stack of black and white headshots that we keep with us at all times and begin to sign them.	There are so many people pushing past us that it's hard to stay as a group. We begin to get separated.
5:14	Drawn by the crowd, Kanye West comes over and says hello to me. I return the hello and we speak self-congradutorily regarding our personal successes and burgeoning careers.	A black homeless man with leaves in his hair comes over to me and stabs me in the stomach with the sharpened end of a toothbrush. I crumple to the ground and pass out from the pain.

...

I think by now you must understand the discrepancy that I'm trying to portray.

--

My wound still hasn't healed yet. If you have any information about the incident, please report it to the NAAESG(National Association for the Advancement of the Ending of Stabbing of Ginger People). Thank you.

Gingers in the Wild

I was looking through some hand me down books my grandfather or great grandfather gave me when I stumbled upon an old Audubon Field guide for North American Birds.  This got me thinking:  there should be a field guide for humans.  Being a redhead, I knew where I should start.

National Audubon Society Field Guide to Redheaded Humans:  North American Region

Homo Sunburnus

Height - 2'6" to 6'8"

          The height of a Homo Sunburnus is subject mainly to its activities.  The shortest of the Homo Sunburnus tend to hide pots of gold at the end of rainbows, wear hats with belt-buckles on the front, and endorse sugary cereal.  The mid-range height Homo Sunburnus are most common.  Any Homo Sunburnus that stands above 5'9" is unfairly tall and should be chopped in half.

Weight - 40lbs to 400lbs

          Weight generally directly correlates with height among Homo Sunburnus except for those within the species that play World of Warcraft.  These individuals have the density of a dying sun and can weigh up to four times more than a healthy specimen of a similar height.

Natural Habitat - Indoors

          Homo Sunburnus has a unique affliction such that it ignites at the slightest contact with direct sunlight.  Some especially sensitive individuals have been known to suffer 2nd degree burns from simply watching an hour TV special on the Serengeti during "Big Cat Week" on the Discovery Channel.

Call - Varies

          Some members of the species, especially the aforementioned cereal-peddling kind, have a distinctive "OOH LADDY, THEY'RE AFTER ME LUCKY CHARMS!" call which makes you want to commit immediate violence against them.  Generally, however, the Homo Sunburnus is a quiet species whose only discernable call is the occasional shower cry, which bears a strong resemblance to desperate weeping into a wash cloth.

Diet

          Sleeping pills and Alcohol

Markings

          The Homo Sunburnus's appearance is often mottled with dark marks called "freckles," which gives a perpetually dirty appearance.

Sleep Cycle 

          The sleep cycle of the Homo Sunburnus depends directly upon if the sleeping pills or the excessive alcohol makes them pass out first.

Traits and Behavior

          The North American Redhead, also colloquially known as "The Ginger," is a rare and unfortunate beast.  Over the years, The Ginger has become a dumping ground for ineffectual genes, cast off by more worthy editions of the human race.  The Ginger, and especially the North American Ginger, faces social ridicule from its peers for a multitude of worthy reasons, paramount of these being The Ginger's peculiar appearance.  The Ginger suffers from an unsightly tuft of reddish/auburn hair on the top of its head which can vary from tight curls to a straight mop. 

          Gingers, like many other unsightly monstrosities, fear mirrors, still lakes, car windows, and any other reflective surface that might remind it of its deformities.

          Also, it is commonly known that The Ginger is technically not a human, but rather a flightless bird, and should be hunted as such.  It is estimated that within the next hundred years, Ginger pelts will be very profitable in underground trade markets.  The Ginger also has cloven hooves which many members of the species disguise by the clever use of high ankled boots or prosthetics.

          Finally, unconfirmed but suspected by many, the The Ginger breathes Carbon Dioxide, unlike all the other races of human, which sustain themselves solely upon Oxygen.  Gingers are secretly very proud of this, which is why they so closely associate themselves with the color green.  Saint Patrick's Day is a good example of this phenomenon.  Gingers fancy that someday they will be plants, which is why they all drink until they're vegetables.

          Ultimately, however, The Ginger is an unpredictable creature which should be treated with the utmost caution.  If you should encounter one of these Gingers, curl into a ball and pretend that you are dead.  Otherwise, they will feel inferior and begin to cry.

--

My name is Patrick, and I am a Ginger.