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2011-02-18T09:44:00.000-08:00

Just to keep things tidy, all blog entries can be found on my website, HERE.

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An Inattention to Detail: Iraq 2010

2010-09-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

On August 31st, 2010, President Barack Obama took to the airwaves and addressed the nation, declaring combat missions in Iraq over and assigning the moniker “New Dawn” to the ongoing process there. On September 1st, I boarded a plane as a part of the first group of entertainers to enter the country under this new title.

As I embarked on my journey—I was to fly a commercial airline into Kuwait and from there hop aboard military transportation to Iraq—two “news” stories dominated the airwaves: an Imam planned to open a community center in an old Burlington Warehouse located several blocks from Ground Zero in New York, and a nutcase minister wanted to burn copies of the Qur’an on 9/11 in Florida.

I found these stories interesting, because I was landing in Kuwait at the tail end of the month of Ramadan. Ramadan is like Lent on steroids; it is a holy time for Muslims in which they fast from sunup to sundown. The reason I parallel the events from America with Ramadan is: Kuwait is a kingdom, not a democratic society. This means I was told in advance to adhere to the laws governing that religion while visiting. When in public, such as walking through the airport or even in a military vehicle traveling between United States military bases, I was told not to drink or eat, including water. If Kuwaiti law enforcement were to see me doing so, I would be arrested and thrown in jail. This despite the fact I am not Muslim. Or, as the case may be, it was more likely I would be thrown in jail because I am not Muslim. Apparently the law is imposed more strictly on foreigners and foreign workers than Kuwaiti nationals.

Kuwait is an obnoxiously rich country; they carry a budget surplus of billions of dollars annually. So Kuwaiti citizens are wealthy, and thus during Ramadan simply shift their habits. They sleep the day away, then awake at dusk to party and drink (but only behind closed doors; drinking in public would be bad, because it is forbidden in Islamic states). Those who have to be awake during daylight hours, merchants, maids, visitors to the country, and the like, are then punished for trying to sustain their health while the sun shines. Unfair, but that’s what you get without democracy.

How I relate Ramadan with the Community Center is by using it as a prime example of what freedom is. Not only do the obnoxious non-thinkers of the country have the right to cry about a Mosque being placed inside an abandoned warehouse, but the Muslims involved actually get to buy the warehouse and build their Mosque wherever they damn well please. These are both living, breathing example of what it means to live inside the borders of a free nation. To those who would cry that the building of the Mosque is a threat to “our way of life,” I would ask them to visit a non-democratic country. After doing so, they might consider opening their pie-holes when having nothing of value to say.

Relating my visit to the arsonist in Florida is a little trickier. What I believe is: as people in the Islamic world do not have freedom, they do not understand the full spectrum of opportunities it allows. Under their law, burning the Qur’an is illegal, and most likely punishable by death; most things over there seem to be. What they cannot comprehend is that freedom allows people to act like jackasses and get away with it. If they could relate their fetish for burning our flag and, in effigy, our president to crackpots in America who desecrate their holy book, they might gain insight into why it was a non-issue. As it stands neither sanity nor intelligence can be forced upon anyone.

Both events seem to show a willful ignorance on the part of media outlets than anything else. People do not think things through and generally react in anger over reason; it is easier to lash out and feel better than to sit for five minutes and attempt to assess any situation. When those in the Muslim world cry, “America hates Islam” because one fanatical moron in Florida wishes to burn their book, it’s because they don’t understand the difference between majority and minority. 300 million Americans are reduced to Islam-bashing Satanists quite quickly. Likewise, knuckle-draggers in America who proudly proclaim, “I learned all I need to know about Islam on 9/11” demean an entire religion thanks to their limited understanding of the whole.

It makes me wonder how much information we ingest is actually news, and how much is distractionary bullshit designed simply to get our blood boiling and therefore keep us unfocused. In the spring of 2010, the country of Greece was ready to default on a loan and throw the world economy into destruction. Didn’t happen. Before that, swine flu was set to run riot around the globe, killing millions. Didn’t happen. There are so many examples I could point to of sensationalism it’s pathetically hilarious. And yet we buy into it again and again; Obamacare is socialism! Teh gays are trying to marry! Drugs are bad, mmmkay? All non-issues that do nothing but keep a populace focused away from truly important issues: the economy, cost of living, the health of everyone in our society, human rights, and so on.

But I digress, as happens so often when I write. My tale is supposed to involve my traveling overseas, not the failings of our news media (and by relation, ourselves.) I landed in Kuwait during Ramadan, and was happy to discover the “don’t eat/drink while driving between bases” was mostly a scare tactic. On long drives, my lovely America liaison put sunshades up in the car. These served the dual purpose of: (a) keeping the sun out of the car, and (b) allowing passengers to eat/drink without being seen. Take that, Kuwaiti food-enforcement patrol.

Oh, and as terrifying and silly arrest for drinking water seems, there is humor in every situation. Much like police blotters in small town USA that post the names of drunk drivers and shoplifters, the Kuwaiti national newspaper also carries a criminal section in its back pages. “Achmed was caught eating a sandwich!” “Jamal drank a Mtn. Dew and was jailed!” The postings are brief, and hilarious. Humiliation takes many forms, and I suppose “offending god” is up there with the best of them. But it still makes me laugh.

* * *

Our first show almost didn’t happen. A few months prior to our arrival, another entertainment agency sent over comedians who were so inappropriate the base commander said, “No more comedy. Ever.” A poor, knee-jerk reaction, yes, but it took the leader of my tour much in the way of cajoling and explanation to make the man understand two things: not all comedy is created equally, and comedy is for the twenties-something men and women serving, not necessarily him, the fifty-year-old commander. Language was an issue last time around, and while were eventually allowed to perform, our show was to be “radio clean.”

This was fine, but also a little odd. The men and women we were to stand in front of were in a war zone. They carried guns, fought and could possibly die for America, but bad language was considered harmful to them? Not only that, but the one thing they were trying to install in the Middle East was the concept of democracy, and an important part of democracy is freedom of speech.

Because of the controversy following the previous show and excitement of comedy returning, our event was standing room only. The seats, aisles and back of the house were all full, giving the room an electric energy. For the most part, each comic adhered to the law of the land—I did a “clean in language” sex joke; the other comics dropped gentle swear words—and the show was a huge success.

Afterwards, as we did our meet and greet, shaking hands and such, I noticed a trend that became too silly to ignore.

“Thanks for coming,” a soldier would say.

“Thanks for serving our country,” I would return. “And thanks for the mustache.”

Yes, the more soldiers passed me, the more I noticed every male was attempting to grow a soup strainer beneath his nose. A female soldier finally shed light on this goofy obsession. She asked to take a picture with the comics, and as she and several female friends stepped in, they curved their index finger up across the top of their respective lips. On each index finger was a squiggle: a hand drawn mustache.

“It’s so boring over here,” she explained, “that a few days ago the men all got a bug in their butt and decided to grow mustaches. All the women think it’s silly.”

Of course they did. Growing a mustache as a fashion statement is a rather goofy thing to do.

But growing a mustache just to do so? That’s something I approve of, and I then laughed at every peach-fuzzed upper lip I saw.

* * *

One of the most surprising insights of the tour came to light over dinner at COB Adder. A soldier named Robin started the discussion, and when the topic surfaced half the table piped up, describing similar experiences.

Robin’s mother was walking through a grocery store in the states when a neighbor spotted her, approached, and gave her an excited hug.

“Oh, you must be so happy,” the neighbor stated. “Your daughter is finally home!”

The mother was confused; “My daughter is in Iraq.”

“But Obama was on TV saying the troops were home...” the neighbor stammered.

After that night, I asked soldiers if the situation was familiar to them, and many laughed and nodded their head. The sad fact of it is, many people in America believe the troops are now safely with their families. It is to our detriment as a society that we notice headlines and disregard content. “Combat Troops Come Home” may shine brightly, but if you continue just a paragraph or two into the story, you read, “50,000 support troops remain in Iraq.”

I have to admit to surprise, but not shock, regarding this revelation. Reading into details is not how people operate, and this is a worldwide phenomena. Consider again the outrage in Afghanistan, when pastor mustache in Florida announced he was going to burn a Qur’an; people torched flags and held protests. What they didn’t read was this was a single nutjob with only 50 followers. In a nation of over 300 million people, one man made worldwide news due to a combination of overreaction, and media stupidity.

I say media stupidity because it takes two to tango. While people are responsible for scratching beneath the surface to find truth in a situation, it is sometimes difficult to do in such a frenzied, sensationalistic environment. By giving attention to the Florida fanatic, the media validated him, which is the last thing they should be doing. You don’t reward asinine behavior, you either ignore it, or put it in its place. Have you ever seen a mother trying to reason with a two-year-old?

“Sweetie, stop crying. We don’t act like this in public. Put the toy back, please...”

Bullshit.

Swat the kid on the ass, or turn and walk away, letting him realize, “Oh shit, I’m on my own now and no one is paying attention to me.”

I have believed in this approach for as long as I can remember. In 1989, Andres Searrano set the Christian world afire with his picture, “Piss Christ.” A plastic crucifix was set in a jar of urine, and a photograph was taken. This was in 1987. For two years, nothing happened, until in 1989 people discovered the picture and went ballistic. The whole time the controversy surged, I couldn’t help but think, “If you don’t like it, why not just ignore it?” All the press the artist was receiving could do nothing but further his career, which was probably the exact opposite of what the angry mob wanted.

Regarding pastor mustache, at this point it doesn’t even matter that the Qur’an wasn’t burned. There are no doubt people across the globe who believe he did torch it because of all the hype surrounding anticipation of the event. In such situations, belief becomes much more important than fact, which is regrettable.

Such is the problem with religious zealots worldwide. Without confidence, you cannot be secure in your faith. Thus, if someone says they are going to burn your book, be it the Qur’an, Bible, Stephen King, or any other silly tome, instead of saying, “Well, that’s on you to burn it; you will suffer the consequences,” the insecure attack and cry and holler.

Maybe it is an unfortunate trait inherent in many humans to simply react first, and think second (if at all). In life and on line, I have been witness to many a person whose immediate thought is to assume the worst and lash out in ignorance and anger, rather than to approach a situation with the benefit of doubt, leaning towards caution and compassion. What’s funny, meaning sad, is: often times those lashing out and shouting forth accusations are simply exposing their own shortcomings as a person.

* * *

By the time we get to a place called Wassam, I have lost track of the acronyms used to describe locations; I’m not entirely sure if it’s a FOB, COB, Firebase, or “other.” What I do know is that it is an encampment inside an Iraqi military base. As America slowly eases out of the country, locations once entirely run by American soldiers are turned over to the Iraqi army. Sometimes we vacate the premises entirely; other times we cordon ourselves off in a corner of the site. Even when America shares an area with Iraqi counterparts, it is not done in an open environment. High gates, guard towers and blast walls separate the two armies within the walls of the larger base itself.

A First Sergeant was at the landing pad, and immediately issued a gruff apology for what was going to be a light show. The night before, two Apache helicopters had been escorting an Iraqi convoy and watched as it was set upon by “Sand Pirates.” These were looters, people dedicated to profit not insurgency, and had no clue the Apaches were high above and out of sight. They saw what they thought were “easy pickings,” and opened fire on the convoy. The Apache pilots rolled their eyes, lit up their guns, and wiped out every vehicle and attacker within minutes. Now that it was daylight, a platoon had gone out to gather up the bodies.

The First Sergeant says this, and then adds with a gruff laugh; “One of their looter buddies saw my platoon cleaning things up, and for some fucked up reason thought it would be a good idea to take a shot at them. Now his body needs cleaning up.”

He is a living, breathing stereotype, and I like him for it. His manner is direct, and it’s easy to believe that when the uniform comes off, the attitude remains. That he divulges he been divorced three times within his forty-some years lends credence to this suspicion.

The First Sergeant explained he would be calling a mandatory formation in the rec room; said space also doubled as their dining facility. Slowly, soldiers trickled in one by one; the First Sergeant was going tent to tent and issuing his order. There was to be no hiding from the show under his watch.

While standing behind a group of soldiers, I overheard a comment that made me wince: “Man, I’m beat. I just wanted to sit and play some Xbox and relax. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

Lovely. Standing in front of a hostile audience is never a fun thing, and an apprehension to the stage crept into me.

Fortunately, the First Sergeant knew his men well. When everyone was finally assembled, he introduced the show, and did so in his natural manner.

“Listen up! I know that you all probably wanted to nap, sit around and play fucking Xbox, or do some other stupid shit, but we had some comedians travel here all the way from the states to entertain us, and we are going to show them the respect they deserve!”

I smiled; nothing like giving the troops orders to laugh: “Private! I did not see you laughing at the third joke the comedian told! You will give me pushups NOW!”

However, that said, the show went exceedingly well. So well, in fact, that afterwards I was told one of the best quotes I’ve ever heard in my life. Walking by the First Sergeant during the show, one of his men said, “First Sergeant, you’re smiling. That means we’re having a comedy show, or you just got to kill someone.”

Funny, but also something known as a “no brainer.” Of course it was a comedy show; had he gotten to kill someone, he would have been laughing. Manically.

Afterwards, several hours remained before pickup, so I struck up a conversation with several soldiers and discussed America having to play janitor to bodies the Iraqi army would have let rot in the desert. Our talk led to further insight regarding the development of Iraq as a free nation. For several years it has been said “Iraq is a new democracy; it’s going to take them a while to work out the kinks.” The statement rings true, and makes me believe that if Iraq is experiencing growing pains, the country is currently in its rebellious teenage years. Not that we’re the absolute parents to Iraqi independence, but we did in the least attempt to mentor them. Compare it to a big brother/sister program; those usually focus on stable adults trying to steer wayward teens down the right path. That’s kind of like what we have going with Iraq.

Now that they’re technically on their own, Iraqi soldiers are pushing out their chest and demanding respect. I am told when two convoys cross paths on a highway, with the U.S. trucks are going one way and Iraqi vehicles the other, the event will turn into a Mexican stand off. Neither side is ever willing to pull over and let the other pass with a wide berth; each expects the other to demur. Many soldiers suspect this is most likely because members of the Iraqi military know we are not allowed to get into it with them. The fact of the matter is when push comes to shove, the Iraqi army acts like my Mini-Schnauzer, Kitty. Kitty is all bark, no bite. If someone comes to the door, he will rush them with a volley of bark-bark-bark-bark-bark! This is his house, and they damn better respect it. But if that person then bends over to pet Kitty, he scurries behind either my wife Lydia or I; he’s not exactly sure what the stranger is doing, but his barks weren’t threatening enough, and he needs the protection of mommy or daddy to back him up. The Iraqi army operates the same way; when all is well, they strut their stuff proudly. When the bullets start flying, “Call in the Americans!”

Several days after Obama declared combat missions had ended in Iraq, insurgents attacked a compound in Baghdad. According to all official news reports, Americans “provided cover” for Iraqi troops fighting off this attack. This was either an outright lie or journalistic lethargy. Before the story ever hit the press, soldiers on the ground were talking about the battle. Our soldiers fought, and fought hard. In a firefight, yes, you can “provide cover,” but if insurgents are attacking a perimeter, does anyone really think any soldier is going to sit back and go, “Ok, that’s just Iraqis working out their differences. I’m going to wait it out up here and maybe shoot the occasional straggler”?

While I write, I do realize that I am painting an incomplete picture, one fairly biased. These are the words I heard when speaking with American soldiers. No doubt there are two sides to every story, and the Iraq army is probably full of men proud of their country and willing to fight to the death for it; I was just unable to speak with them is all.

That aside, there are other signs Iraq is not exactly on the same page as America when it comes to the transition of power. As our bases close and/or are turned over to Iraqi control, there is a strict set of guidelines that must be followed. Like a rental property, we are to return the base in either the same or better condition than we found it in. Which is fine; it’s not Americas place to treat a foreign country like a Led Zeppelin hotel room. But the punishment for discrepancy in condition is capricious at best, and hypocritical at worst. While America is held to high standards, nationals are not. An example I am given involves an oil stain; should an American truck have leaked oil and left a stain on some gravel, that could be a $20,000 fine levied against us. At the same time, the Iraqi contractor in charge of vacuuming out American Port-a-Potty units dumps his waste—chemicals, feces and all—directly into a river a short drive from the base. This dumping ground is approximately one mile up river from a village that uses the water for cooking, cleaning, and washing. Yet we will be fined for oil stain left on some rocks. I believe the word to describe such a situation is “ingratitude.”

* * *

Everywhere I went, one rule of thumb seemed to be: the smaller the base, the more rewarding the performance. Though more established locations might have converted theaters and p.a. systems, very little could beat standing in a cramped little room with fifty soldiers and using my best theater voice to shout my act so all could hear. After a show at an outpost called Eastern Barracks, every single solder had the same thankful comment; “I can’t believe you guys are here. No one EVER comes here. This is the first entertainment we’ve ever had.”

They were easily the best audience on the entire trip.

Returning to base camp from Eastern Barracks was a bit of fun. Not at first, as we sat for about an hour inside a hot MRAP—a heavily armored transport truck—at the landing zone waiting for pickup. Our handlers didn’t want us out in the open, because while they said they were in the safest province of Iraq and hadn’t had an issue with violence in over a year, it was still best not to take chances.

When our helicopters finally arrived, everyone waiting was tired, sore, and ready to go. For the first twenty minutes, the ride was normal. Then, as we approached the town outside our destination, the two Blackhawks (all helicopters fly in pairs for safety) started doing “swooping circles” over the area, banking sideways at sharp angles low to the ground. Every time the helicopter banked, the gunner on that side would stand and scan the ground for activity.

This went on for about ten minutes, and I assumed they were just showing us a good time; “Hey, some maneuvers for the comics.”

I was wrong.

After we landed I was given two pieces of information: the reason the helicopters were late in retrieving us is they had been at a security briefing. The camp we were lodging at had been shelled two nights in a row; the night before our arrival, and our first night there. Intel had come in stating the insurgents involved had launched their attacks from the back of a white pickup truck. The Blackhawks were supposed to pick the comics up, dump us out, and go look for the truck.

There is an old saying, “No matter how hot a woman is, some guy is tired of fucking her.” It’s how Halle Berry and Michelle Pfeiffer have been cheated on in the past. Likewise, no matter how exciting your job may seem to others, when you do it long enough, it’s a job and becomes boring. The helicopter pilots knew that to drop us off, and then head back out again, would add about hour to their workday. To avoid this extension, they decided to just look for the truck on the flight home. Apaches had covered us from above; all the Blackhawks were to do was spot and call in coordinates.

Had the enemy engaged, however... Well then. Who knows what fun could have been had? Wishful thinking, I suppose.

While being a part of executed maneuvers should have been the most fun had on a helicopter, a previous flight had already provided endless amusement for me. Seating on a Blackhawk is arranged in rows: two seats facing forward, four facing the rear, and four seats again facing forward. On one trip, I was in the back row, facing forward. In the seats in front of me, facing me, were two soldiers, our guides for the day. In the seats in front of them, facing forward, was the entertainment liaison for the tour, Kenne.

What this means is: I could see Kenne, the gunners, and our pilots. Basically, I had a great view from the back of the chopper. The people in front of me, however, were stuck looking at me. How unfortunate for them.

At one point, I saw Kenne move from his seat and sit next to the gunner, positioning himself directly behind the .50 caliber machine gun. I noticed the helicopter had descended, and was skimming the desert surface. When the war started, I was told that on every flight they test-fired the guns just to make sure everything was in working order. No one wanted to discover a jam when coming across a patch of frisky Al Qaeda members.

In my several trips over, I hadn’t yet witnessed a test fire, but when I saw Kenne move, my eyebrows raised. I believed I was about to see the guns fired, and even more interesting: I realized the two soldiers sitting in front of me had no idea what was about to happen.

If you’ve ever heard gunfire, you know that as the caliber increases, so does the firepower and noise. Thus a .22 will be louder than an air rifle, and an M-16 louder than a .22. When a .50 caliber is fired, it is loud. Loud enough to be heard over the roar of whirling helicopter rotors.

I watched Kenne in anticipation, and I was not let down. After a quick explanation of operation by the gunner, Kenne pressed down his thumbs and let fly the bullets. And in front of me? Both soldiers near jumped out of their seats and began looking around frantically, reaching for their guns; were we under attack!?

They were only confused for a half-second or so, but that was enough to amuse me for the entire day. When we landed, they both confirmed they were about to lean out the windows with their weapons ready. I liked that. They could be startled, but into action, not fear. Or so they claimed.

* * *

On my second tour of Iraq, in 2009, I was given very disturbing statistics involving suicide rates in the military. Unfortunately, that situation has only grown problematic; June 2010 posted the highest number of military suicides to date. What’s frightening is, suicide might not be the worst morale problem currently threatening our armed forces.

At the end of the day, suicide hurts only one person. Family and friends will feel emotional pain, but the physical act that ends a life is taken at ones own hand, which is fair game. Unfortunately, a force that involves hurting another, damaging them beyond repair, is currently at work within the walls of American military bases. In one calendar month, on one of the larger bases I visited, ten rapes were reported. Ten. In one month. Three in one week. The number is amazingly large. Were I better at math I would work up a percentage; 5,000 troops vs. 10 rapes has to be a mind-boggling statistical number.

The idea of rape is near impossible for me to wrap my head around. How do you even get aroused when you are inflicting that kind of violence upon another person? Rape is one of the reasons I am pro-death penalty. I’m so pro death I think it should be mandatory in many cases. I do not believe it to be a deterrent to crime, neither do I play the silly mind-fuck game of, “you should throw them in prison, where they’ll get raped. That’s worse punishment than killing them.” To me, the death penalty is not about deterrence or punishment; it is simply taking out the trash. You give someone a fair trial. Offer all the DNA evidence possible. Give them an appeal, then kill them.

There is no other solution I can think of. In America, the act of rape is abhorrent enough, but within the military? The uniform is supposed to be a bonding agent; all who wear it are supposed to be connected. However, that it is taking place in the military also makes a frightening bit of sense. After all, how do you take aggressive young males, isolate them far from home, put them into a high stress situations where they are forced to kill or be killed, and then expect them to understand when a woman says “no?”

After hearing the disturbing news, the number swam around my mind repeatedly: ten in one month, ten in one short month... To be sure I wasn’t being misled, I confirmed the number independently with several people, and it was then I received an interesting twist to the statistic: Ten rapes, one male.

My ears perked.

One male?

Given the slew of attractive teachers in America that “raped” their 14-year old male students in the past decade, that sounded promising.

Then it was explained three male Ugandan guards raped a fellow Ugandan. Considering I had been walking around the base, alone, every night at 3 a.m., I found this new information quite chilling. When I voiced my fears to the group, I was assured that I was safe, as no one would want to rape me. I countered that I am quite rapeable, and from there the conversation devolved into slanderous assaults upon my being from which I have not yet recovered.

Regardless, the military is a very male-dominated world. This forces some, not all, women in the military to adopt more masculine attitudes, which is why I initially believed the male rape could have taken place at the hands of a woman. I shall explain.

To load onto a Blackhawk, you do so by approaching it from the side. You board, and then move across the body of the helicopter to the furthest open seat. By doing so, no one has to climb over you when they get on; should you sit down immediately, you’d create a bottleneck and jam up the process. How I, a civilian know this, while members of the military do not, is beyond me.

Our final flight of the trip had me first in line and first to the Blackhawk. I boarded, crawled over all open seats, and plopped down in what I believed would be the most out of the way location. A minute later, a gunner outside began gesturing angrily at me. The gunner was head to toe in a jumpsuit, wearing gloves, a helmet, and faceplate. I could see nothing but forceful, angry hand movements and head shaking; “YOU. MOVE. NOW.” The gunner had brought someone around the front of the helicopter to load them on the far side, meaning though I climbed across open seats to leave space behind me, I was now in the “wrong” seat.

I moved, but was somewhat bothered by the degree to which I was chastised. It wasn’t a simple, “Hey, wrong seat” gesture; there was tension and forceful anger behind them. It stuck with me, and for the whole trip I focused on the gunner, trying to get into his head. Maybe he was having a bad day, maybe he just didn’t like dealing with fuckhead civilians like me, I didn’t know. Until I looked closer, that is. The hands in the gloves were very small. The jumpsuit contained a petite body. Though no breasts showed, it suddenly hit me: that’s a woman. There is a woman gunner on this flight. Two thoughts followed: good for her for breaking a stereotype, but damn, no wonder she was forceful. In a man’s army, she probably felt she could show no soft side. Everything had to be done with angry determination, or her crew might think her weak.

When we disembarked, sure as shit, the faceplate went up and a hard as nails female face was exposed.

I told one of my travelers all my thoughts after the ride was over, and he looked at me as if I were nuts.

“Dude,” he said, laughingly rolling his eyes. “You think too much. Maybe she’s just a bitch.”

Touché. But I bet she could have raped my lilywhite ass, should she have chosen to.

* * *

When on military tours, commanders go out of their way to show generous hospitality. They are proud of the men and women working under them, and want visitors to learn about the base and how it functions. I got to visit: Apache helicopters (I got to sit in one involved with taking out the sand pirates), Predator drones (much larger in person than expected), the base fire department (actual excited quote, “the DFAC in zone three has been on fire a lot lately. The last time it was a fuel fire, with flames everywhere, and I was like BOO-YAH!”), a K9 unit (I got attacked by a vicious little puppy), and in Basrah, the base hospital.

The hospital visit started out on a light note; there were buckets of condoms at both entrances, back and front. Basrah may not be overtly promoting sexual fraternization between soldiers, but handing out condoms is in the least tacit approval. In such an environment, that simple act might help combat the problem of forced sexual advances.

On my previous trip to Iraq, 2009, things were amazingly quiet across the country regarding American fortifications. Violence was generally sectarian, and one base I visited hadn’t lost a single person to insurgent attack in over six months. Sadly, that was not the case on this trip.

I arrived in Basrah to discover only one-week previous, mortars had landed inside the perimeter, killing one.

In the hospital’s ER, our guide, a man who had been upbeat, smiling and happy the whole tour, grew somber.

“Did they tell you what happened last week?” He asked, referring to the mortar attack. “He died right there.”

His eyes were affixed to a gurney. Nothing about it looked special. There was no residual blood, no lingering ghost, no suggestion that something so horrible had occurred only seven days earlier.

Everyone held in silence a moment, and then the guide half-whispered and half-spoke to himself in a saddened voice.

“I can’t even remember his name.”

The confession created a stillness in the room. It remained delicately hung in the air as I exited.

* * *

When my time in Iraq ended, I felt it had been too short, which is my standard thought at journey’s conclusion. Though I always enjoy performing for the military, this tour meant a little more to me than previous visits. Last year, everything in Iraq seemed large. Our bases were big, and many people went about their business in a half daze, mostly bored with everything going on. This year, with the troop drawdown, I discovered that everyone had the exact same duties as before, only with much fewer people available to execute all commands. This led to a high level of stress in certain areas, and it meant a lot to me to be able to alleviate that stress through laughter, even if only for a moment or two.

American troops may be living and working in Iraq under the banner “Operation New Dawn,” but from what I could see everything was the same old, same old. “Operation New Dawn” may have its roots in genuine concern for the American military and the hope of a better tomorrow, but in reality it’s simply a label. Rebranding is as old as mankind; a company or situation is burdened with negative imagery, so a label is dreamed up, and the situation or company is dressed in the new clothes. Phillip Morris was a nasty cigarette maker; Altria is... well, no one knows what the hell they do. See? Problem solved. As I write, NPR is on in the background, stating that makers of High Fructose Corn Syrup, an unhealthy mess to the human digestive system and the cause of many health problems, will henceforth call their product “Corn Sugar.” And with that, even though high fructose corn syrup is in no way sugar, is still horrible for you, and childhood diabetes and obesity will continue to skyrocket, no one will notice, because we only see the surface of what’s happening. Once again, problem solved. If only life were actually that easy.

Special thanks to Scott Kennedy, founder of Comics Ready To Entertain and a hilarious comedian in his own right, for taking me, and thanks to liaisons Mr. Contee (Contee!) and Kenne Sjoberg for their kindness and assistance. There were soldiers who acted as on base handlers everywhere we went, and to thank them all would add several pages to this, and to be honest my note-taking wasn’t that proficient. Apologies to those I neglected, but thanks to everyone serving. You’re doing a job I’m way too pussy to.

And One Year Later

2010-08-08T11:43:00.000-07:00

August 8, 2010, is a day of celebration, and possible introspection, for me. On the one hand, it is my one-year wedding anniversary. On the other, it will mark one year since I have spoken to my father.

There was no fight, no big blow up between us. In fact, I’m not entirely sure why we’re not speaking. I believe we’re in the middle of some bizarre Mexican stand off, neither one of us willing to blink or show weakness. My silence comes from patience, and an ability to shut down emotionally and wait a situation out to its finish. I will not attempt to second-guess my father’s intentions or distance; speculation usually leads to incorrect assessments, and I hope to avoid that. I will simply stick to what I was witness to or told first-hand. Beyond that, all is left to the imagination.

Before I begin, I should point out two important parts to my father’s character: he is both generous, and pragmatic. For the wedding, his checkbook opened immediately, and his endowment was the largest Lydia and I received. That’s saying a lot, as every parent went above and beyond the call of charitable for our wedding expenses. Another example if his giving nature is: a few winters ago, he called out of the blue and told me to go pick out a snow thrower, his treat. Lydia and I had just purchased our first house, and with me being on the road all the time, he didn’t want her stuck shoveling a snowed-in driveway alone. Price was no matter; he wanted us to pick something big and powerful. Regarding my father’s no-nonsense side, I remember the first time I got drunk. The next day I was hung-over beyond decent description; my head was throbbing, my body ached, and my tongue weighed more than an Olson twin. My mother marched me downstairs to face a father’s wrath, expecting him to tear into me for my behavior. Instead, he took one look at me and asked, “So, how do you feel right now?” I’m not sure what answer I was able to muster up, but my dad nodded, said, “Well, that’s what drinking does to you,” and let it go. I didn’t drink again for years.

Those positives on the record, my wedding day unfolded as follows... actually, to be accurate, I should start before the wedding, to give a little back-story. Lydia was a trooper when it came to planning; she took the lion’s share of all responsibilities, and where possible, went homemade over mass-produced in order to save money. Lydia created the wedding-day program, which was the first inkling there could be friction ahead. When trying to decide who to list on the cover—typically the parents—Lydia asked me if I wanted just my biologicals listed, or my parents and their new spouses/girlfriends. Hoping to keep closed that can of worms, I responded, “Just my parents. Keep it simple.” Lydia thought it would hurt my fake dad, Joe, to be left out. Instead of listening to my advice, she called my mother for input. Joe wasn’t home, but my mom agreed: not listing Joe would make him a sad panda.

“Bullshit,” I countered. “Joe is a man, men don’t give a shit about that sort of thing.”

Lydia was un-swayed, and now in a tough position. If we honor Joe, did we list Alice, my dad’s girlfriend? Is there a fine line between listing a spouse vs. a partner, just because one wears a ring? She thought it best to call my dad and ask for his wishes; would he like to see Alice included on the program? My dad appreciated the call, and got bizarrely cryptic.

“If certain people,” he emphasized, meaning his ex-wife and my mother, “are uncomfortable seeing Alice’s name there, you can leave it off. I appreciate the call, because it means a lot to me you’re looking into such things, but I also understand if you have to cater to the emotions of certain people.”

My father’s ability to accentuate the absurd is an interesting one. In his mind, his ex-wife, a woman who rarely spoke of him unless pressed, was somehow going to be offended that: fifteen years after the divorce she had asked for and ten years after her remarriage, seeing my father’s girlfriend’s name on my wedding program would be offensive.

Naturally, my mother hadn’t given any thought to Alice, my dad, or anything else on the program; such worries were all my father’s invention.

Naturally, within moments of that frustrating conversation, my mother called with an update: Joe had gotten home, voiced his opinion, and he didn’t care one way or another if he was listed. Just as I predicted, he had a penis, and therefore shrugged away nonsense.

In Lydia’s mind a quandary now existed, a self-invented mess. The program looked cluttered with the multitude of names on it, but after all the phone calls, she felt obligated to include them all. Ever the caring fiancée, I washed my hands of it and walked away shrugging. Up front I had said to keep it simple, but such advice was unheeded. Neener.

Either way, that laid the foundation of my father’s mindset. He seemed preoccupied with his ex, where she had moved on.
The day before the wedding, my dad told me he was opting out of that evening’s rehearsal ceremony. I was fine with it; the full scope of his duties involved walking down the aisle and sitting in the front row with family, then walking directly to the reception line after all vows had been exchanged. Pretty simple stuff. He met up with everyone at the rehearsal dinner, and from everything I saw all was well there, but then again I was drunk and apparently missed his insulting the Matron of Honor for not being politically aware of her own state’s legislators.

The next phase of alienation took place directly before the wedding. Lydia and I wanted our guests to have as much fun as possible, so we planned a back-to-back wedding/reception; there would be no fucking around for several hours in between the events, where people had to kill time in a small, unknown to them, town. This meant we had to take all our pictures beforehand, and, like the rehearsal, this was something my father was uninterested in. He said he didn’t want to be a part of those proceedings, and would go straight to the ceremony. I’m sure had I pressed him, he would have begrudgingly participated, but if he didn’t want to be in the pictures, I wasn’t going to make an issue of it. Pictures were important to Lydia, not me. Thus, if you look through my wedding album, you will find one picture of my father. It is not a photo of him standing next to or with arms around his son and/or new daughter-in-law, nor is it a posed capture. In the photo, my father is in the background of a candid group-shot; his jaw is square, his eyes are stern. He is watching a slideshow of my childhood play across a screen, and he is apparently unhappy.

All our pictures taken, as the ceremony grew near and everyone made way to their seats, Dad decided against sitting in the front row with the families. When I walked down to take my position at the altar, I saw him sitting half way back, several rows deep among the guests, not up front as one or both ushers had requested he do. Lydia and I didn’t have preordained sides, bride and groom; people were free to sit where they wished. Because of this, Lydia’s therapist happened to end up directly behind my father. At their next session, she mentioned it to Lydia.

“When the couple sat down in front of me, the man said to his girlfriend, ‘I know they want me to sit up front, but I’m not going to play that game.’ I was shocked later when I found out it was Nathan’s dad!”

My father’s comment is important, given an altercation later in the evening.

As the ceremony progressed, there was a point where our minister (powered by the state of Iowa and the Internet, but not Jebus
or any other religious icon) began an introduction to the rose ceremony. Unlike those seen on The Bachelor, our moment was designed to honor our families; we were going to present a rose to those who raised us. Sadly, as the minister waxed philosophic on the meaning of the flower, Lydia looked at me in wide-eyed fear and whispered, “Ohmygod... we left the roses up in the refrigerator!” I did not find this to be that big a deal, and when the words, “And now, Nathan and Lydia will hand out the roses” were spoken, I turned to everyone gathered and shouted, “We forgot ‘em!”

Many people started giggling, until a voice rose above the din; “Maybe you’ll get it right at your next wedding!” My father let his wit get in front of his senses and shouted it over the titters.

I feel I should explain something here. While many people gasped in horror, I rolled my eyes. My father comes to all my comedy shows, and quite often heckles me. I bust his chops, and the audience gets off on our back and forth harassment of one another. So when he volleyed at the wedding, I returned, “Maybe I learned from your fuckups and won’t get divorced!” Everyone laughed again, but most people still seemed a bit uneasy.

The ceremony ended; the wedding party walked down the aisle and up to the reception hall to participate in the receiving line. Everyone save for my father, that is. He never discussed opting out of the receiving line, but at this point it was to be expected. In such a situation you can either make the decision to be angry, or let it go and enjoy your day. Lydia and I let it go. Too many generous friends and family members had made the trek to Iowa for us to be bothered by little things. I was meeting new people, and more importantly, saying hi to friends I didn’t and don’t get to see often enough.

Moving inside for the dinner, all was well. Dad found a table to sit at away from my mother, and I didn’t hear much about him until much later in the evening when the socializing began. At one point, the photographer said she was ready to leave, so Lydia and I made one last-ditch effort to corner my father for a picture, but he ran away in search of leftover pizza for our security guard. I told the photographer not to worry about it and to take off.

As the night wore on, I started hearing little stories about my dad, coming first from an aunt on my mother’s side.
“Your father just said ‘hi’ to me,” she began, laughingly. “He said, ‘Well, I know you’ve been ignoring me since the divorce, so I thought I’d be the bigger person and come over here and say hello.’ I said ‘hi’ back, but in my head couldn’t stop laughing, thinking, ‘Well of course I’ve been ignoring you! You’re not married to my sister anymore, I don’t have to talk to you!’”
I laughed, knowing full well my aunt could take care of herself.

Unfortunately, my dad didn’t limit this approach to those he knew. Lydia’s father, John, got the same speech. John was standing around, enjoying the evening, watching his daughter smile and enjoy what is labeled one of the most important days of a woman’s life, when a stranger walked up to him.

“Hello,” the man started. “I know you’ve been ignoring me, so I wanted to be the bigger person and come over and introduce myself: I’m Nathan’s father.”

John didn’t know what to say, stammered out an introduction, and like a ghost, my father was gone, leaving John stunned by the interaction.

My friend Keith, a professional videographer and editor who was putting together a tape as our wedding present, then pulled me aside.

“What’s up with your dad?” he asked, somewhat irritated.

I laughed, “You have to be more specific. So far today, he’s just been acting normal for him.”

Turns out Keith had been going around and asking people to tape little confessionals for Lydia and I. People were allowed to speak from either their heart, or funny bone, whichever they chose; touching, lighthearted, anything to express how they felt about the day. When approached, my dad met Keith’s query with a terse response and quick departure. I told him not to worry about it, and my uncle Tod stepped in as the father figure wishing the new couple well.

Dad wasn’t entirely negative, though. Towards the end of the night, he showed his amazing ability to sacrifice for the team. He asked if the rental company was going to collect the two hundred chairs from the wedding, or if they needed to be stacked and organized. Sadly, they needed to be stacked and organized, so without hesitation my dad went off to take care of it. I couldn’t allow that to happen alone, so I went with, and my sister’s boyfriend (now fiancée) joined us. In a miserable August heat, the hottest day of the summer, we pulled and stacked chairs until entirely drenched in sweat, as if we had just jumped into water
with our clothes on.

As we began piling up chairs, Dad explained that his comment during the wedding was supposed to be a joke, and that he meant we’d get it right when Lydia and I renewed our vows as a happily married couple. I told him the quip didn’t bother me, and it didn’t for two reasons: (1) it had only made him look bad, and (2) I was used to our exchanges. Unfortunately, after that initial salvo the conversation turned to lecture, and he used the time not to talk of the wedding or any positive aspect of it, but instead used the alone time to inform me of the many different ways my mother was being controlling. He described how she was exuding her power over Lydia, meddling in the wedding just like the Scooby Gang would at the scene of a murder. Considering I knew for a fact Lydia had planned the wedding almost entirely on her own, and actually stood her ground against my mother when my mother heard some of the ideas I was offering—pizza for the meal, saying “fuck” in my welcoming toast—I knew what my father was saying to be entirely untrue.

Yet he persisted.

In his mind, my mother was in control of the invitations, she was allocating money for things that were supposed to be outside her realm of control, like the rehearsal dinner, and many other accusations long gone from my memory. What could have been a nice moment became just another time to hear my dad rail against his ex. Being used to such speeches, I shrugged and stacked the chairs. Just another day with dad was all.

Our reception took place in a large central room, with a kitchen with a wide-open front in the back. When the dancing began, all the lights in the hall went down. This left the kitchen a bright eyesore, as the lights remained on there so the caterers could clean up. At some point several hours into our celebration, I looked up to see my father and fake dad, Joe, in said kitchen. Joe looked alternately exasperated, bored, frustrated, or a combination of all three. My father was rigid; his body posture suggested anger, and he had one arm out with a finger pointed at Joe, as if lecturing.

I rolled my eyes. At my sister’s wedding, I was present when my dad cornered my mom and demanded an apology from her for their marriage and divorce. It was a silly moment, and to my eyes looked like it was being repeated, only now with the “new” man in her life. Something had to be done, and I knew exactly what.

My whole life, I’ve searched out original, interesting people to befriend. Somewhere along my journey, a pudgy fella named Baxter and I bonded. Describing Baxter is difficult, so I'll do my best with one example: Baxter once stunned a physician by being the only person to answer honestly one question during the doctor’s fifteen year career. When asked on the intake form, “Have you ever been with a prostitute,” the doctor checked “no” as Baxter was answering “yes.” The doctor paused.

“Excuse me?” He asked.

“Yes, I’ve been with a prostitute,” Baxter shrugged.

The doctor was dumbfounded. He had to change the intake sheet, having already marred it by incorrectly pre-guessing the patient’s answer.

“Doc,” Baxter continued, “I have more tattoos on my body than women in my past.”

Baxter was an usher at my wedding, and as long as I’ve known him he has never worn pants. Even in the coldest Wisconsin January, Baxter would wear shorts. He even turned down a job offer once, as the position would require him to wear slacks. So when it came time to dress formal for the special occasion, he asked, “Can I wear a kilt?” I didn’t care, and said “sure.”

“It’s a dress kilt,” Baxter assured me.

Under that kilt, on that very day, Baxter declined to wear underwear. As any a man can tell you, a little oxygen up and under the taint feels good in summer, and that’s the path Bax wanted to walk. But he also wanted to go one step further. To make matters interesting, Baxter bought food dye, and before the blessed event took a sponge and gently dyed his penis and ball sac a dark green. This, he explained, would allow him to lift his kilt and say “HULK SMASH” when he was sufficiently drunk.
So, as my dad lectured Joe in the only illuminated area in the whole building, making the event not private but in fact the exact opposite, I decided action had to be taken. The word went out: Find Baxter.

Once he was located, my sister’s boyfriend, a man carrying a very expensive camera, was rustled up and given instructions.

The situation was explained to Bax, who then shook his head at the stupidity of anyone creating drama at a wedding, and set off
to put an end to it.

Baxter walked over to the kitchen, and when the two men didn’t halt their discussion, he shouted, “Hey guys!”
Heads turned, the kilt went up, and a picture was snapped.

Joe started laughing immediately, because how anyone can remain tense when a fat, kilted man is showing you his green penis is beyond me, but somehow my father managed to maintain his composure. Dad gave Baxter a quick “thumbs-up,” then turned right back to Joe and continued his speech.

Baxter waddled off, his best efforts defeated.

After it all ended, I asked Joe what had happened, and in good spirits he shook his head and said he was being lectured on “inappropriate behavior.” This included sitting among the family (Joe wasn’t my father, and shouldn’t have been in the front row), donating money to the cause (same reason), giving a toast at my sister’s wedding (same reason—he’s not her father), and other such silly things. Joe said he mostly let my dad vent, but did take one moment to turn things around. Joe asked my dad how he thought it made Lydia and I feel when they looked up at the ceremony, and he wasn’t sitting with the rest of the family. My dad’s response was, “No one told me I was supposed to sit there.” Sadly, given both ushers told me they tried to steer my dad to the front, combined with the comment Lydia’s therapist had overheard, this was a lie.

Fortunately, Joe has an easy-going attitude and didn’t let the moment ruin his day. Unfortunately, my sister is not always so casual and was tired of our father’s behavior. I was not witness to what happened, but a little while later Dad told me, “Well, your sister just said she hates me, you hate me, everyone hates me, and that she never wants to speak to me again.”

I laughed and shrugged. It was my wedding day, and I was having too good a time to get involved. In fact, of everything I’ve listed so far, not a single event bothered me. I’ve known my dad my whole life, and knew what to anticipate going in. Or so I thought.

One of my groomsmen, Barrett, found me for some alone time while others were dancing. He and my dad are friendly with one another, and Barrett said they had just shared a moment. My dad expressed a bit of sorrow to Barrett, information he was passing on to me to do with what I pleased. The slideshow of my childhood had wounded Dad. He told Barrett that he had many photos of me, and it would have been nice to have been asked to contribute.

I nodded my head, a bit upset with myself. Given his belief my mother was in control of the wedding, including him would have been the appropriate thing to do. I thanked Barrett, and continued celebrating.

The evening eventually ended. We had to be out of the rental space by midnight, so at 11:45 the lights went up and a few close friends and family set about straightening up, that we might avoid a huge cleaning fee. I cannot remember if my dad was there or not; no matter how hard I search my mind I cannot recall when he left, or if goodbyes were made.

Baxter, now nicely drunk, stood on a table and incoherently slurred his “Hulk Smash,” lifting the kilt and disgusting any women left present. A bar was chosen, and a precious few friends and family made their way over to it to finish out the night.
At bar time, Lydia and I waved farewell to our friends and hopped in my car to away to our hotel. As we drove, I told Lydia about my conversation with Barrett, and how even though my dad had acted pretty much as I figured he would, we still should have included him in the picture choosing process.

Lydia grew immediately livid.

“Goddammit!” she yelled. “I emailed him several times asking for pictures, I emailed Alice, and even talked to him once about it! When I asked him, he said we could talk about it later, and then he never responded to any of my emails or messages!”
I wasn’t angry like Lydia was, but I was disappointed in myself. It had been years since I let my dad get to or trick me, yet he had been able to do so that night.

Fortunately, a few minutes later, when we arrived at the hotel, we discovered a wonderful surprise. Lydia and I had Pricelined our room, and had paid $60 for a normally $150 a night stay. At the desk, we were given our key, then took the elevator up to discover we were staying in The Presidential Suite. A tenant at our rental property worked at the hotel, and when she saw our name on the register switched us to the un-reserved room. We entered to find wine, candy, roses, and hearts. It was a damn fine finish to a goddamn decent day.

And it really was a great day. I know it’s a horrible cliché to say so, but it was one of the best days of my life, easily. Having so many friends come out to visit with me was amazing. Old friends, current friends, Internet folk, and people I’ve met doing comedy; it was profoundly touching and great fun. I’ve had people tell me they felt they should have paid admission to attend, and I credit their fun to Lydia. Though a wedding is supposed to be about the bride, she turned that concept on its head and tried to make it about the guests. From having a short ceremony, to throwing the reception immediately following our vows and whatever else you can think of, she buckled down and pretty much planned it all. I could not have asked for a better, more beautiful bride, nor could I have asked for a better partner in the year since.

It’s odd how one day can be a juxtaposition of celebration and stupidity, how two diametrically opposed paths can be created from one event: towards one person, away from another. I didn’t end that day with the thought in my head to stop talking to my father, and we have exchanged a couple emails since then. It’s been maybe five at the most, all small talk with nothing relevant ever being written. He sent me a birthday card; Lydia and I invited he and Alice to our house for Christmas and didn’t hear back, so we sent gifts before the end of December. I think that’s when I finally noticed the fade, when our invitation was put on the back burner and no response to our gifts was given. I realized we hadn’t actually spoken, and somewhere in my mind I thought, “Well, let’s see how far this goes.”

And so it goes.

.

Q & A

2010-07-03T17:08:00.001-07:00

I was recently emailed a question: “Do you feel your trips to Iraq and Afghanistan have changed you?”

Here is how I responded:

Regarding your question, wow, it's a tough one. The short answer is yes I do feel changed, the long answer... well, that I will do my best to make coherent, because right now the answer feels like an exploded jigsaw puzzle in my mind.

I think the most profound manner in which I feel different is that I am more calm. While in Afghanistan, I was unlucky enough to attend a ramp ceremony; a soldier was killed while on patrol, and I was allowed to watch his flag-draped casket being loaded onto a plane back to the states. I was witness to a comrade of his, a friend, board the plane next to the casket, and I knew that he was going to stay with the body all the way to its final destination, where he would fold and present the flag to the fallen soldier's family, be it his parents, wife, or the like. Returning to America after that, it's almost difficult to comprehend yelling at a waiter, or being angry by a long checkout line in a supermarket. Sadly, I see it happen almost every day, and I live in the relatively tranquil outpost of Iowa; I remember all too well what it was like when I lived in Los Angeles, and tension was as abundant as sunshine.

While I do feel changed, I do not wear my experiences like a cloak. What I mean by that statement is, I cannot ever bring myself to remind anyone acting inappropriately, "You are aware that as you yell at that driver and give them the finger, a soldier is far from home, his life on the line, right?" I'm not sure it's my place to, and would almost be more condescending than enlightening. I have been blessed by my experiences, and those are mine alone. I do not feel I can force them upon anyone, and trying to instill empathy into another human being is quite difficult unless deftly handled.

I also feel that by having been overseas, I am walking down a path best described by the axiom, "The more you learn, the less you know." I do not act like an expert on Iraq, Afghanistan, either war, or the military in general just because I have been lucky enough to spend time with them. Though the military is an institution, it is comprised of many unique individuals, and they have an immense variance of opinions, beliefs, and ideals. In 2004, I was stunned by the amount of anti-Bush vitriol exiting the mouths of soldiers. At home, I was being told "the military" supported President Bush, and thought Kerry a sissy they would never vote for. The reality of the situation was many soldiers were unhappy with their commander in chief, and had no intention whatsoever of voting for him. What I had been told as absolute truth was turning out to be anything but, and it made me more cautious whenever hearing a blanket statement.

(And hopefully, it also made me less willing to make a blanket statement, too)

To prevent myself from writing a book, I'll stop now. I could probably go on and on, but hopefully this helps answer your question.

If not, feel free to ask more questions, or for me to clarify or expand on anything I've said.

One last note: One day after attending the ramp ceremony mentioned above, I flew to the outpost he had been stationed at. I was scheduled to perform a 10:00 a.m. show, and arrived to find the soldiers had just returned from an overnight, twelve-hour patrol. They were exhausted, and headed to breakfast and bed, in that order. The base commander, however, issued a casual order, saying they really should assemble in the community room (a very tiny living room in a mud hut known as "base headquarters") and participate in the comedy show. I was beyond nervous, knowing I was going to face twenty exhausted eighteen-year old kids who were currently dealing with the loss off a friend, but damn if they didn't make the best audience I've ever performed for. Though they entered with dark circles under their near-shut eyes, after I greeted them and started telling a few jokes, their mouths started so crack smiles, and soon enough a sound known as laughter was emanating throughout the room.

That's something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

I Have Too Much Time on My Hands

2010-05-26T16:52:00.001-07:00

So, a few weeks ago, I wrote this blog:

Please Protect Me...

It's about censorship, fear, and my deciding to post my silly and stupid writings on newspapers that allow readers to do so.

I decided to check in on the newspaper that put my site "under review."

Here's what happened next...

(oh, and to explain: i wrote in to one general "help" email address; different people responded to me, but the chain was never broken. anyone there could have read the entire string and been caught up to speed, had they wanted to be)

Hi, My blog/profile has been "under review" for well over a month, and possibly even two months at this point.

Just wondering how long the process takes to review my profile, and, well, what exactly that means.

Thanks much,

Nathan

Dear Mr. Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

We apologize for any inconvenience or misunderstanding. We appreciate your business and would like to help any way we can.

However, we need additional information before we can process your request. If you would be so kind as to reply with your house number, street address and telephone number, it would be much appreciated. It is our goal to make sure we are meeting the needs of our subscribers.

Once I receive your account information, I can better determine what course of action we need to take.

We value your readership and will remain available to address all of your concerns and questions.

Sincerely,
Dawn
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

Hey Dawn, Not sure why you're asking for the information you asked for given my request...

I have a blog/profile at the Democrat & Chronicle.

My log in is xxxxxxxxx

My password is xxxxxxxx

About six weeks ago, it went "under review by our editors," meaning if I posted a blog, no one could read it.

So... Just wondering how long this process is going to take.

Thanks!

:)

nathan

Dear Mr. Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

We apologize for any inconvenience or misunderstanding. I have tried entering your information and was able to access your profile. If you have any further questions or concerns, feel free to reply back to this e-mail.

We value your readership and will remain available to address all of your concerns and questions.

Sincerely,
Kristie
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

Hi Kristie, Thanks much for the feedback.

I can access my profile, too.

The problem is, it's "under review," meaning I can access it and tool around, but it is NOT a public profile.

So, still wondering how long it will be "under review."

Thanks!

nathan

Dear Mr. Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

I apologize for the difficulty you experienced with our website. I have forward your concern to the appropriate department for review/correction.
Please allow us to take care of this matter promptly. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience that we may have caused you.

Sincerely,

Tresa
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

(Another email arrives 10 minutes later)

Dear Mr. Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

I apologize for the inconvenience. It has been reported that your profile has been blocked for inappropriate material. If I can be of further assistance please respond to this email. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience that we may have caused you.

Sincerely,

Tresa
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

Hey Tresa,
Thanks for the heads up.

Not really sure what you mean by "inappropriate material," as I never posted anything inappropriate.

Sure would be nice to have someone shoot me an email explaining where the censorship is coming from, why I'm being censored, and so on.

Simply blocking someone due to a random judgment call seems rather harsh, and, since the word is being tossed around, "inappropriate."

Since my site is listed as "under review," one would hope the editors would have contacted me with their concerns instead of simply blocking all access to the public, who the editors apparently don't feel are qualified to make their own decisions about what is and is not "inappropriate."

Could use some help here, thanks!

Nathan

Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

We apologize for any inconvenience or misunderstanding. I have escalated this matter to the appropriate department for review. Once I receive the updated information regarding the restricted access of your account, I will be able to update you via e-mail. Again, we apologize for any inconvenience and thank you for your patience while we are researching this matter for a resolution.
We value your readership and will remain available to address all of your concerns and questions.

Sincerely,
Brandon
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

(10 minutes later, another email arrives)

Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

Here is the information that you requested regarding why your access has been restricted.

The Managing Editor/Content and Digital Platforms asked that he be blocked after this post:

The Democrat & Chronicle is run by ignorant children.

The site is visited by people of all ages, with links to recent blog posts automatically highlighted on various pages.

Please note that by registering on the site, users accept our Terms of Service. The following sections are pertinent to the blocking of content on the site:

Insert legal mumbo jumbo here, the same as on every site: "We're in charge, we do what we want. If we don't like you, we're going to delete you without warning. You're a stupid jerk for thinking you could ever be good enough for our website." And so on.

We value your readership and will remain available to address all of your concerns and questions.

Sincerely,
Brandon
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

LoL, WOW.

Thanks Brandon!

I had no clue I was dealing with a tightly-wound hyper-Christian with no sense of decency, morals or humor. Now that I do, I can best monitor what I write to conform to those standards, ones that apparently set off no alarms anywhere else in the country. Does the content editor ever leave his/her house, or is the outside world too scary?

:p

Either way, thanks for the heads up.

If I delete that post, will my site go active again?

Nathan

Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

I apologize for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, access has been denied, the Managing Editor/Content and Digital Platform has asked that your profile be blocked after the post expressed below was posted. We are not authorized to reactivate your profile. If I can be of further assistance please respond to this email. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience that we may have caused you.
Sincerely,

Tresa
Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

Thanks Tresa! So... as asked, if that post goes away, will my account be reactivated?

Thanks,

Nathan

Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

We apologize for any inconvenience or misunderstanding. At this time your access has been denied. Unfortunately, we will not be able to reactivate your access as you have requested.

Sincerely,
Brandon
Account Specialist

Lol, no misunderstanding here, that's all at your end.

Do you guys even read these emails, or do you just fire off standard but unhelpful stock responses?

It's like I ask question "A," and you respond to question "H," something not even asked.

Makes your tag about being Rochester's #1 source for news and information quite silly.

To Repeat: I have an "inappropriate" post on my blog. If that "inappropriate" post goes away, will my blog be reactivated, or is the Democrat & Chronicle run on a "one strike and you're off forever" business model, where that "one strike" is determined arbitrarily?

Thanks much,

Nathan

Dear Nathan Timmel,

Thank you for contacting The Democrat & Chronicle. Rochester's #1 source for news and information!

Since your access has been denied, regardless if the post goes away, your access is still denied.
Sincerely,
Diane

Account Specialist
The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

and there you have it.

oh, and for the record?

i still HAVE ACCESS to my blog.

it's just not available for anyone to see.

so, no matter how hard they try, they're still idiots.

:p

2010-05-04T09:47:00.000-07:00

I was thirty-six years old the first time I saw my father smile.

The visual hit me so hard I was stunned; I was seeing my father happy. It wasn’t just that he was happy, I was shocked because of the realization I had never seen him that way before. From childhood through my adult years, I had adapted to the idea my father was at his best stoic, or at his worst, morose. Given the tumultuous relationship he had with my mother and the eleven years spent alone after their divorce, to see him interacting while smiling with his new girlfriend, or any woman for that matter, was unheard of.

With a quiet clarity, I understood that in my youth, my dad never looked at me with eyes of indifference, he watched me with a mix fear and caution. As he had been raised in an environment of physical abuse and contempt, he knew he wanted to succeed where his parents had “failed,” so to speak. My dad didn’t want to damage me, as he felt he had been damaged, but didn’t know how to be a father himself. He never learned about the process of parenting through familial absorption, and I had come along much too quickly for him to mentally prepare for the challenge of fatherhood. Instead of raising me hands on, my dad backed off and let me figure everything out on my own, stepping in when he thought necessary.

* * *

Living in Los Angeles kept me fairly unhappy.

At the time, I was pointing fingers and decrying a system I felt kept me down. Looking back, I understand the only thing holding me back, was me; I wasn’t ready to play the Hollywood game. I harbored a simple Midwest naiveté that believed that if you stood on stage and showed a modicum of talent, you’d be recognized; I never once considered any social aspect to the business.

Everything in Hollywood operates on the idea of “heat.” To manufacture heat you have to network, and from almost everything I discovered, networking involved a lot of late night drinking. I’ve always enjoyed being social, but when it comes to the constant wear and tear of hanging out until all hours in the morning just to maintain the “right connections,” I am an absolute failure. Without those connections, nothing happens in Los Angeles.

“Heat” is something that builds around you; it is nothing you can force. For example, were I to approach an agent, look him directly in the eye and say full of confidence, “Hi, I’m Nathan Timmel, and if you sign me on I will get the job done,” the agent would walk away, annoyed at having been disturbed. I was witness to several incidences like this and have given it a shot or two on my own, always with the same result. If that same agent, however, were to sit down at Starbucks and hear two strangers converse, one saying, “I saw this comic, Nathan Timmel, last night. He was pretty funny,” that agent would be all over his phone, screaming at assistants: “Who is this Nathan Timmel I’m hearing about?! Why don’t we have Nathan Timmel on our roster?? Nathan Timmel is the future!” Again, I have observed such interactions.

To keep my ego from being annihilated through rejection, I spent half the year working outside California. I would fly to Madison, Wisconsin, where my mother still lived, and use it as a staging point for comedy clubs scattered across the Midwest. One slow Saturday night on a sojourn through Iowa, only twelve people made comedy their entertainment choice of the evening. Being that Iowa and Wisconsin are neighbors, the instant I finished my set, I walked off the stage and out the door, pausing only to get paid. There was another comic on after me, and I figured it would be better to get a jump on the drive home over hanging out and mingling with the non-crowd of customers. That decision could have been disastrous, if not for the tenacity of one woman in the audience. On that particular Saturday in June an Iowan named Lydia Fine decided she needed to get out of the house and have a laugh. Though I had no way of knowing it at the time, when I left the club before the technical end of the show, she was watching from the audience, and was angered by my disinterest in socializing.

Several days later, I received a MySpace Friend Request. MySpace, for those that don’t know, was a social networking site that was “cool” after Friendster became “lame,” and was “lame” after Facebook became “cool.” Thought as a comedian I probably should have been collecting as many online “friends” as possible, I never blindly accepted requests. I found that too many people out there have their own agenda, and nine-point-nine times out of ten I am entirely uninterested in their marketing attempts. The friend request I received from Iowa, however, had two things going for it: the hometown listed on the woman’s profile was twenty minutes from where I had performed, and the woman herself, the aforementioned Lydia Fine, was stunningly attractive. Or, at least she was on line; I had already discovered that many people altered pictures for publication on the Internet, that they appear much more thin/attractive/desirable than they actually were in person. I fired off a quick note to Lydia, “Nice to meet you. Are you friending me because you were at a show this past weekend?” and that was that.

Until, that is, I received a reply in my mailbox. She had indeed been at a show, and enjoyed what she saw. I responded to her reply, and back and forth we started to sway, each exchange growing in length just a little. One evening I opened up a note to find ten digits awaiting me. Lydia had been to a concert, imbibed her brain with alcohol, and mustered up the courage to ask me to call her. Not wanting to disappoint a (supposedly) beautiful woman, I dialed her up. I didn’t hold on to the number for five days to “play cool,” or pretend I hadn’t received the email until the next day so I wouldn’t seem over eager; I wanted to call, so I did.

Over the course of five hours, we had the most bizarre, no-holds-barred conversation I’d ever had in my life. This wasn’t “So, what kind of movies do you like?” giggling, it was everything-on-the-table honesty. I had never in my life had a first conversation like it. Hell, sometimes I had been in mini-relationships of a few months to a year that never approached the depth to which Lydia was willing to descend. But the thing is, I loved it. She wasn’t trying to impress me, put on airs, or falsify who she was; neither was she laying out her cards in a brash, “take it or leave it” manner. I got the sense she was simply saying, “This is who I am; I am looking for someone to accept me as is.”∗ We finally said our goodnights somewhere in the neighborhood of four in the morning, and as I sat back in my hotel bed to take it all in I wondered, “Who the hell is this woman?”

Lydia was a person whose life was in unfortunate flux; she had recently: started a new job (one which left her in tears on the first day and proceeded to remain unsatisfying for several months), lost her “second-mother” aunt to ovarian cancer, was witness to her eighty-three year old grandfather undergoing surgery for an abdominal aneurysm, broke up with her boyfriend (an event that resulted in him shouting insults at her over the phone for the better part of an hour), started seeing a therapist, gone on depression medications and lost her entire network of after-hours social friends. The last statement is the most important, in terms of how she happened to arrive at the comedy club to see me.

Girls can be exceptionally cruel. In adolescence, they create social cliques that are impossible to breach and are generally lorded over by a single queen. Sometimes, if women do not graduate from the mentality they learned in Junior and Senior High, they will carry this thought process with them into adulthood. In Lydia’s case, she was a small cog in a gear that revolved around recreational volleyball; the controlling force of this social circle was a tiny woman who had a severe Napoleon Complex named Mindy. One frustrated day, Lydia butted heads with Mindy, and as if girls of fourteen and not young women, Mindy put the word out to the group: it’s Lydia or me, choose. Everyone but one friend chose Mindy. Lydia found herself isolated, and entirely alone every weekend.

Several weeks after her banishment from the “in crowd,” word reached Lydia that Mindy was having a gathering. Depression sank in. Everyone Lydia used to hang out with would be there, laughing and having fun, while she would be alone in her condo. Desperately needing to get out of the house and away from that situation, Lydia called Kristine, the one friend who had refused to choose sides in the immature display of behavior by Mindy. Kristine agreed to forgo the party and attend a comedy show with Lydia. So it came to pass, a series of unfortunate events brought Lydia to the comedy club, on the very week out of the year I happened to be in town.

After getting to know one another on line, Lydia and I chose to meet in person; we each wanted to see whether or not the spark we shared via the telephone would translate into in-person chemistry. I was constantly on tour in the Midwest, and was easily able to drive to her tiny town for our date. As I parked out front of her condo, I called to let her know I had arrived. Lydia made her way down three flights of stairs, and as she did so windows lining the front of her building allowed me quick glimpses of this woman I’d agreed to take to dinner. When she finally got to ground level and opened the front door, I thought, “Oh wow. This could be very good.” Lydia was, simply put, stunningly beautiful. Sandy-blonde hair rested gently below her shoulders, she was taller than many Hollywood leading men I had bumped into and she wore a wide, nervous smile. I was smitten almost immediately.

We retreated to her condo, where her new kitten Simon, a gender-confused little fluff of gray, ran in between my ankles as I walked in. During my entire visit, he howled for attention as if the most neglected kitty on the planet. In contrast, Lydia’s full-grown cat, Pandora, was an aloof and skittish creature with brown and black hair speckled with dandruff; she darted into hiding immediately upon my arrival.

While being given the grand tour of her three-bedroom condo, the bookshelf gave me pause. Though littered with much in the way of fiction and business management, the top row contained many offerings on romance and self-reliance. The titles were standard fare, and may as well have screamed, “So You Just Got Dumped,” “Why Your Friends All Left You,” “I’m Isolated and Cry Myself to Sleep,” and “You’re Going to Die Alone.” My brow furrowed slightly, but I wondered if these tomes were helping Lydia be as honest as she was with me. Instead of playing games, the death-knell of any union, she was communicating, openly and honestly. I liked this.

While we talked, Lydia couldn’t stop fidgeting; her nails were nonexistent and looked like they were attacked to the nub regularly. I did my best to put her at ease, but we quickly retreated to a bar so she could get a drink or two in her and relax.

Dinner took place at one of her favorite restaurants; she had the “gourmet” Mac & Cheese, which I thought was simply an excuse to charge $15 for a seventy-nine cent item, and I had a salad that left me less than thrilled. We conversed easily, but after our meal is where everything got interesting.

To explain what happened next, I must offer up some background on who I am as a person: when around most animals, especially little woodland creatures, I lose control of most of my mental functions, which are questionable at best to begin with. I cannot fully explain why I find these mammals so endearing, and it is best to give an example of my mental retardation rather than to try to explain it any further: though I am not proud the action, I once tried to pet a bear. A wild, bear. I was camping, and warned that the local black bears were used to humans and wandered into camp frequently. The Park Ranger told everyone sternly that should we come into contact with one, they were still wild animals and we should make loud noises to scare them off; under no circumstances was anyone to approach them. Naturally, one did come scrounging near my camp for scraps, and he was an adorable little Black Bear. Not a cub, which, given the protective nature of mother bears would have spelled immediate disaster, but a standard-size fluff-ball Black Bear. While most people in the camping area were curious, yet cautious, my first thought was to grab food and attempt to draw him close to me. Now, I say this in full awareness of what I was doing. Did I think the bear was tame, or would let me pet him? No. My mind was at war with itself; I was very calm, but had two internal voices speaking to me. On the one hand, my inner child was saying, “OMG, IT’S A BEAR! LOOK AT ITS LITTLE NUB-TAIL! I WANT TO GRAB HIS EARS AND GIVE HIS HEAD A BIG SCRUFF-SHAKE! WHO’S A BEAR? WHO’S A LITTLE BEAR WITH A LITTLE BEAR BLACK NOSE?” My quieter, more rational and therefore weaker responsible adult voice was calmly relaying the message: “You are a fucking moron. This thing will get near you, get startled, and rip your throat out. It’s a fucking bear, dipshit.” Fortunately for my well being, the bear, though somewhat interested in the idiot making kissy noises at him, eventually wandered off, leaving me to see another day. So, the point of the story is: if I lose my shit and attempt to hug bears, you can only imagine how I am when faced with non-threatening creatures. With that, I return to my first date with Lydia.

As it was a lovely spring day, we decided to take a sunset walk along the Iowa River and burn off a few of the calories we had just ingested. Many other couples were doing the like, and all the little animals living on the banks had crawled out from their homes. We watched squirrels skipping across the path in front of us, and everything was going swimmingly when Lydia nudged me.

“Look at the rabbits!” she whispered, pointing at a large green shrub with three bunnies happily munching clover underneath it.

I could describe what I did, but think an outsider’s perspective would serve best at this point and here turn things over to Lydia:

“Nathan stopped walking, and I turned to see what happened. I was mortified to find he’d dropped my hand and was running toward the rabbit bush, although I’m not sure I would call what he was doing “running,” per se. It was more of a gallop or a scamper, really, but with his arms thrown up loopily over his head. He was shouting, too. “BUNNIES! BUNNIES! LOOK AT THE BUNNIES!”

I stood there dumbfounded, stunned, and profoundly embarrassed. What the hell was he doing? People were looking at us.

“Nathan!” I hissed. “Stop! Get back here!”

He didn’t listen. The bunnies had started bounding away from him and he was giving chase, doing his best to zig as they zagged, and hustle as they bustled. I figured my only hope for saving my reputation was to pull the same trick my mother used to when I’d embarrassed her. She’d simply walk away and pretend she didn’t know me, so I did just that. A few seconds later I could hear him running up behind me, and felt him reach for my hand again. I was calming down a little, and underneath my still-fresh embarrassment, I was hiding a smile. A grown man who chased bunnies? Who was this guy?”

Like with the Black Bear, though an internal logic might tell me it would be best to simply let the bunnies be, quietly enjoying their floppy ears and ever-wiggling noses from afar, it’s all to much for me to process at times and I simply explode in excitement. Though I know it will never happen, I like to pretend that someday I might catch a bunny, and we will frisk through the meadow together, and be friends, and I will hug him and pet him and name him George. Yes, this from a man who tested so well in school he was advanced several grades several times. If that isn’t an indictment of our school system, I don’t know what is.

Thankfully, Lydia was quite forgiving of my idiot’s excursion, and our first date ended up extending from dusk into dawn. Eventually, she rose to leave (very late) for work, and I went my merry way back on the road. As our first date had gone well, it was decided we would have a second, and possibly even a third. I was still touring, so Lydia made plans to spend a getaway weekend with me while I performed in a small, Illinois town. If we were keeping in line with our “hold no secrets” approach to getting to know one another, this was a bold step. After telling her mother she had met someone, “a comedian,” the response had been a cool, “That’s nice, but what does he do for work?” The idea someone could make a living as a comedian hadn’t really crossed Lydia’s mind, but if she was wondering what kind of provider I would be, an eye-opening insight into the world of entertainment was about to take place.

Our weekend trip had me working a club I’d been to many times before, each time as the middle comedian of the show. I always did well there, and my ego told me it was my turn to move up, but I sadly had no fame to my name and wasn’t going to be allowed the top slot. That weekend, the headliner, on a name recognition scale of 0-10, was only a one, and that’s on a good day. As I was a zero, that made him more marketable than me. Unfortunately, he had better management than skills and had been performing for fewer years than I had. In an embarrassing move for the club, I got bigger laughs and more positive audience responses than he did. Every night, while I was on stage, he sat at the bar getting drunk. By the time he grabbed the microphone the man was a slurring, incoherent mess; instead of performing focused bits of comedy, he would meander off down verbal tangents. It was immediately proven he didn’t have enough material to fill his contracted time, because around the thirty minute mark of his set the club would play several tracks off his CD of phone pranks over the house PA system. I thought I had seen unprofessionalism in my time, but was still stunned by the spectacle of it all. I was actually watching people who had turned over their hard earned money to see comedy, watch a man sit on stage, drunk, while his CD played over the sound system.

Lydia was somewhat aghast. She lived and worked in the corporate world, where if you worked hard and built your resume, you were rewarded. Not so, in comedy, where personality and press trump ability almost every time; whether or not you are funny is always less important than whether or not you’ve been on TV.

It doesn’t mean anything to the narrative at hand, but I have yet to be re-booked at the club despite repeated attempts to play there, while I’ve seen the other comic’s name on the calendar several times. Good times.

* * *

Lydia and I dated long distance for the better part of a year. My schedule allowed us to never be separated for more than several weeks at a time, and Lydia was able to make her way to the West Coast a couple times. Cell phones, instant messaging and video chat kept us sane, but as we grew to enjoy one another’s company more and more it was well understood carrying on a long distance relationship wouldn’t work long term. Something had to give.
Being that I was already tired of Los Angeles, and Lydia had a job she (now) liked, was an Iowa girl at heart and uninterested in the grimy cement jungle of Hollywood, it was ultimately decided I would uproot myself and live among the cornfields of the Midwest. I’d like to pretend there was struggle involved in the decision making process, that I wondered whether leaving Hollywood to pursue an artistic dream was wise in the slightest, but I didn’t. I was really more interested in being personally happy than professionally successful, which, like my inability to play the social game in Los Angeles, probably helped stymie my growth there. Overall, I believed Iowa offered much greater opportunities to me.

I wasn’t moving to simply be closer to Lydia; we decided to go all out right away and move in together. I had never lived with a girlfriend before, and Lydia had never lived with a boyfriend, so the arrangement was going to be interesting, but hopefully not too trying. Unfortunately, one of the first situations I encountered was an examination of my own mortality. Growing old is something we rarely imagine happening while in our childhood or teenage years. As kids, we run around wildly, flail our arms like idiots, pick our nose and see adults as boring creatures that have no fun. By eighteen, we are invincible, standing on the hoods of cars tearing down the highway and drinking to blackout status at concerts, passing out in the port-a-potty, pants around our ankles for the duration of the show, waking only at the end of it as huge cannons blast the finale to "For Those About to Rock--*BOOM*--We Salute You," and adults are our enemy.∗

But at some point in our mid-to-late twenties, we start slowing down, looking around and realizing that our best years are probably behind us and that we might want to do something with our lives. If this revelation doesn't strike, it's even more depressing. Anyone above twenty-five still hanging out in a college bar, dressing like they did while in school, is sad in one of two ways: they're either pathetically wearing clothes like the kids of the day and failing miserably, or, possibly worse, still wearing their old outfits, five years out of style and a billion brain cells away from reality.

Being stuck in one phase of your life isn't limited to bars and acting how you did at twenty; you can get stuck in any age. For over fifteen years, my dad wore the same clothes repeatedly. It was as if he had gone shopping one day in his mid-thirties and bought everything he thought he would need for the rest of his existence. Dad would usually be wearing some awkward combination of a ten-year old, K-Mart-style shirt tucked into Sears-brand not-quite-dress, not-quite-casual pants of the same age. This ensemble was worn without a belt, naturally. My father’s lack of style was so humiliating my sister tried to pick his outfits before being seen in public with him.

After my parents divorced, I helped my dad move twice. Once the second time was completed, I vowed never to do so again unless he gave his overflowing closet of clothes and other mounds of junk—dad was a bit of a hoarder—to Goodwill. Thinking about it now, most of what he owned would most likely be rejected by the charitable institution due to age, wear and style anyway. I mean, sometimes beggars can be choosers.

In wardrobe, my dad was stuck somewhere in the late 1970's. Back then, large hair and mustaches were considered a good idea, which lets you know just how wrong that decade was; neither is ever a good idea. Seriously, show me one picture of a pedophile where the man doesn't have a mustache.∗ The point is, dad was considered an embarrassment. So it was to my chagrin that as my life took a turn for the better—in relocating to Iowa and in with Lydia—I found I had been living my own life of blissful incomprehension.

My awakening started simply enough, by packing my entire apartment into one car, and then finding out I was to fit that entire car's contents into approximately 37% of one closet. Not one whole closet, which is what I had been led to understand I’d be receiving, but a fraction of a closet; the remaining 63% was filled with Lydia’s belongings. Little did I know, the female definition of "Emptying a closet" is "Creating just enough space for you to keep a few trinkets, while allowing me to hold on to clothes I no longer fit into but just might once again someday in the future when I start going to the gym."

Luckily, as I unpacked all my belongings, Lydia was right there to help me organize. By "organize," I mean: Give every item of clothing the once over, making either a “someone-just-farted” face, or nonchalantly allowing me to continue to own it. For now.

Our exchanges during this sorting involved pouting, by me, and steadfast, schoolmarm discipline, by Lyds.

"But, I like that shirt," I'd protest.

"Honey," the gentle scolding would begin, "not only is it old and out of style, it's worn and stretched out."

"It's urban outfitters," I'd whine.

"Yes, and they update their clothes several times a year, not several times a century."

Then I would forlornly drop it into the charity pile. This process was repeated until a large hefty bag of clothes I'd just carted all the way across the goddamn country was sitting by the front door.

Fortunately, unlike my dad, while I did lament my lost treasures—and not everything went, I still have some "fine, you can keep that if you promise not to wear it in public" gems I refused to let go of—I have to admit a guilty pleasure at having someone provide a clue for me when it comes to dressing. After the purge came the binge, meaning we did a little "Welcome to the Modern Age" shopping. Though it started with me shooting down nearly everything in existence, such as Polo Shirts, whose collars I promised to wear popped up if forced to buy, eventually we found stylishly "fun" (her word) articles of clothing at a reasonable price.
Lyds was happy, and I was happy. She now had someone on her arm that looks normal until his mouth opened, and I knew I didn’t have to go shopping for at least five years. Heh.

* * *

If moving in with someone that I’d known for less than a year and only dated long-distance sounded like a recipe for disaster, I’d agree. But somehow, Lydia and I gelled. There were a few minor bumps in the road, but nothing that ever seemed overly disastrous.

One difference in our personalities was discovered via the casual nature two people have to have when sharing close quarters. I don't really think of myself as a prude person, nor am I a germophobe. That said, when it comes to stepping out the shower and drying my body, I stop at the crack at the bottom of my back and reach for toilet paper. This tp is for a quick, final dab at my delicate, between-the-cheeks pucker. This action makes Lydia laugh, as she says, "You know it's fresh-clean from the shower you just took, right?" Such things do not matter to me, as maybe it's a psychological quirk, but I still don't appreciate the idea of sticking a toweled finger up in there, then using that same cottony-spot to dry my face the next day.
On the subject of towels: I sometimes wonder if Lydia and I should take two of them to bed for our little liaisons. It would make more sense to clean up afterwards using a towel apiece; our current ritual involves duck-waddling to the bathroom, attached by a single piece of cloth and delicately trying to avoid spilling sputnik on the carpet. Our kitties, from what I’ve been able to tell, find this event quite confusing. Not the sex part, which they seem to watch with a casual disinterest, the look "Can I get fed soon?” across their faces, but the towel-attached shuffle afterwards; that they stare at with uncomprehending eyes. Lydia and I are aware we look quite silly, yet continue the act after each and every, well, act.

For the record, the kitties have their own interesting set of ceremonies that I don't entirely understand. Every morning, Lydia showers before work, and, and especially so in winter, every morning the kitties join her in the bathroom. They jump up onto the counter and enjoy a little steam-sauna to start the day. Upon completion of her cleaning, Lydia opens the curtain to see both staring at her naked body, each relaxed and hydrated. Meanwhile, neither joins me whenever I get around to showering. They could get the same little burst of moisture they seem to enjoy in the morning, but opt not to. Simon, however, always, always, always seems to come running when it's time for me to enjoy a relaxing constitutional. As I rest on the throne, I find a gray kitty rushing in to sit at my feet, stare up at me, and meow until I pet him. When I stand and flush, he then props his front two paws up on the toilet to peer down at the swirling water, his kitty curiosity asking, "Hey, what's going on in here?"

Another adjustment to communal living was in the department of sleeping arrangements. When living quarters combine, you go from having a nice, wide bed for your single whole self, to a space you have to share. Lydia likes to sprawl out, meaning I immediately became an invasive burden to her slumber. I often wake to find body parts littering my person.

At bedtime, I generally fall asleep while she reads whatever it is she's currently using to expand her mind: a book, Time or Fitness, Harlequin Romance Novels... What’s odd is, before co-habitation, I usually had to be completely exhausted in order to sleep. If I wasn’t, I’d just lay wherever I was, thoughts bouncing around my noggin. But something about laying in bed with Lyds makes me relaxed enough to drift off when I’m only nominally tired. I like that. A few months into our co-habitation, she asked, "Do you feel me rest my hand on you when I finally turn out the light?"

Surprised, I responded that I did not.

Lydia informed me that when she sets aside her book and settles in for bed, her first sleep position involved touching me in some way; a rested hand, an arm draped across me, or her head nuzzled into the back of my neck, depending on how I happened to be facing (usually turned away from her light).

Again, I was surprised. I’m usually a fairly light sleeper; for years the easiest way to wake me was to whisper my name. I don’t know why, but I respond to "Nathan" as well as an alarm clock. I found it strange that where a mere murmur usually woke me, manhandling did not. So a couple nights later, I lied. I rolled on to my side while she read, then gradually changed my breathing pattern. I deepened my breaths, slowed them to a most un-hurried pace, and feigned sleep. I’m not sure how long she read, but after the light went off, I felt a warm body nestle up behind me, throw an arm over my side, and let loose all tension from the day.

And I thought, "Goddamn."

And I mean that in the most amazing of ways.

Sleep and scent combine in ways we don’t always realize, and Lydia’s nuzzling ways provided new insight into how we were now relating to one another. When living with another, everything becomes as familiar to your senses as your eyes, sometimes even more so. During a week of performances at the Chicago Improv, I lodged at my friend and fellow comedian Joe Hamilton’s apartment. After the Sunday show I drove home to Iowa and crawled into bed somewhere around two in the morning. Lydia immediately curled up to me, then paused, then pushed back a little.

"You don't smell like you," she said unhappily.

I hadn't thought about it, but there is a certain security in the scent of your lover, a familiarity that you react to unconsciously, and positively. When I moved in, the condo smelled like Lydia; every time I returned to it her scent filled my nostrils and made me feel peace. Returning from Chicago, I smelled like Joe Hamilton’s apartment and guest bedding. It being dark and Lydia being half asleep, she was relying on senses other than sight to relate to me, and the fact I "wasn't me" set off confusion in her.

Thankfully, the situation was rectified the next morning after a shower in which I washed the stench of other off me, and after which I tore off several sheets of toilet paper for my final starfish of drying.

Lydia laughed at me for it and reminded me she herself dries 100% of her body with her towel.

And she wonders why I do the laundry so often.

* * *

As any grade school child can tell you, there is a natural progression to relationships. After you are discovered in a tree, “k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” first comes love, then comes… well, not marriage. The kids skipped a step.

Lydia’s friends had us engaged well before I did; our second Christmas together had them all bundled together and whispering invented gossip into her ear, “He’s going to pop the question! We just know it!” I could only imagine the chagrin they wore when this did not come to pass. “Oooh,” they then justified, “Valentine’s day is coming up!”

What her friends didn’t know was: I was saving up for an engagement ring, I just didn’t want to get engaged in such a cliché manner. Popping the question on a holiday seemed too trite; I wanted my approach to come out of the blue.

Around Valentine’s Day I dropped half the cash necessary to procure Lydia’s dream ring, but didn't tell a single soul. Not because I didn't feel I could trust anyone, it generally never crossed my mind. I wasn’t bursting to share my secret; I was approaching the next stage of my life, and was doing so contentedly.

Eventually, I shared the news with he would be my Best Man, Brian Jones. I told Brian about the ring for two reasons: One, we had been on the phone the better part of an hour and out of things to discuss when he asked, "So, anything else going on?" I started out naturally enough, "Not that I can think of," when it popped right in there: "Oh, wait. I put money down on a ring." It wasn't an announcement, it was an afterthought.

The second reason I told Brian is: he lived almost a thousand miles away in New Orleans. Though he and I carried a friendship all the way back to Jr. High, we rarely saw one another and Lydia had never met him; who the hell would Brain be able to tell that the words could somehow end up in Lydia's ears?

Oh, fate, you fickle, funny fuck.

Two days after I told Brian of my impending bending of the knee, Lydia came home from work, excited: "I’m going to a conference in New Orleans! I'm going to meet your best friend!"

Really?

I mean, really?

The jewelry store had informed me up front it would take four weeks from the order date to have the ring crafted and the stone set, yet somehow Lydia got asked to attend a conference before it would be ready. Suddenly, the one person in the world who Lydia would never meet before I had the chance to surprise her was the one person she would be hanging out with.
Brian had already informed his wife Chris I was gearing up to propose, so when Lydia visited they treaded lightly over certain topics. Apparently one dinner conversation became fairly amusing when Lydia herself brought up the lack of an engagement ring on her left hand, but, Brian and Chris held their tongues, and Lydia returned to Iowa as clueless as ever.

I said I wanted to pop the question in a surprising fashion, and easily decided the best manner of doing so: while she was sleeping. Lydia hates, hates, hates to wake up in the morning. And she hates to be woken up at any time. So, being the kind of fella that I am, a few days after her trip to New Orleans I woke up at three AM and silently stole out of the bedroom. I grabbed a handful of votive candles, fashioned them into a heart on the countertop and lit each one. I positioned the ring in the center of the flames, turned on the stereo, set the song "Open," by Peter Gabriel, on a continuous loop, then returned to the bedroom to nudge away.

"Sweetie," I whispered. "Get up, you have to come see something."

Lydia resisted. She was expectedly groggy, but eventually cracked her sleep-caked eyes just wide enough to see me staring at her with a shit-eating grin.

Normally, such a smile and request meant I wanted to show her something one of the kitties was doing, but not this time.

Not this time.

If it seems somewhat dismissive that I didn't excitedly tell anyone about the impending event, it's because I felt very little in the way of special about the whole thing.

If anything, I felt comfortable. There was no weight upon my shoulders, or worry in my eyes. In fact, it felt like the most natural thing I've ever done.

I’ve said it in the past, but it bears repeating: therapists, friends, family and psychologists will all ask you the wrong question: "Have you ever been in love?"

Of course. Everyone has. Who cares?

What should be asked is: "Have you ever felt loved?"

When you can answer yes, your life will begin to take shape.

And I felt loved.

* * *

I was thirty-six years old the first time I saw my father smile. There are natural milestones in life; we celebrate certain ages due to advancements we make. “I’m sixteen, I can drive!” “I’m eighteen, I can vote!” “I’m twenty-one, I can drink! Well, legally, that is. I’ve been drinking since I was sixteen.”

Thirty-six will be etched in my memory as the age my life finally started to make sense. I had the moment of awareness involving my father, I met Lydia, and somehow granted my mother absolution from sins she had never committed.

A few months after being exposed to my father’s happiness, I was visiting my mother. Out of the blue, she started sobbing. I don’t know what brought it on, but she sat at her kitchen table for several minutes, crying. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and a thick molasses of mucus ran from her nose. Invented guilt sent her into this state of mind, and the words she spoke were so odd I could barely comprehend them.

"I’m sorry," she choked. "I just want you to know I’m sorry. I did the best I could. Your father and I both did the best we could. We were young parents and Ned and I did the best we could in raising you and Amanda. We just didn't know what we were doing, but we tried; we did the best we could. We just did the best we could."

I let out an uncomfortable giggle, a defense mechanism acting as the nervous response to a situation I was ill prepared to witness and too immature to address. I’d long known I was an accident, the first child born to two people not ready for the shotgun's pump, but for the life of me, at that moment, trying to imagine blaming either of my parents for either my existence or life, I was coming up blank. I grew up in a household filled with secrets and cold emotions, affairs and hidden anger, and we moved so often I never learned what maintained friendship was. But I didn’t think any of that was done to punish me.

The self-help lobby of America has latched onto two tools to make people feel "better" about themselves: blame, and invented guilt. The former is for those who like to believe we are not responsible for our own actions, lives and dealings with others. People like that point fingers and invent enemies. Invented guilt is a trickier bit of mischief, and is for those who want to take the weight of the world upon their shoulders. Whether it be their responsibility or not, they believe their life fails to live up to the expectations of others, and thus usually feel the need to apologize for invented misbehaviors.

My mom, for the record, loves self-help books.

A multitude of these betterment books discuss forgiveness, the idea is you need to free others from their transgressions against you while simultaneously asking them to do the like. If you do not, you will remain stuck in your "Spiritual Journey." While I agree with the concept on certain levels, the problem comes when you are asked to forgive not deliberate action taken against you, but something the person created in their own mind. The process becomes a cop out, a tool to first invent blame, and then forgiveness for a transgressionless action. Forgiveness, in such a situation, becomes almost an attack.

While I’ve felt exceedingly unhappy from time to time, even for years on end, and though I’ve even questioned whether or not any of the waking moments ever endured are worth it when added up against either the day to day mundane of pain, I’ve never been so disconnected from reality as to blame others for my lot in life. In any situation, I am ultimately responsible for my own actions. I can be fucked by any relationship, business, romantic or otherwise, but at the end of it, I have to look at my actions, and how I entered into the position to get fucked in the first place. So I don't know that I’ve ever actually uttered the phrase "I forgive you" to anyone, because I’ve either not blamed them their actions, or the offense is one grievous enough not to be exonerated from.

Standing in front of my mother, her sobs weakening in strength and composure getting the best of her again, I may have simply smiled. Not out of tension or an inability to connect mind with mouth, but a smile of situational confusion, one arising from a moment that tickles the heart.

And I explained to mom that I couldn't forgive her.

After all, I’d nothing to blame her for.

The Importance of Being Organic

2010-04-27T06:21:00.001-07:00

I remember when Guns N Roses released the albums Use Your Illusion 1 & 2 simultaneously. The first song used for promotion was “You Could Be Mine,” and Hollywood teamed up with the mega-group to make sure that single was prominently displayed in the sure-fire blockbuster summer release, Terminator 2. All the powers that be wanted to make sure album promotion was widespread: “You Could Be Mine” was pushed on radio, in movies, on MTV (back when they played music videos); the promotion machine was churning, and it wanted Guns to bank big for everyone involved. It worked; the song went huge, and both albums sold millions. This despite the fact they were each complete crap.

I didn’t like “You Could Be Mine” within seconds of first hearing it, but couldn’t explain why it struck me as so awful so quickly. Something just sounded off. Back then, I knew little of producers, engineers and recording studios. I couldn’t tell you what Mike Clink did to “Appetite for Destruction” that made it sound so amazing, nor could I verbalize what he then did wrong on both Illusion albums.

Many years later, I read the book, “Blink,” by Malcolm Gladwell. It explained, in detail, the phenomena of knowing something without understanding how we knew it. The idea was: we can instinctively feel something is either true or false; sometimes our senses are so in tune with truth, we can just “know” truth.

Not long after reading “Blink,” I read Slash’s self-titled autobiography. In tedious detail, he described his multi-year struggle with heroin addiction, but in between the lengthy and dull addiction diatribes were gems of stories involving Guns & Roses. Slash spoke of their inception, early success, and most importantly to me, their songwriting process and how it changed over the years. For example: the song “Paradise City” was grown out of a road trip. The group was in a van, having just played one of their first gigs ever, was driving back to Los Angeles and the song just sort of… appeared. They were shouting lyrics and melodies, and when time came to hit the studio, they already had a foundation for what would morph into one of their biggest hits. “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” another enormous success, came about while they jammed one day, everyone noting that something Slash was playing would make for a great opening riff to a song.

I enjoy reading about musicians, because I was in a band for several years. After high school, I first attended the Berklee College of Music, in Boston, Massachusetts, and then transferred to the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee. It was in Milwaukee I joined with two other students, a singer/guitarist and a drummer, and went about the business of seeing what it would like to make music for a living. We never achieved a great deal of success, but were able to record several songs for a compilation CD, and I promoted those songs as hard as I could. We ended up getting played on several college radio stations across the U.S, charting in many of them.

Our best songs, in my opinion, were written while jamming. We may not have come up with a “Paradise City,” but when messing around at rehearsal, we came up with some pretty fun little progressions that the singer would then write melodies and lyrics around. I enjoyed this method of songwriting, and thought that’s what being in a band was all about. The singer/guitarist disagreed, and quietly yet forcefully eventually stated the case that he was interested in having the drummer and I play songs he had written. He liked the idea of being a singer-songwriter; he wanted to be the Sting or Curt Cobain of the group and teach his songs to the drummer and I, that we may play our parts. The problem in my mind was, and I will argue this until the day I die, is: though Sting may have the writing credit for “Every Breath You Take,” without the iconic Andy Summers guitar line, in no way would it have been a hit. I view music as a collaborative, and the idea of being dictated to did not sit well with me. After several months of frustration, I quit when presented with a song containing the lyric, “You don’t know about divorce; you’d rather ride a foundered horse.”

The singer explained, “A horse that founders has to be put down, so my analogy is that of two people who stay together even though it’s not a good relationship, plodding onward when they shouldn’t be.” I argued in response: “Great, but you still rhymed “divorce” with ‘horse.’”

Returning to Slash’s book: as is well documented today, as the band grew in fame, Axl became more recalcitrant. He was a self-admitted isolationist, and was so as much from the band as the outside world. During the recording sessions for the Use Your Illusion albums, Axl was rarely around; he would show up when the band wasn’t there, listen to what had been recorded and make changes and leave notes as to where the songs should go. In essence, Axl was dictating from afar, controlling the songs without being an active participant in the group process. With but the reading of a few sentences, I flashed back to the first time I heard “You Could Be Mine,” and finally understood why the song sounded wrong from the start; it wasn’t a creative creation, it was a studio construction. Therein lies the difference.

While some people might argue they like certain songs on either Illusion record, no one can say that any song on them matches “Appetite for Destruction.” Plus, everyone knows what happened next; every band member eventually quit, and Axl went off the deep end, spending over fifteen years nitpicking away at the album eventually released as “Chinese Democracy.” That record, as anyone will tell you, is absolutely unlistenable. It is an overproduced, over-thought mess.

Because Axl refused to allow things to simply flow.

And in art, flow is everything.

Go-Go American Education System

2010-03-02T19:04:00.001-08:00

Go-Go American Education System

I spent many of my formative years, 7th-12th grade to be exact, in the tiny town of Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. I enjoyed the city so little, that after leaving, I rarely returned. I skipped my five, ten and fifteen year high school reunions, and only went to the twenty to see a friend that lives 934 miles from me.

While I had a good time at the reunion, I was more than a little shocked and surprised by the amount of people who had never left, had never even moved beyond fifty miles of the place they were born. They never traveled the world, or experienced other cultures or styles of thought. Trying my best to be non-judgmental, I found it sad that people could live so isolated. Especially so, considering that the more I interacted with these people post-reunion on Facebook, the more I saw they took physical isolation as an excuse to limit themselves mentally. More and more, I saw disturbing examples of why “small town values,” oft championed as something noble in any election cycle, can be amazingly detrimental when it comes to societal progress.

One case in point came via my friend, “Mary,” who still lives in Oconomowoc. She posted that she visited Milwaukee, and was a little frightened by the traffic. Another woman, “Jane,” responded that she was in Milwaukee once, and got scared when a black kid rode by her car on a bike. Jane also said she hated driving in “Brown Town” because of all the confusing, one-way streets. I do not know Jane, but from what I could see of her profile, she’s in her late 30s and also grew up in Oconomowoc.

My response to Jane’s post was, "Ah, racism and fear. Good times." Her cousin wrote, "Wow. BROWN TOWN? Just because you can't read the street signs doesn’t mean black people are bad.”

Jane responded to us with an overflow of emotion:

"NO I don't believe I said that black people are bad,I don't call Brown Down cuz of the colored,I am NOT a rascist at all[may not be able to spell it],My GPS tells me the st signs doesn't show me where my friend is though!I just dislike Milwaukee + Waukesha+Watertown because of all of their one way roads,I have a GPS to tell me where to go,but my friend was trying to wave to me+I was busy looking at the roads,and I can't see shit at night,and it was CRAZY BUSY so had my glasses on,I'd never survive Madtown too many people,and I NEVER drove to the Bradely Center or any place in Milwaukee by myself.It was Dan,Ashley,and myself+Ash was scared cuz we couldn't find our friend and it took me 15 minutes Yeah I don’t like being lost w/a scared 10 year old in the back seat,I do not know Milwaukee at all.I’d be able to get to a Brewer Game though,I guess when it comes to directions I’m like my Mom-No mean intention’s at all,I figured that would happen,just don’t know the town well,I LOVED the Riverside though.Just can’t drive out there by myself+have to know where my friend is the parking structure doesn’t start+end in the same place..I am not afraid of anybody either!Just said afraid of Milwaukee because I got lost.I’d be scared if I were lost anwhere,and I just panicked. I used to say downtown browntown a LONG time ago,and alot of people say it.I guess I have to watch what I say.I call every down different,I’m sure O-town has it’s bad names as well.GEEZ LAWEEZ people.I am human I had a great time at the Riverside so I am no where near a rascist.”

After navigating my way through that mess of grammatical incoherency, my first response was to rub my eyes, shake my head, and pray the education system of today is better than the one that put a diploma into her unworthy hand. That aside, I do believe the post has a lot of hidden information, and I’m not sure Jane even understood her racist ways. The way she wrote, “I used to say downtown browntown a LONG time ago,” means I think her behavior is something learned in childhood. She honestly might have just been parroting a phrase she heard about Milwaukee, and as she grew up no one ever explained to her, “Yeah, not cool.”

I also don’t think she grasps the influence parents have on their children. Her sentence, "I don't like being lost w/a scared 10 year old in the back seat” exposes this lack of comprehension. Kids are like animals; they sense fear. A ten-year old in the back seat of a car is going to be looking around at the world with wide eyes and curiosity, especially if that kid is from a small town and is now surrounded by big cool buildings. The only way he would be frightened is if the parents were freaking out, and in turn, spreading that fear around. If mom is hysterical because, “OMG I’M ON A ONE WAY STREET, WHAT DO I DO? THERE’S A BLACK KID ON A BIKE!! WHERE’S MY FRIEND???” of course a child is going to pick up on that and grow scared, too. And living in a small town, surrounded by similar thoughts and actions, as he grows older and receives no outside stimulus or a different way of viewing the world… so as you see, so as you become.

Jane eventually posted several more backtracks, and in the end I believed she’s probably not overtly hateful, just unconsciously prejudiced. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but it is better than the alternative, as others from my hometown outright frighten me. More often than not, their posts are as poorly written as Jane’s, only filled with anger and paranoia. They forcefully proclaim Obama is a socialist, Fox news is the only true source for information, and that the United Nations controls all the federal parks (Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, etc.) we have within the U.S.

Sometimes, but not too often, I challenge their wing nut and non-factual assertions. When I do, their response is generally two lovely words: “Your ignorant.”

Indeed.

I Was a White Knight, Once

2010-02-15T05:58:00.000-08:00

Liz Phair is a divorced woman.

I remember searching for her debut album in 1993. Few stores had ever heard of her, so to obtain “Exile in Guyville” I had to go to an overpriced indie shop and hand over a decent chunk of change. It was worth it. The album contained the voice of an intelligent, opinionated woman whose integrity seemed overshadowed only by her honesty. Naturally, I was somewhat smitten.

It was to my dismay, then, when a few years later I read an interview with Ms. Phair. She spoke of her boyfriend, the man that would shortly be her husband. I do not recall direct quotes, but the content was: "He played me just right. I was interested in him from the moment I saw him, but instead of pursuing me, he made me wait it out. He knew I was hot for him, so he toyed with me until I was about to burst. Had he just approached me outright, I probably would have lost interest."

I nodded my head in acceptance and placed the magazine back on the shelf; never learn too much about your heroes, for they will always disappoint you. Gone was the independent, intelligent woman I admired. In her place was someone that did the thing I always despised in a relationship: played games.

* * *

I believe in cellular memory. I believe experiences we have do not leave us, they become ingrained in our DNA in ways we don’t always understand. From time to time, our emotions remind us the events that exist as recollections, were once all too real. A particular song can raise gooseflesh across the skin’s surface; a specific geographical location causes chills down the spine. Personally, every time I attempt to write about my twenties, I grow tense. My muscles tighten, and my jaw hardens. Though long removed from everything that happened, I still grow quite cautious concerning six specific years of stupidity I lived. No one likes admitting to their failures or shortcomings, and after so many years of silence on my part I worry that if I attempt to spill my story, meticulous thought in examination will give way to an incoherent mess of emotions instead.

I shouldn’t be embarrassed by my past; logically, I understand I have nothing to be either proud or ashamed of. You live life by trial and error. Mostly error. You make as many mistakes as possible, that you may learn not to do so again later on. These mistakes most often involve romance. When you gain perspective in later years, you look back upon your biggest errors and feel like Roy Hobbes, saying, “I should have seen it coming.”

My twenties were wasted, tossed aside like a trifle.

In retrospect, the only way we actually understand anything, I now realize all too well what I was doing. Though I never publicly acknowledged it, my parent’s marriage was a disaster. I was raised in a household where my parents slept in separate rooms for most of my teenage years, and the word “love” was never uttered under any circumstance. That said, I have never believed the past determines the future. Just because someone has been integrated in a situation doesn’t mean they have to follow the same certain paradigms; statistics say children of an alcoholic are more prone to becoming the like. I grew up surrounded by infidelity and icy emotions; I became a romantic to actively counter that upbringing.

I put women on a pedestal in response to what I saw at home. I opened doors, kissed tenderly, whispered “I love you” when I meant it, caressed, cuddled, massaged, made love, asked about a woman’s day and listened to the answer, held hands in public and gave gifts randomly. The problem is, quite often I chose the wrong women to approach with my attitude. Instead of wooing women with healthy egos and self-confidence, I approached those who looked upon romance as weakness, placing myself perfectly for failure and thus perpetuating my belief all relationships were doomed to fail. My biggest mistake, and therefore most liberating and educating relationship, took place across my third decade of life.

When I was twenty-two I made my way to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. After three irritating semesters at The Berklee College of Music, I felt that instead of walking down a path that created unrest in me, I should forge a new one. Unfortunately, I didn’t yet know what trail to take and I ended up in the refuge so many unfocused wanderers do, college. My high school grades had been sub-par, but grades weren’t as important to Berkelee as a deposited check, and they admitted me into their program. Once there, I improved my GPA ever so slightly enough to transfer to the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee. (Motto: “We’re like high school, with tuition!”)

I did what many a college student does for money, I entered into the industry involving food service and began tending bar. When a restaurant on the shores of Lake Michigan opened a patio and expanded their staff, I was hired on to cater to customers wearing khaki shorts and Hawaiian shirts. A beautiful young cocktail waitress named Julie had already worked there several months by the time of my arrival. Though a trite, overused cliché, I was smitten at first sight. Julie was a petite blond; her head existed at just the right height for my chin to rest upon when we embraced. She had what a childhood nemesis of hers branded a snaggletooth, an incisor that was a little off kilter from the surrounding enamels that gave her smile an imperfection I found adorable.

I could attempt to create an embarrassing litany of other reasons why I was attracted to her, but such lists are both overused and unappealing; describing inner feelings to an outside party is both troublesome to write and tedious to read. Suffice to say, there are three ways men think of a woman at first glance. The simplest way is as a friend. We get an immediate sense there is something worth knowing, but it is not of a physical nature. The second reaction involves carnality. A stirring in our loins creates a fire in us that demands we ravage the woman in the most passionate of ways. We are unconcerned with her name or personality, there is only want. Then there is the third manner of eyesight, where with but a fleeting look a longing is created. We desire to trace the whole of the female form with our fingertips, gently caress skin, run a light thumb across an eyebrow, and brush hair back over the ear and cup the neck at the base of the skull. We imagine pulling her towards us that we may brush lips across lips and nuzzle our nose in her hair, breathing in the scent unique to her. It was with this third style of seeing I first observed Julie. From moment one, I wanted nothing more than to orbit her.

As Murphy’s Law would have it, Julie had a boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend, her first boyfriend; Julie lived with her high school sweetheart, Jim. Together they had overcome his multiple infidelities, physical abuse and sideline employment of selling (and sampling) drugs. In other words, they worked through all their problems thanks to her tolerance and acceptance, and Jim doing as he damned well pleased. So while my first instinct was that I wanted to be with Julie, the more I got to know her, the more I wanted to save her. I wanted to let her know she was worth better than she had, that she deserved more and I would show her what love could be. In reality, I probably wished to save my mother from her marriage; psychologists will have to determine that one.

Luckily, or unluckily, Julie looked at me sideways, also. Sometimes there is too much guesswork involved in getting to know someone; other times intentions are crystal clear. I could read easily the intent in Julie’s eyes. We became immediate friends, first spending time together within the safe walls of a group of co-workers, then gradually and with more and more frequency, were alone together.

I was immensely attracted to her, but couldn’t muster up the courage to brooch the subject of our mutual fascination. I both feared rejection and didn’t know how to approach the boyfriend angle. My childhood and all the negative influences I had endured instilled in me a perfect insecurity I didn’t know how to overcome. Plus, on the surface of things, our friendship seemed solid. Given my parents relationship, the appearance of “peachy keen” was all I understood. That people were supposed to communicate their feelings was outside my realm of comprehension. I was both happy enough I was around her, and passive enough to remain silently in longing. After six or so months of ignoring the issue, however, Julie was strong enough to push everything into the light of day. She told me flat out she knew I cared for her, and she demanded I admit to it.

Admit I did, and Julie grew silent and said she had a lot to think about. She did not respond with emotional confessions of her own, and I was left dangling for several weeks. There are many awkward and hilarious moments in movies when one character says “I love you” and the other responds incorrectly or not at all. In reality, such a situation leaves he who has confessed pained and confused.

Fortunately for my self-preservation, Julie eventually decided she did indeed like me, too. Sadly, her emotional interest in me was nowhere near enough for her to leave Jim. Instead, we began an odd, years-long and damaging sexual affair. We hid everything from our friends, families and co-workers. We were so good at it, that years later when everything became public knowledge, their shock was overwhelmingly genuine.

Julie was attracted to me, but didn’t know how to respond to being in a relationship while wanting another person. To deal with her confusion, she kept very strict rules when we intertwined. Like a prostitute, she wouldn’t kiss me during our liaisons; that would constitute emotional involvement and be considered “cheating.” Julie would come to my apartment, have me undress her, then lay back and make statements like, “I’m just going to pretend this isn’t happening” and allow me to have sex with her. A very romantic phrase to hear, and a great boost to my self-esteem.

For four long years we carried on in this fashion; she refused to leave Jim, I refused to give up on her. We would capture an evening together, and then I would watch her rush back to him. Knowledge the woman that just shared my bed was returning to another man created immense frustration and anguish in me, but I could never walk away from the situation entirely. I attempted to end the affair repeatedly over the course of our awkward waltz, but failed miserably each time in an embarrassing pattern of abject idiocy. Every few months the anguish of being with Julie, while not having her, would grow to the point I would break it off. I would tell Julie I couldn’t see her anymore; not as her friend, not outside of work, not at all. I even performed this action once immediately following sex, as I was going soft inside her. Before my climax, I had nothing but love for her. Immediately following it, the reality she was about to leave me hit like a ton of bricks.

No matter how often I was able to apply the brakes, however, like an alcoholic craving just another drink or an addict searching for one final fix, I would soon capitulate and call her. I kept convincing myself there was one more gesture I could make that would allow Julie see the light, or that this time I would be able to hold my emotions in check and achieve her level of indifference. Perhaps it was simple tenacity, like a dog with a Frisbee in clenched jaws, refusing to let go. Maybe it was a simple inability to accept loss. At the time it felt like something nobler.

In response to my pain and anger, I began throwing my cock into any warm hole it could find. As Julie considered her “real” relationship more important than me, I didn’t consider it cheating. I flattered whomever I could and fucked them ten ways from Friday, in their favorite positions and shot my orgasm wherever they let me, in mouths or on faces, between tits and on or in the ass. I tugged hair and screwed women while standing against a wall. But I also kissed my conquest after she spit or swallowed, and did so passionately. I honored the gift of their bodies, and cuddled afterwards and listened when they talked. I may not have loved, but I cared, and I tried to use care as an excuse to justify my actions.

My favorite partner during this time was a hostess at the restaurant, a lovely woman named Paula. Paula was an olive-skinned stunner, with curly black locks atop her head. She was a unique blend from mixed parents, but my ignorance and poor memory prevent me from remembering which part of the Asian Pacific Rim her ancestors hailed from. Paula was a good friend whose company I enjoyed, who also happened to be an extremely sexual woman. Paula and I had almost the same relationship as I did with Julie, only without the pain or confusion. Like Julie, Paula had several semi-serious boyfriends during our moments of intermingling. Oddly enough, however, whenever Paula was between relationships, she and I never became exclusive. Paula would be single a little while, eventually find a new boyfriend, all the while keeping me on the side around for extracurricular fun.

We also never had sex; Paula would only perform orally on me. I tried to enter her on a couple of occasions, but she always smiled coyly, closed her legs and opened her mouth instead. Once, we were even both entirely naked in my bed; I finally had convinced her sex would be a fun change of pace for us. I got up for a half a second to grab a condom, and by the time I turned around she had changed her mind and instead went down on me yet again. This twist was in conflict with how Julie acted; Julie would only allow me to have sex with her. While she was dating Jim, I was allowed to perform oral pleasures on her, but the favor was never returned. To Julie, oral sex was too intimate an action, and therefore the greater of two infidelity evils. To Paula, penetrative sex was too intimate, and therefore the worse manner of cheating. One trait they did share was that neither kissed me, or let me kiss them on the lips. Julie because while she was being physically unfaithful to Jim, she refused to betray him emotionally. Paula I believe liked to feel a certain amount of control over the situation.

Paula and I had a bizarre system for hooking up while at work. At the end of the night when it was time to clean up, I would grab the recyclables or garbage and head out the back door to dispose of it. Paula and I would make eye contact, and she would then leave out the front. Paula would loop around to the back, and under cover of darkness go at me on the side of the restaurant, outside of prying eyes. Sometimes she would come over for lunch when at her other job and I was between classes; sometimes I would visit her. On occasion, I would simply pick her up and we would drive around for a little while she did the deed, me dropping her off after finishing. More than once she performed her magic on me in the restaurant’s coatroom during business hours. That was always... interesting.

Maybe Paula did what she did because she liked the power she had over me, the control, knowing I enjoyed the actions of her mouth. Maybe she just enjoyed oral sex, and I was an outlet for her. I was safe, allowing her to work her magic and then return to the security of whatever relationship she was in. Either way, she was a kind and caring soul, and I always enjoyed her company regardless of whether or not we were being “naughty.” Julie knew Paula liked me, so Paula and I were very cautious and never seen alone together. In spite of our vigilance, Paula still became Julie’s internal nemesis; she once told me that if she ever found out Paula and I had fooled around, she would never speak to me again. A strange threat, I thought, considering that every time we were together she went back to Jim’s bed without so much as a single consideration as to how that made me feel.

Despite my dalliances, only Julie held my heart. Though I tried to find solace in the arms and beds of other women, I always returned to her. The worst moment for my emotional well being happened when I finally bore witness to the physical abuse Jim’s hand delivered. He was working one evening, so Julie invited me over to play. It had been several days since we had been together, and I was giddy in anticipation of the forthcoming physical interaction. When Julie answered my knock at her door, however, my excitement turned to horror, and my face showed nothing but shock. The most odd part of the moment was, it took Julie several seconds to realize why I was standing with my mouth agape before covering her purple and swollen eye; she had actually forgotten he hit her a few days prior. By the time I arrived, she was used to how she looked.

I was entirely unsure how to act; I was angry, hurt, and confused. That Julie treated the situation as if absolutely normal created immeasurable frustration in me. Seeing her so wounded made long for her all the more, and I desired to protect her and keep her safe from harm. Despite my anger and pleading, she still wouldn’t leave him. As was the basis for our relationship, as I could not tend to her emotionally, I did my best to treat her wounds physically. Defying all logical responses to seeing her abused, her touch still brought out an erection in me and we had sex in a reclining chair that night.

Everything came to an end when Jim lived up to his personality flaws and read Julie’s diary. She left it out; he picked it up and paged through it, growing angrier by the moment. Inside were all the sordid details of our liaisons, with active accounts of positions they never attempted and descriptive details of the two orifices below her waistline that I had entered, one of which he had not.

Jim exited the relationship immediately. He read the diary while Julie was at the restaurant, packed up many of his things, and left that night. Though she had forgiven him for several past infidelities, he was unwilling to forgive her but one. In a note or angry phone call, he told her he had been planning to leave for months, and everything in his actions suggested it to be true. They had been fighting more and more often; she was spending more and more time with me, leaving work, coming to my house, and returning to him sometimes as late as four or five in the morning. When she would ignore my beckons and go straight home after work, he wouldn’t even be there, he himself staying out until all hours of the night. It was a relationship in tatters. Yet a year later, in a random verbal altercation, Jim re-broke Julie’s heart by telling her he was hurt by her betrayal because he had been preparing to propose to her. Though nothing in that statement rings true, she believed it above all else, and became re-morose over her loss. I thought it a cheap shot, taken from a point of fanciful memory of their history, not the reality of what I saw.

One thing always bothered me about the spark that sent Jim running was Julie having left her diary out. That Jim would read it is merely another chink in his already pockmarked armor. Julie said she trusted him and claimed shock by his action, but for her to write out all the sordid details of our exchanges and then place it in public gives me pause. Though she said she loved him, and no doubt she did, sometimes people know they have to exit a damaging situation. By having an affair with me, journaling the details and not concealing the evidence would be a very passive-aggressive way of quitting the relationship without having to take responsibility for her actions. A pathetic sort of win-win, if you will.

With the thought she had consciously left the diary out for him to read, I believed it would be our time to shine. I was wrong. We continued on as we always had, physically engaged in private, emotionally entangled overall; Julie didn’t want to be seen by our friends as someone that jumped from one relationship to the next. Plus, no matter how much I made myself available for her, Julie was convinced Jim would return. After all, they were “perfect for one another.”

How we finally ended up together involved games and manipulation on my part. Though I’m not proud of it, I was willing to do whatever it took to finally hold Julie’s hand with all the world watching. While I had always been quite private regarding any female friends I might have bedded while waiting for Julie, I felt it was time to take one pursuit public. There was a waitress I believed I could bed, and I told Julie that if she wasn’t willing to be with me, then I was going to chase this new doe. The waitress was just out of a relationship and only required casual fun, so I made myself available, and we spent an evening together.

Gossip runs rampant in any restaurant, and within a week the waitress hung out with Julie and Paula. Paula told me about the powwow first, and it was surreal, like something out of a soap opera. Here were three women I had been with in one manner or another sitting in conversation, each thinking they were the only person to taste me. Eventually, the waitress got around to describing me, and our night together. Paula didn’t mind, and in fact laughed it off inside her mind while remaining cool, calm and collected on the outside. When Julie described the gathering, however, she said hearing of me with another woman made her physically ill. It was the straw that snapped the camel’s spine, just as I had hoped. Though for years I had had to endure her return to Jim’s bed, my straying ways hurt her self-esteem and she said it was time for us to be both exclusive, and visibly so. I was overjoyed, because I was ignorant. I didn’t realize the difference between her ego wanting to remain un-bruised and her heart making an active decision to be with me. In the end, I see that she never did actually choose my side; she just didn’t want to lose.

Julie, though always at odds with Paula, moved in with her, and found great power in having sex with me in Paula’s bed. Later, when Paula moved out, I suggested we have sex in the new roommate’s bed. We did, but Julie didn’t like it. There were no emotions involved, no empowerment, and thus we remained away from then on.

Though we were now dating, I was not allowed to meet her family. They despised me, so our union was kept secret from them. That I didn't meet them in our initial years makes sense; we were carrying on illicitly, so to have me in the same room with blood relations was too confusing. After their relationship ended, Jim, the ten-year favorite and heir apparent to the son-in-law throne, ran immediately to her parents and cried "betrayal!" He told all who would listen how her affair ruined everything, neglecting all the while to mention his own straying ways or pugilistic poundings. Julie never edited this tale; so eager was she to wear her scarlet letter and allow Jim his sordid affairs and swinging fist, that I was deemed the unwelcome outcast. That I never forced her to tell her family the truth was a sign of my own weak self-esteem.

(Only in one moment of honesty did she tell her brother Kerry she was seeing me. In ways I will always be grateful for, instead of judging, berating or condemning her, Kerry thoughtfully told Julie she had to follow her heart. If I was good to her, then that was all that mattered. I was never able to meet, or thank, Kerry for that kindness.)

Despite all my complaints, I still enjoyed our time together. As we had been best friends while she was with Jim, when we became public lovers all of our friends said it was a union that made nothing but sense. The easiest way to explain our relationship is to say that we just gelled well together. There were no fights; there was no drama. I was now completely loyal to Julie, so much so she actually inspired probably my greatest prank to date.

The restaurant Julie and I worked at was an oddity in Milwaukee; it was a business with a great location, but Roxanne reputation. True money ate elsewhere, while white trash making their one special trip a year would pop in and believe they were dining like a Rockefeller. During my entire tenure I poured one type of red wine; customers would enter and order a merlot, cabernet, "your driest red wine," "your top shelf red wine," and I would reach for the same bottle every time. In four years, I never had a glass returned or received a single complaint. I don't know that I went in with a lack of respect for the public, but working there surely challenged the idea we’re all good at our core. I’ve long since thought that everyone in America should spend a year in the service industry; civility and politeness would skyrocket if people got the flavor of humility on their own taste buds occasionally.

The eatery was corporately owned, and it had, I forget specifics, between thirty and fifty restaurants nationwide. The Milwaukee location is gone now; mismanagement from both above and at the local level saw to that. One man who helped drive things into the ground was a new general manager, someone sent in to "turn things around." He entered with big ideas and bigger attitude. He also arrived with a wife, a woman with a taste for alcohol, as chance would happen.

Within his first week of employment, the wife showed up at the restaurant pie-eyed and stumbling. Though obviously intoxicated beyond the point of service, she sat in the lounge and demand drinks from the cocktail waitress on duty, Julie. It was their first meeting, and Julie questioned whether or not she should serve someone so smashed.

(That was six, count ‘em, six “s’s” in a row. Boo-yah)

It was bad move by Julie. The wife threw a fit, her GM hubby got involved, and Julie was fired.

Just like that.

I was both furious, and immediately inspired.

I quickly made my way to the office and obtained several items: a box of corporate stationary. A box of corporate envelopes. A list of every single restaurant owned by the company. Most importantly, the corporate home office location.

My scavenger hunt complete, I drafted a letter, the lyrics of which I do not remember but overall was a little ditty sung in the key of revenge: "Due to recent events at our Wisconsin location, spouses of general managers are not allowed to drink on company property, and are furthermore not to be on company property while inebriated for any reason." No names were mentioned, but the gist did exist; something happened in the city of breweries involving the new GM and his wife.

I had a friend who lived in the same California city as the corporate office, so I made up my thirty (to fifty) letters, sent a package to mi amigo, and she plopped them into a mailbox. Within days, every restaurant in the chain started receiving said memo, on corporate letterhead, in a corporate envelope, from the corporate zip code.

That it was a fake was no doubt determined rather quickly. But for the few hours or days between reception and double-checking, it had to have been believed true. Regardless of the eventual reality coming to light, everyone in upper management all across the country knew the wife in Wisconsin was a boozehound who needed to have tracks covered by her husband.

I quit a few days after the letter was mailed.

I believe the GM was fired within the year.

Julie took her newfound unemployment as an opportunity to go back to school. She enrolled for classes, then decided to study abroad for a part of one semester. For several weeks, she traveled through France and Italy, drawing, sculpting, and unfortunately for me, meeting men with exotic accents.

When she returned from the trip, Julie was different. She was on edge constantly, easily agitated. She was less affectionate and somewhat distant; many of my physical advances were met with a brush off rather than mutual embrace. Had I been intelligent, I would have understood the signs of guilt and confusion for what they were, but it wasn’t even on my radar. Even when she started communicating with a Frenchman she said was “just a friend,” even when she told me she sent him money to help pay his phone bill because their cross-continental conversations were so expensive, at no point did I want to even begin to open my eyes to the truth: she had been unfaithful.

Julie’s behavior changed so much that when Milwaukee hosted its annual Harley festival, she acted a wild child. She began drinking more and then began exposing her breasts to strangers as payment to sit on the back of their bikes. I was working when she told me of her girls-gone-wild ways; her voice was aglow and I could picture her smiling as she spoke. I grew silent. I remember sitting with the phone to my ear for several long seconds, wondering how to respond. The words that came out of my mouth surprised even me.

“Are you trying to get me to break up with you?” I asked quietly.

I didn’t know where the question came from, but it was all that made sense. She was drinking more, constantly lamenting her return to the states, and now flashing her breasts in public. Meanwhile, every little thing I did was far from magic; in fact, Julie lashed out at me in anger with surprising frequency, something she had never done before.

“I don’t know,” Julie answered.

Over the course of the next ten minutes, she explained to me that she jumped into our relationship too quickly, that she needed to be alone to get her head together, and that she wasn’t going to date anyone for the next two years.

“I need to be completely independent,” she said.

All I could muster up in response was, “I love you.”

I felt those words should be enough, that like in many a Hollywood movie, love would emerge victorious over all evil. With but the uttering of the phrase, she was supposed to see the error of her ways and change her mind.

She demurred to do so.

And like that, we went back to square one. When you watch a horror movie, you know where the killer is; you scream, “Don’t go in that room,” but the characters on the screen do not listen. Much like one of those doomed actors, I was trapped by my emotions and allowed myself to reside in the background of Julie’s life once again. We began our old pattern of not dating openly, while still having sex on the sidelines. I convinced myself this was just another stage to the game, and thought all would eventually be well again; hell, we had acted out the majority of our relationship in this fashion. It was par for the course, the two of us, intractably circling around one another, unable to escape.

I lavished whatever gifts upon her I could that final summer. A computer, a TV, a radio, and when fall reared its colorful head and she needed it, a loan for her college tuition.

At the same time, unknown to me, she carried on her friendship with the Frenchman. After hearing she was now single, he decided that what they had wasn’t enough and gave Julie an ultimatum: either date him, or never speak to him again. Julie came to a conclusion quickly; when she told me of it she was giddy with excitement. Julie decided to date him.

I have no words to explain my emotions at that moment. Not just because of what I was being told, but the manner in which the information was presented to me remains insensitively shocking to this day. Not only was she animated and happy, she was surprised by my shocked reaction. I wasn’t happy for her, I was actively upset. Heartbroken, as the sensation is known.

Julie grew angry with me; wasn’t I her friend? Wasn’t I overjoyed she found someone? I should be high-fiving her and hugging her in all our platonic glory! I reminded her that she was supposed to be single for two years, and she looked at me as if I was crazy. Like a window-licker, I had assumed we would spend those two years dancing our silly dance of together/apart, and then end up entwined again.

I remember very well what happened after that, and if I thought I grew tense when first attempting to write out this tale, the hesitancy in me now is murderous. Every fiber for my being calls for me to lie, to make up a fanciful ending where I stoically accepted my fate and walked away like a man, but that’s not what happened. Instead, I chose the embarrassing and pathetic path of holding on. Describing what took place will make no sense to someone who has never had such an experience, but I will do my best.

The next day, I was taking a shower. I wasn’t so much washing myself off as standing under flowing water, dazed by the previous day’s information and wondering if it was all a sick dream I would soon wake up from. Without warning, a power washed over me. My entire body tingled, and a force from outside me spoke inside my head, saying, “Tell her, now. Tell her everything, and win her over.” I did not so much walk, but something influenced my body for me, moving me from the shower to the dining room to retrieve my phone. Naked, dripping wet and energized by an unfocused electricity running riot through my body, I called Julie at work and vomited up my emotions. I told her how I felt, how I had always felt, how I wanted to meet her family and charm the resentment they felt for me out of them, to show them how much I cared about her and could use that to win them over... Most likely, I babbled unintelligibly for several minutes before Julie got a word in edgewise.

“I have to go,” she whispered, her voice a mix of cautious and indifferent. “We can talk about this later. Pick me up after my shift.”

I was slightly humbled, but not defeated. I immediately dressed my best, went out and gathered up a dozen roses, and navigated my way to her workplace. Julie came out, gave the roses a resigned look, and we drove to her house in near silence.

At her house, we went into her room and she told me to have a seat, she would be right back. She turned to leave, then paused. Julie turned back, reached down and scooped up a pile of hand-written letters sitting on her coffee table, and bundled them up.

“I don’t want you reading these,” she explained.

I was confused, and felt defensive. While I understood Jim had betrayed her trust, I never had, and never would.

Julie asked her roommate for some privacy; was there somewhere she could go for a little while, so we could sit in the living room? Julie’s bedroom was a place for intimacy and privacy; to me, it was a room we made love in. To Julie, it was an area I was no longer welcome. Little did I realize this at the time.

We retreated into the living room, where she told me it was over. We could be friends again in a few months, if I wanted to be, but we would no longer be lovers. She had moved on.

I kneeled in front of her, and begged. I put forth the same demand as the Frenchman, saying that was unacceptable; I couldn’t be just her friend, I wanted us together. Julie shrugged, at a loss for words.

I laid my head in her lap and cried. Not movie tears, where everything is touching and people look beautiful as a single wistful tear rolls down one cheek, but sloppy, mucus-inducing, body wrenching sobs.

Julie stoically stroked my hair, and when I was finished, showed me to the door. She told me to call her again when I was ready to talk; I told her, not in anger but anguish, that that moment would never come. I didn’t have it in me to be friends with her. She reiterated to call her when ready.

And that was that.

Five days later, I turned twenty-nine.

Happy birthday to me.

* * *

For the first two post-Julie weeks, I didn’t sleep or eat. I lost thirty-five pounds and on four occasions cried so hard that I threw up stomach acid. Over the course of the next few months, through our mutual friends, I discovered that not only had the Frenchman come to visit, he had done so over Christmas. He got to both meet and spend the holiday with her family, people I had never been allowed to meet or interact with. They began talking marriage almost immediately; Julie wanted to move to France.

My first step towards healing, then, was to carve myself out of the lives of our Venn diagram friends. Given I had lost friends through geographical displacement my whole life, I departed the clique quite casually. To this day, I do not regret or feel even the slightest bit of bad about it. I told everyone it wasn’t enough to ask them not to talk about Julie, seeing them reminded me of her. I have to admit, part of me was confused by the continued loyalty they threw her way. Given her infidelity and theft—repayment of the tuition loan was something that happened in several small installments, then stopped abruptly, leaving my bank account slighted—it seemed to me they shouldn’t want to be around a person like that. But, we all live our own lives, and rarely do we decide our friends based on their actions towards others, we see in them how they treat us. Since I didn’t want to make demands or place anyone in “the middle” of anything, I opted out. I couldn’t live my life with the ghost of Julie around every corner, her image in every friend we shared, ready to draw memories out of me and set back the healing process every time I inched forward.

I also started seeing a therapist, Roberta, who was beyond helpful and informative. She rightly realized that my torment over the loss of Julie was rooted in something much deeper, and we worked to find it the best we could. For the first time in my life, she got me talking to my family. Like most people, when I entered my teen years, I did so surly. I took resenting my family to unheard of levels and by the time I got into my twenties, ignoring my mother, father, and sister felt as natural to me as breathing. When I was twenty-five, my parents mixed it up in an enormous release of the problems they had been neglecting for years. It was Christmas, which was an especially nice touch, and my mother was in the kitchen, screaming and smashing dishes. My father was either throwing her clothes out on to the lawn, or around the house, details are sketchy. I was in my room, wondering why the hell I had even bothered coming home to visit, when one of them finally shouted out the “D” word. My mother was already living in Madison part-time—she had gotten a job there and came home on random weekends—and with both kids out of the house, there was no need to put on appearances anymore. Freedom was a William Wallace reality my mom felt was within reach, and after serving a quarter-century sentence of unhappy, she went for it. Whether or not either of them looked to me for approval or emotional support during that time I do not know; I was as neglectful a son as I could be when they might have needed me. So as you are trained, so as you become. But, with the prodding of Roberta, I finally talked to my parents. I discussed our always moving, my always losing friends, the icy chill surrounding their marriage, their infidelities, anything and everything I could think of.

During one conversation, my mother mentioned something in passing, a sentence almost an afterthought to whatever her focus had been. She said that other than the one instance when I was six, my “abduction,” she could not recall a single time where anything other than extreme physical pain caused me to cry. That moment aside, no amount of emotional duress seemed to create any stirring in me; in moments of stress or emotional hurt, I was even keeled to almost the point of stoicism. To Roberta, this gift of information was a godsend. It explained much about my current state of mind, and fueled her approach in helping me. It meant everything I was going through wasn’t entirely about Julie; she just happened to be the catalyst for a release of twenty-nine years of pent up emotions. Julie represented every friend I had ever lost, every bedroom I had to abandon.

With this development, I discovered that losing Julie was simply my way of proving exactly what everyone feels about themselves at some point in time: no one will ever love me. It wasn’t enough for me to believe such silliness, I had to verify it and in Julie found a woman willing to help me down the path to certainty. Roberta then helped explain situations I was too wrapped up in to understand clearly, such as why Julie didn’t remain with me a while after Jim left her. At the time, I saw his departure as my opening; now it’s all too obvious how myopic that vision was. Julie turned to me not out of want, but desperation. I was her rebound; the fact we had been together for years before the opportunity to use me didn’t matter a whit. The hardest thing for me to accept when Julie eventually left was: she never chose me, she fell on me. I was more than willing to brace her descent, and she was all too happy to have a warm body to cushion the collapse. Once she dusted herself off and was able to stand upright again, she walked off; that she did it by shifting into the arms of another while we were together was a nice twist in karma's favor. I may have thought I was justified in being the other man while she was with Jim, but in the cosmic scheme of things cheating, is cheating. I was a part of a betrayal regardless of circumstance, and it came back to haunt me when Julie was ready to escape our relationship. To her, it was only natural to find someone new before releasing someone old; she never had to be alone, she never had to feel unloved.

About eight months after our final night together, while driving down Prospect Avenue on Milwaukee’s East Side, I passed Julie. She was walking along the sidewalk, holding hands with a man I did not recognize. Though I had been making considerable progress with Roberta, not only the sight of Julie, but the sight of her with yet another lover, brought home all the pain I had been working so hard to escape. On an emotional bender, I called Julie and asked her if she would attend a therapy session with me, that we might talk in a neutral environment. She was agreeable, so I picked her up before my next meeting and had an eye-opening experience. Julie spent the entire hour alternately angry—upset with me for still being hung up on her—and being silently defensive. She was so negative, the following week Roberta asked me as gently as she could, “What did you ever see in her?”

I asked Julie only one question the entire hour; why did she leave? Her two-word reply and the only explanation I’ve ever received was, “We’re incompatible.” She expanded nothing beyond that, and on the ride home admitted to attending the session for two reasons; to hear what lies I was telling my therapist, and to tell her side of the story. Considering she said precious little when given the opportunity, to this day I have yet to understand why she joined me that day. I did discover, however, that the Frenchman had broken up with her after only several months; apparently a cross-continental relationship wasn’t going to work for him. Instead of re-considering her once-wonderful plan of being alone and independent for two years, she leapt right into the arms of yet one more man. I silently hoped he was wiser than I, and that he knew what he was getting into.

This has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but it is a niggling little memory that always fires across my synapses when my mind wanders to Julie. On January 26th, 1997, the New England Patriots met the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl thirty-one. U2 had just announced a world tour in advance of their album “Pop,” and when halftime came around, I made mention that they would have made for a fantastic mid-game show. Julie was offended. Though neither xenophobic nor a right-wing conservative in any way, shape or form, Julie stated the idea of an Irish band playing at the Super Bowl was absurd.

“The Super Bowl is an American ritual,” she stated. “It needs to be a celebration of American music and traditions.”

We actually got in a mini-argument over the idea, which I found entirely confusing for two reasons: one, Julie wasn’t into football, and two, Julie really liked U2; we actually attended their PopMart concert at Camp Randal several months later. I couldn’t understand why allowing the biggest band in the world to play at the biggest sporting event in America could be a bad thing. In fact, I thought it made nothing but sense. Julie adamantly argued otherwise, and we left the situation at a stalemate.

Turns out, I was right. In 2002, U2 was asked to play the Super Bowl halftime show, and not only was it the most watched halftime ever—ratings normally dip during the game break—in 2009 Sports Illustrated rated it the best halftime show of all time. So maybe Julie and I actually were incompatible; I was ahead of the curve, and she behind it.

Either way, my final manner of healing back then was comedy; the stage was my only escape for about two years. “Fifteen minutes minus pain,” is what I called it. Wherever or whenever I could take to the stage and work on the craft that had just captured my attention, I did. The stage was a sort of drug back then; the high would allow my mind momentary respite from the damaging thoughts racing around at near NASCAR speeds, and then they would all come crashing together full force the instant I waved by goodbye to the audience.

My largest short-term problem was coming to grips with the fact the one person I used to talk to daily was the one person I was no longer allowed to call, period. I once read stories of war veterans, men who had lost limbs and awoke at night to phantom pains, scratching at limbs long since dust. It made me wonder how long I would itch for an empty bed and missing person. My long-term challenge was trying to understand the force I felt while showering the day after being dumped. Up to that point, I had not sensed much in the way of religion, but when the energy overtook control of my body and mind, I took note. Something had done that, some other power, and I threw all my faith into the idea that all would be well with Julie because of it. When all did not work out, not only was I destroyed by the breakup, I felt betrayed by God. I held a bitterness in my heart that something so commanding and encouraging could have been so wrong and betrayed me so easily.

What I came to understand is the “God Moment” was both honest, and a necessary part to healing. When Julie and I parted ways, the Internet was still in its infancy. As it grew into an untamed beast in the new millennium, people discovered they could trace their lives all the way back to childhood friendships. They also found they were able to re-discover old lovers. This can be tricky, as anytime the heart is introduced to nostalgia, the “What If” game might be played. “What if we had stayed together?” “What if we still have that spark we once did?” The questions are asked by single people, those within stagnant relationships and even occurs among the happily married; they look at profiles of former flames and see if an attraction still exists. In 2009, with Facebook at its zenith of popularity and social networking on line exceedingly popular, the term “retromance” was coined to describe this phenomena.

I have been fortunate enough to never have any curiosity for this game; there is no need for it. I have no lingering loyalties to Julie, and I believe the “God Moment” is to thank for that. The phone call, our evening conversation and my sobbing into her lap were a purging; I had emotions inside me that needed to be released from my system. With them gone, I have never had to look back and wonder, “What if?”

(I have, once or twice, Googled Paula, but was never able to find her. Such is life.)

When I told Julie I would never be able to be her friend again, I meant it. Back then I was broken hearted; today, I just don’t believe I would have anything to say to her. The pain is gone, but the memory of her indifference and anger remains; to this day, the fact she was actually upset for loving her remains somewhat offensive to me. I also don’t blame Julie for anything, as I may have once; I understand all too well the decision to pursue her was always mine. I made myself available, and though she never chose to be with me, she also didn’t want me to be with anyone else while she was alone. I fully believe that she did like me for a while, but she loved Jim, and that made all the difference.

Sometimes I wonder if she ever learned what it’s like to be used and tossed aside, but maybe it wasn’t her role in life to feel pain. Maybe she was born blessed with the ability to weave in and out of the lives of others, allowing them to learn about themselves. I don’t write that to attack Julie, or to say, “Look how mean she was to me.” The fact of the matter is, someone like Julie is all I was ready for at that stage of my life and immaturity. I fully believed I was second best and deserved to wait for her, which proved futile.

Part of the problem in any failed relationship is that willingness to wait. By giving yourself up to waiting, you are giving up power. Power above all else is one thing that should be shared equally between any two people interested in eyeing the horizon together. If you are ever the stand-by friend, the best friend that does and says all the right things to the person you want, the one you’ve seen win in so many a Hollywood movie, you’re wasting your time. Your heart can convince you otherwise, but you're wrong. You’ll always be wrong, as you've already lost by treating yourself as second best.

A weak foundation holds no house. If a relationship begins, even if only for a mere moment a merger is sparked by power and games, then no matter how much truth you pour into the union you will always be sailing towards disaster.

Just ask Liz Phair.

This is why I Hate You

2010-02-09T07:39:00.000-08:00

A nifty little literary trick is to present a list to a reader. They read it, come to a conclusion about its origins, and then the sender reveals the truth. It’s oh so clever!

That said, here’s a list:

Do not leave town at any time without permission.

Do not keep company with men.

Be home between the hours of 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.

Do not loiter downtown.

Do not smoke.

Do not be seen with any man except your father or brother.

Do not dress in bright colors.

Do not dye your hair.

Do not wear any dress more than two inches above the ankle.

Right about now, you should be shaking your head and thinking, “fucking Muslims, always repressing their women.” Well, here’s the “OMG!” twist; I edited the sentences a little. Here’s the full list, un-touched up:

Do not get married.

Do not leave town at any time without permission of the school board.

Do not keep company with men.

Be home between the hours of 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.

Do not loiter downtown in ice cream stores.

Do not smoke.

Do not get into a carriage with any man except your father or brother.

Do not dress in bright colors.

Do not dye your hair.

Do not wear any dress more than two inches above the ankle.

I pulled this list from a history book; it was meant to keep female schoolteachers in line in Massachusetts in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

Fortunately for women, a strong, independent political party fought for and won them many rights, including, in 1920, the right to vote. This same political party made many changes back then. They may have never achieved the office of president, but they were able to do little things, like end child labor—that six-year-olds may attend school and not work in sweatshops—and create Workman’s Compensation—that people injured through unsafe conditions and no fault of their own be taken care of, not fired.

Every election cycle there is a constant grumbling that we need a 3rd political party in America. I agree. In 2008, I was completely unimpressed with both major candidates; I strongly considered not voting at all, and then looked into writing in a candidate of my choice. Unfortunately, the McCain/Palin campaign was so overwhelmingly negative, visionless, contradictory and off-putting, I begrudgingly checked the box marked “Democrat.” Better to have someone who seemed to have a clue what he was doing, I supposed.

Now that Obama is in office, there are many who cry “Socialist!”

Yeah, well guess what? Here’s another bait and switch for you: it was the Socialist Party that fought for and won the rights mentioned two paragraphs back.

So here’s the deal, if you think Obama is a socialist, with goals and ideals you don’t believe in, good for you.

If you’re a woman, stop voting, right now. You don’t deserve the right.

If you’re a parent, yank your kids out of school and put them to work immediately. If they’re not working, they’re not contributing to the betterment of America, and you love America, right?

If you’re ever injured at work, man up and deal with it, or quit, that you not be a burden on the poor, poor corporation who was so kind as to hire you.

Tell the government to get off the backs of big business, that we may continue to kill our pets with Chinese Dog Food, and poison our kids with lead-tainted toys, because trade restrictions are bad. And for fun, lets go back to the conditions of Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle.” That goddamned socialist author changed things for the worse; I say more animal feces and chopped off fingers in our meat!

Otherwise, do me a favor and shut the fuck up. Either you’re ignorant, which I have no problem with; ignorance is cured through education, but you should probably stay silent while learning. Or, worse, you’re stupid, which means you think you know what you’re talking about and toss out quotes by Thomas Jefferson, because you think they apply to the health care debate (they don’t), when in reality you’re just a dumb fucking meat-puppet that watches too much Fox News and thinks Sarah Palin is smart.

And that’s just fucking scary.

(Oh, and before you start pulling out lunatic-fringe Socialist propaganda and posting it here, fuck off. I don’t subscribe to every single thought under any umbrella, I’m just saying that if you ever use the phrase “Commie Care” to describe Obama’s Health Care plan, you’re not worth listening to, because you’re not debating on a rational level; this post is just me reducing myself to your level, simply to point out that you’ll still be shorter than anyone else in this debate, because you’re standing on bumper-sticker ideology, not books filled with facts)

A Gentle Rain in the Dominican Republic

2010-01-29T12:26:00.000-08:00

A Gentle Rain in the Dominican Republic

While driving through the impoverished countryside of the Dominican Republic, a thought raced through my mind: “You cannot breed your way out of abject poverty.”

The moment at which this synapse fired across my cerebral cortex occurred at a moment when, glancing out the window, I spied several naked children, aged between three and ten, being scrubbed down by their mother outside their tin shack.

I say “shack” specifically; front porch would be giving the dwelling too much credit. What I saw was poverty. Not American-poor-yet-somehow-still-fat poor, this was 3rd world subsisting-on-less-than-a-dollar-a-day poor. If a belly looked a little large, it was distended, not full of food.

For roughly ten years, I was a member of a foreign-child “adoption” program. For less than a cup of coffee a day, I sponsored the well being of children in the most-needy parts of the planet; three children “graduated” from the program while under my watch. When I say “graduated,” I actually mean “turned sixteen and became ineligible for aid under the program’s guidelines.” “Graduated” was the word the agency used.

I did not adopt a fourth child because, unfortunately, my ego got involved in the decision making process. When given the choices of currently needy children, I opted out.

Why? Because I became judgmental; all three children I sponsored and every choice I had for the fourth had one important similarity, their CV.

“Carlos is the 3rd of seven children...”

“Ny Thang has two older brothers and two younger siblings...”

“Ndugu lives with his mother, father and seven brothers and sisters under the roof of one small hut...”

And I lost it.

As embarrassing as it is to admit to, my compassion wandered off and frustration replaced it. Why the fuck were these people having so many goddamn kids? If they couldn’t afford one, why were they shitting out five, six or seven?

The answer finally hit me in the Dominican Republic: Pornography.

The 3rd world hasn’t been exposed to enough quality American porn. Maybe they’ve seen Asian anime, or German fetish videos, but the 3rd world is generally still taking to heart the idea sex is only for procreation, and you finish while still inside the woman. What the 3rd world needs to learn is: You don’t always have to blow your load that way; there are many interesting and fun places outside the vaginal walls to leave your little swimmers.

Naturally, you can’t teach this sort of thing in schools, because (1) they don’t have any, and (2) nothing you learn in school you listen to anyway, because it’s “not cool.”

Porn, however, IS cool, and porn teaches you in subtle ways, because you want to emulate without even realizing it. The natives could learn about exciting things, such as “pearl necklaces”—something they couldn’t afford in the tangible sense—and anal sex; hey, no babies get made that way!

I don’t know exactly how to implement this plan, but I’m going to file for a stimulus grant from the government and get the ball rolling.

(Bet you didn’t see that twist coming when you started reading. Eat a bag of dicks, M. Night)

Sometimes I Love Customers

2009-12-30T17:30:00.001-08:00

As a comedian, I get approached after shows.

Sometimes I receive a simple shake of the hand, possibly a clap on the back and a “good job.” I’ve been offered both room keys and offers of sex from men and women, and have on an occasion (or more) taken the woman up on it. And, and more often than not, I get offered jokes.

“You can use this one” is the bane-phrase of almost every comedian’s existence. Usually, the joke is something racist, hack, or taken from the Internet. What it rarely is, is something original or interesting. Last night, however, I had the pleasure of meeting two wholly original, honest and entertaining people.

I have a joke, the gist of which I will not go into, but which has the closing tag, “...and don’t forget to wash your hands.” The phrase allows me to get one final little chuckle from the audience as I then segue into my next bit. Last night, however, after I uttered it, two people erupted in enormous table-pounding applause and gut busting, choking laughter.

I was taken back, and said, “That is too much laughter for such an innocent phrase; there’s a story behind that outburst.”

(I often speak using semi-colons)

They waved me off, saying, “Inside joke,” and I moved on and forgot all about it. Fortunately, they remembered all too well and after the show decided to share with me their story.

A few weeks ago, the husband was making burritos, and he enjoys the spicy variety. Habanero peppers, the hottest of the hot chili peppers, were the call of the day. His wife reminded him repeatedly, “Don’t forget to wash your hands; those things burn skin.”

(She speaks using semi-colons, too)

She said she must have told him a half-dozen times to keep his hands clean, and every time he said he indeed was soaping it up.

Later that night, they were feeling frisky, and decided to play with one another’s naughty parts. To get her juices flowing, that he may enter unimpeded, he offered up a little manual stimulation. His fingers went a-wandering, turning their little circles and stimulating the blood flow necessary to excitement.

Naturally, moments like that create a warming sensation in the nether regions, but that night everything felt a little too warm...

...and it was continually getting warmer.

So much so, to the point it was actually hot down below, like the fires of hell.

So much so, to the point she said she had to up, jump and rush into the bathroom, yelping in pain as she “drenched a washcloth in cold water and shoved it up my cooch.”

Her husband, you see, works with his hands for a living, making them hard and calloused, and therefore immune to the effects of the Habanero pepper. So while he didn’t feel its burn, she definitely felt it in the transfer.

When I said, “...and don’t forget to wash your hands...”

Yup.

Oddly enough, they didn’t say, “You can use that for your show” after telling me their tale of overheated passion.

A Song Sung in the Key of Abortion

2009-10-22T12:33:00.000-07:00

I drive. A lot. Most likely, more than you do. I drive all over the country, from East to West, and North to South. I witness cultural shifts—unlike their Northern counterparts, Southern Dairy Queens have no chocolate ice cream, and therefore no twist cones—and hypocrisies aplenty; there are more porn shops along the Georgian interstates of the Bible belt than just about anywhere else in America.

One commonality across all the country is the ever-lovely, semi-ubiquitous anti-abortion billboard. No matter what part of America you’re in, you find them in the same type of setting: rural, lightly populated areas. Whether they are well-designed, expensive advertisements or hand-made scribbles placed in a front yard, farmland trumps the urban environment when it comes to preaching a love of life.

Abortion, you see, is like real estate; it’s all about location, location, location. Like with racism, when advertising for converts, you have to target a group of people afraid of reality and who don’t interact with the so-called offending others they judge. You could never put an anti-choice billboard on a freeway in Chicago or Dallas; every rush hour you’d lose the very people you’re trying to entice. Reverse psychology would accidently trump the billboard’s intended purpose. An angry driver sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for 45 minutes twice a day would read, “I’m a child, not a choice” and begin wishing more people would make the choice to eliminate future auto owners. If anything, pro-choice billboards would be insanely more effective in major cities; “Abortion: if the parents of the people in the car next to you had-had one, you’d be home by now!” If that’s too long, you could hire an advertising firm to punch up your case with little slogans or a catchphrase: “Abortion: the other white meat!” “Abortion: It’s what’s for dinner!” Something the trendsetters could get behind and chant when marching on Washington.

Targeting a focused demographic is something the anti-choice/pro-anger folks do exceedingly well. If I’ve seen one, I’ve seen a million billboards containing the picture of a pretty and perky little blonde girl, smiling next to the phrase, “Thanks for not killing me, mommy!” It’s great advertising, but like all advertising, is unrealistic. Just like a beer commercial promises you hot, bikini-clad women fawning over you should you drink their product, the cute little white girl is simply advertisers understanding their demographic: fearful white people. This is a group that is beyond easy to manipulate, which is why advertisers love them. Every election cycle, politically savvy campaigners ignore platforms and push fear. Even if their candidate loses, it still generates results. Remember, 44,000,000 duped souls voted “Old man and Idiot” in 2008. Knowing this, Pro-Choice campaigns should move into the farmland and counter the little white girl with billboards of their own: billboards of a premature, inner-city, under-weight African-American crack baby next to the slogan: “Thanks for having me, mommy! I can’t wait until I’m old enough to be on welfare!” Combat the white girl abortion fantasy with the fear the same folks have of black people. It’d be great.

The problem with the Pro-Choice movement is that it’s too passive. It appeals to people’s reason, logic and sense of decency. Which means it doesn’t have much of a chance when stacked up against those who shout angrily and act irrationally.

Such is life.

W.W.S.S?

2009-09-28T20:55:00.001-07:00

I sat down tonight with the express intent to send a few emails to a few friends I fear I don't keep in touch with often enough. I didn't have much of anything to update, I just wanted to reach out a little, just give a "hello" and let them know they were still on my mind, yet when I sat down to type, nothing came out. Not because of the naught I had to say, but because I didn't know how to give updates of the little life events I used to be able to talk about.

I used to write letters. Long letters. Hand-written tales of the moments of my day-to-day existence I wished to share with friends. As email became popular and prevalent, I simply transferred my scribbles into electronic mailings, and kept up decent correspondence with friends across the country. But more and more often, I find myself stuck when it comes to coming up with something to say when sitting down to write, and though I place no blame on anyone or anything, I worry that the advent of easier ways to keep people in touch with one another has done the exact opposite of its intended purpose.

MySpace comments came first, where you could leave little notes of worth on a person's profile. This was followed by Facebook, which exploded the idea, only in a less interesting or personal way. So, why write someone a letter or even an email, when you can simply stop by their on-line social-networking profile and drop a sentence or two of air? The creator of Twitter apparently thought comment boxes, though finite in character amount, gave people too much leeway. He specifically sat down to offer up an extremely limited way of expressing thought.

Texting is another example of the reduction of communication. Like my loss of writing ability, I often look at my ringing phone with suspicious rather than anticipating eyes. When I was in high school, I could spend all day with my friends, then go home and spend half the night on the phone with them bullshitting about nothing. We would talk for hours about music, teachers we liked or hated, sports or whatever else popped into our little minds. The thing is, we already knew one another's thoughts on all subjects, but that didn't prevent us from hashing and re-hashing the same shit over and over. Now I rarely talk on the phone, to friends or otherwise; I offer up texts, little nudges that are designed for nothing other than self-amusement.

Now that I'm mere months away from middle age, I understand with better clarity the phrase "back in my day..." From my vantage point, television has changed for the worse. I'm not talking quality, which can always be argued by supporters and detractors, presentation is what's on my mind. When "Pop Up Video" premiered, it was a novel way to place little factoids into music videos. As videos can be understood with interruptions, the notes actually added to the overall experience. Today, "Twitter TV" takes place on serial shows. While the drama or comedy is occurring on screen, studio peons pretending to be the actors of the show "tweet" stupid shit onto the screen over the scenes. It's distracting, but almost a necessity for kids who have no ability to remain focused for more than a few seconds. It's why a hyper-edited Michael Bay movie will earn more money than an intelligent Michael Mann character piece.

With the destruction of the ability to concentrate, comes the inability to express thoughts. I see it personally, as said, in my own failures when sitting down to write. So I wonder what will happen when a generation of distracted idiots attempt artistry, and fear I'm already seeing the results. I'm generation X. Those that came before me gave the world The Beatles. My generation offered up U2 and Nirvana. Generation Y gave us Britney and The Backstreet Boys, which was bad enough, but now we're being inundated with whatever the fuck a Lady Ga Ga is. Sadly, I believe that the shrinking attention span is a pervasive infection that doesn't limit itself to one area.

As entertainment standards are lowered, the bar is dropped across the board. The person who says, "I don't read books, I wait for the movie" will be the same one spouting support for Sarah Palin 2012, because of the belief she's an intelligent person and coherent speaker. Thus, instead of serious debate over any issue, we will have reactionary citizens who shout down anything they don't understand, because it's easier to have Glenn Beck tell you what to think than it is to educate yourself.

I'm going to think about making an effort when it comes to expanding my consciousness and retaining focus beyond the ten-second mark, maybe try to do better when it comes to writing out my thoughts, but I can't say whether or not I'll follow through. After all, the easy way out is tempting for a reason: effort requires, well, effort. It's why Guitar Hero is more popular than learning guitar, and why diet pills sell so well. Swallow this little miracle instead of monitoring my diet and exercising daily? You betcha!

Perspective

2009-08-24T21:33:00.000-07:00

In seventh grade, I stopped smiling.

I know this not from memory, but from interviewing my parents. Right before I turned twenty-eight, five days before my birthday, in fact, I went through a very painful break up. Actually, I was cheated on, then dumped. It was the worst period of my life, and the experience shattered my psyche like glass; my thoughts scattered into a thousand unfocused tangents I could not maintain a grasp on. To regain clarity, I began seeing a therapist who suggested I talk to my family about the childhood I lived, yet did not remember. She rightly realized that my pain was centered deeper than a breakup, and wanted to find its source.

The experience was amazingly odd. Talking to my parents about my life was like having a movie described to me. The only problem was, I had actually seen the movie. I lived my childhood. I just had no recollection of it.

My parents had been divorced for several years at the time I was in therapy, and were at the height of their verbal assaults on one another. "Your father..." my mother would begin a sentence. "Let me tell you something about your mother," my dad would randomly insert into a conversation. They agreed on nothing, so when in separate moments both wistfully turned their head aside and looked into the distance, and said, "In the seventh grade, you stopped smiling," I took notice.

At the start of that school year, I moved to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. My father had accepted a job outside of Milwaukee, and instead of living there, he wanted to commute from the town of his own youth. Unresolved issues from childhood traumas had him choose the city, though it would be years before he could look back on this decision and see that.

I also say I moved, because that's what happened. Due to the start date on my father's job and the closing on the house in Appleton, a decision needed to be made: I could either head to Oconomowoc ahead of the family, live with my paternal grandmother Evelyn for three weeks and start the school year with all the other kids, or I could attend school in Appleton for three weeks and then transfer.

My parents believed if I showed up on day one, it would make the transition easier, and that I would make friends more quickly. They thought I could avoid being shut out of school cliques, and decided I would move ahead of the family.

While this is sound reasoning on paper, Oconomowoc was a very small town. It was the kind of town that feared the outside world. Citizens supported god, guns, and the Republican Party, and though they had little interest in facts or world news, people knew what felt morally right, which is all that mattered. In that environment, all cliques had been determined long before Junior High. Though I started seventh grade on day one, I was already an outsider. I hadn't come up in the grade schools with everyone else, and was therefore unknown. Add to that fact Oconomowoc was a town founded on wealth, and the school was divided by the elites with money, and those without or "not enough;" middle class in Oconomowoc was considered peasant status by some. The fact I was a lone child living with an octogenarian did not help my standing, even though it was a temporary situation.

I was already accustomed to spending time at my grandmother Evelyn's house. Several years earlier, when my parents had separated and I lived with my father in Milwaukee, he would put me on a bus and send me to her on weekends I didn't visit my mother. As an adult, I once talked to my dad about this. I had no real memory of my rides, yet sometimes had flashes in my mind of sitting alone, looking out a window and nervously counting stops so I wouldn't get off early. I asked my dad if I had ever been on a bus, and he said he had no recollection of it. I brought the same question to my mom, who immediately grew somber. As Oconomowoc is only forty-five miles from Milwaukee, when dad had to work weekends and couldn't find anyone to tend to me, he would put me on a Greyhound and send me off to his mother's house for care. I would sit behind the driver, a child of six, and ride for several hours and through numerous stops from city to city. Like Linus, I carried a protective blanket and apparently hugged it tightly to my chest the whole ride. Evelyn told my mother it broke break her heart every time she met me at the station. I'd get off the bus and look frightened and lost, clutching the blanket as if a protective amulet. A child among a sea of adults, much less the cross section of society that uses Greyhound, is a grooming ground for anxiety to a small child.

After the three-week layover at my grandmother's, my family arrived and I was able to join them in our new home. As embarrassed as I was living with a grandparent, I quickly saw that arriving in town early was indeed the better option; my sister Amanda started her school year three weeks late, and was ostracized from the outset.

While "small town values" may play every election cycle, in reality small town generally means small mind. The people were isolationists, and unwelcoming to the outside world. Amanda never found a crowd to run with, and eventually had to transfer schools in an attempt to leave the stress of spending her days friendless and surrounded by judgmental, ostracizing eyes.

I fared better, if only because I was older and in a larger school. Though there were several elementary schools in the district, they all flowed into one junior and senior high. While my sister was secluded, I swam in a larger pond. Fortunately, there are always more "average" kids in any school than there are popular kids, and they are usually more welcoming to people joining their ranks than the popular crowd.

If I had thought Appleton overrun with racist attitudes, I hadn't seen anything yet. Some students spoke openly of the Ku Klux Klan, and their parents supposed involvement with it. Whether this was youthful ignorance or real I do not know, but whispers of secret meetings in cornfields were often within earshot.

I do remember a moment in 1988, my senior year, when I attended the homecoming football game with several classmates. By then I'd lived in the town six years and had made a few friends. Several were among the crowd I was walking with, while others in the clique were those I knew by reputation, but not friendship. High school cliques sometimes play like a Venn Diagram. You have your A friends, your B friends, and then a spattering of crossover between them. I was generally a crossover in Oconomowoc; I didn't exactly run with, or fit into, any specific crowd.

The rival team that night drew a healthy following, a handful of which were African-Americans. This seemed to set off a lynch-mob mentality among some of those I was near, and heated discussions of going over and "gettin'" or "teachin' the niggers a lesson" was spewed out like venom. At some point, alternately disgusted and irritated, I tossed out the comment, "Jesus Christ, this isn't fucking Howard Beach, let it go."

(Howard Beach was famous at the time for having had a group of angry white teens attack several African-American men whose car stalled in the neighborhood. One man was killed.)

Dumbfounded stares faced me, though to this day I'm not sure if it is because I didn't join in on the little hate-fest, or because I referenced an event that had made national news for several months the previous year. For whatever reason, whether I confused them into inaction or they were all bluster from the start, no rumble (or lynching) occurred that night.

The neighborhood I lived in was on the far reaches of the city limits. We technically had an Oconomowoc address, but lived ten minutes from town. When I lived there, it was peacefully under-developed, with vacant lots both next to and across from our house.

One of the first things I noticed was a family down the road. They had a boy a year or two younger than me, and more importantly a pool in their back yard. Lacking such an amenity at my own residence, I wanted to befriend the boy for two selfish reasons: one, I had no friends. Two, he had a pool.

Whether he suspected being used by me or whether I just didn't fit in with the family I do not know, but I remember being very unwelcome at both the house and in the cooling waters of the aquatic playground they owned. Today my memories suggest it was a little of each; the mother of the household was an overbearing tank of a woman, and she seemed to think her mission in life was to protect her son at all costs. Thinking back, I don't remember him having many friends, either.

Spurned and angered by the rejection, I revenged my honor the only way a seventh grader could. For several weeks, I urinated into several two-liter soda bottles until I had filled them all. One night, under cover of darkness, I stole away to the forbidden pool and emptied my waste into it. The next day, watching the family splash about, I smiled a wide smile. Even then I knew that chlorine and chemicals probably killed any personal germs I happened to pour in, but I still felt I had done my karmic duty in a way. "What goes around, comes around" is a popular phrase, and that day I was my own come around.

My first friend in Oconomowoc was Alan Munkwitz. His stereotype of living on the wrong side of the tracks cut so close to home he actually lived on the tracks; they ran right past the border of his back yard. Even as child, I surmised having locomotives disrupt your days and nights did not a decent property value create.

Alan welcomed me in friendship, and was in fact the person who introduced me to alcohol. As luck would have it, my first experience left me with little desire to drink again for years. Alan somehow procured a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps, and we proceeded to down it as fast as possible. Disgusting, yes, but interesting when the eventual sickness overcame our tiny bodies; rarely have I ever thrown up so much while the thought, "but my breath is so minty fresh!" ran through my head.

Alan and I drifted apart within a year or so; where I didn't enjoy the effect alcohol and other drugs had on my system, Alan did, and progressed down a path of experimentation I didn't want to follow. Economic status attaches itself to social stigma, and Alan was looked at as a “dirtball,” as they were called back then. Whether or not this led to his troubles with liquor and the law I do not know, but the path he stumbled down was one filled with blackouts and bloodshot eyes.

We finally reconnected in our senior year of high school. Alan was starting to screw his head on straight, sober up and wanted nothing more than to graduate with everyone else come spring. We ended up in chemistry class together, and every day had exchanges where I'd bust his determined balls.

"I'm gonna do it," Alan would state. "I'm gonna graduate."

“Not gonna happen,” I'd say with a laugh. “You’ll never make it.”

(Male bonding often involves the best in negative reinforcement.)

One night, as happens in rural areas, Alan was driving down a long country road after work when another vehicle crossed the yellow line of lane and smashed into Alan's car.

He was killed immediately.

The next day, my chemistry class had an empty desk, and the air was uneasy. The desk was like a magnet. All eyes were drawn to it, all thoughts on the boy who had been sitting in it just yesterday.

In the middle of our session, the p.a. system sparked to life and called for a moment of silence to honor Alan. Many around me squirmed uncomfortably, as if in the presence of a ghost. Before I knew what was happening, I opened my mouth.

“Well,” I offered, causing several people to jump. “I told him he wouldn’t graduate.”

I have been called a very dark comic, which I am fine with. I believe it is in our bleakest moments we need a little levity.

* * *

My parents began sleeping in separate bedrooms. By this point in their marriage, each had colored a bit outside the lines of their wedding vows. Who did what first doesn't interest me much, but the events led to a coldness between them, and that was a presence known in the house even without their acknowledging any problems. The guise they erected to sell the sleeping scenario to Amanda and I was that they kept separate hours: mom had to get up early, dad had to stay up late, so it made nothing but sense to sleep apart.

I began disassociating myself from my family, and my bedroom became an isolationist's paradise. I arranged the furniture so that even within the walls of my bedroom, there was a separate layer of protection. I placed my bed very close to the door, creating a narrow space for entry. At the foot of the bed, I placed my dresser not with its back to the wall, as is custom, but perpendicular to it. The back of the dresser faced the door, so as you entered my room you were then blocked. Using those two items, I created in essence a wall that divided the room in two; behind it, I placed my desk. To get to my desk you would have to either crawl over my bed or shove the dresser aside. I know few parents interested in such gymnastics, and was thus left to my own devices whenever I needed to escape while still at home. As an adult, I can look back on my home life and draw the definite parallel between unhappiness there and my actions at school; I was simply young, confused, and angry. So if I arrived in Oconomowoc surly, it only got worse as my first year in town progressed.

At school, I battled daily with the band teacher, George Werve. I cannot recall what started it all, but there was friction between us and I refused to back down when confronted. Eventually, my behavior landed me an entire semester's detention. An administrator named Charlotte Hall grew so tired of dealing with me she put an end to my lunch period. Every day I brown bagged it to the school office, where I sat in a side room and ate in silence. Char may have thought she was punishing me, but in reality I couldn't have cared in the least; I had no friends, and therefore no one to eat with. Sitting in the office may have looked like torture, but to me it was escape. Better to eat apart from everyone, than to do so alone while in a cafeteria full of happy children.

Eighth and ninth grades were a blur to me; I made a few friends, but again, ate alone if we ended up on separate lunch hours. My maternal grandmother, Elaine, lost her husband--a man I don't remember at all--and moved to Oconomowoc to be closer to her daughter. She rented an apartment directly across the street from the Junior High and on the same side of the street as the Senior High, so every day until my senior year I made my way to her house for lunch. Somehow, going to a grandmother's house for lunch was much less embarrassing than having to live with one.

The most important year of my youth would probably be 1984. That summer I was thirteen, and two bands entered my consciousness in ways that would forever alter me. Metallica released the album "Ride The Lightning," while Slayer offered up "Haunting The Chapel." My friend (and future Best Man) Brian Jones brought Metallica to my attention, and of all people, my father introduced me to Slayer.

College radio is an eclectic creation, where students create their own programming and offer it to the public. It's the only place on any radio dial you can hear Miles Davis one hour, and then German Industrial Techno-Polka the next. My dad has always had a fetishists obsession with swing bands, and would record a jazz program played on a somewhat-local college radio station; though we lived sixty miles from the transmitter, our receiver was able to pick up a decent signal. My dad happened to tune in early once, and heard an interesting noise emitting from his speakers. He called me into the room, and I was transfixed. I'd never heard anything like it before, and the simplest way to describe the sound would be to say power was exiting the speakers. Raw power, in the form of music.

I called the college and asked what the hell I was listening to, and the bright-voiced and bubbly girl told me the wonders of the band Slayer. I was hearing "Chemical Warfare."

The discovery of Heavy Metal was probably both my salvation and undoing, when it came to my teen years. Like a gang, the metal community offered me a place to fit in and surround myself with like-minded miscreants. Confused youth who felt like outsiders joined the metal movement to feel the sense of family they didn't get at home. Attending a concert was a wonderful form of cathartic release; body slamming in a mosh pit released all aggression in a safe and controlled manner, and you went home cleansed. Though a pit might look violent from the outside, in the 1980's all was organized inside one. If you fell, hands immediately lifted you back up. No one was interested in damaging anyone else, which all unfortunately changed in the 1990's. As I was leaving metal behind, what had started as a movement for confused youth transformed into a violent culture, with skinheads showing up at concerts and setting out to inflict pain using balled fists and steel-toed shoes. Everything in life is cyclical, though, and soon enough Nirvana would arrive to give teen angst another safe outlet for it's youthful confusion.

Only now do I understand the simple diagnosis of psyche I held back then, that of a typical teenager. I craved attention and acceptance, yet only wanted it on my own terms. I did not want to dress like everyone else, vote like everyone else, or think like everyone else. In response or reactionary mode, I began wearing black t-shirts, torn jeans, and long hair. In classic silly psychosis, I began pushing people away, yet at the same time angrily wondered why they weren't embracing me. In my unwelcoming small town, instead of working to break the social barrier, I lashed out at it. When everyone else was listening to the bubble gum rock of Bon Jovi, I was supporting the hardcore likes of Exodus. My favorite bands sang about dark topics, such as Satanism. While I had no interest in the occult or devil worship, the fact I wore the shirt of a band who sang songs about it was enough to scare the conservative segments of society that thrived in Oconomowoc. The more I altered my appearance from the norm, the more I was an outcast. The more I was an outcast, the angrier I got and further isolated myself. It was a vicious cycle very typical to that of the average teen, and I unfortunately carried the anger into my twenties.

I do have happy memories of Oconomowoc; it wasn't all "woe is me" bitching and feelings of persecution. Though I remained a virgin until college, I was at least an aural witness to a friend's deflowering.

One thing no adult should ever do is entrust a teenager with the keys to their house. It doesn't matter how straight-laced the child is, it's all an act. When given William Wallace's freedom, teens act as irresponsibly as possible.

A neighbor of a friend of mine went out of town often. When this happened, my friend was told to bring the mail in, water the plants and turn the lights on and off at night, that the house would not be a target for thieves. Naturally, we used the adult-free zone as a party house. People would be called, beers would be marked, and merriment had.

As beer was difficult to come by, everyone marked beer cans with their initials. If you ran out early, you had to barter or buy more from your friends. Once, returning to the scene of the crime several months after our previous mixer, my friend Mark looked in the fridge and pulled a beer can from the back. On top were two letters, DP, for "Dan Parker." No Marine he, Dan had left one behind, and it apparently sat in the back of the family's refrigerator for months waiting to be claimed. Had they found it, I'm sure it would have been the end of our partying ways: "Honey, why does one of our beers have initials written on it in permanent marker?"

For one such gathering, we were lucky enough to attract some of the fairer gender. Most of our parties were sadly all male, making the attendance of women quite the treat. At some point of intoxication, the possibility of strip poker was tossed out, and the girls accepted the proposal. To a point, that is. There's no honorable way to put this, so I'll just out and say: we boys cheated. Everyone was drunk, so it was fairly easy to distract whoever needed distracting in order to win a hand. Well, the women weren't stupid, but they were shy, and when each came to the point a key article of clothing needed to be shed, they demurred and departed the game.

We booed, but what could we do?

Only one brave lass remained playing, and she did so only because she had a crush on another member within the circle. She also entered the game with a plan: when it was her turn to start exposing flesh, she said she would do so, but only alone with her object of desire. Again, we booed in protest, but we weren't about to cock-block a buddy. Everyone slumped their shoulders and accepted the loss. But, being young, drunk and stupid, several of us gathered together our own idea.

We made our way to the master bedroom before the burgeoning couple could, and someone stole into the closet while I whisked myself under the bed. Once there, I wondered how I thought I was going to get a glimpse of bare breasts from such a stupid vantage point, but a mind drenched in alcohol rarely makes sound decisions.

The chosen one and his girl entered the bedroom, talked, kissed, and climbed onto the mattress. I lay underneath it all, cursing my stupidity.

Mr. closet couldn't contain himself, and after several minutes of stifled giggles burst both into laughter and the room. The girl shrieked, Casanova laughed, and the drunken intruder stumbled away the best he could.

Now I was alone among the happenings.

The couple resumed kissing, and after a few minutes, as clothes started hitting the floor next to the bed (and quite near my head), I realized something big was about to occur. Naturally, I started giggling, but silently so. Mustering up all the Kill Bill short-range power punch I could, I began messing with the enraptured couple. As their rhythm started, I shoved up on the bed with as much force as possible, bouncing it off its frame and allowing it to slam down again.

One of the most-funny quotes I've ever heard in my life followed. "I think someone's in here with us," the girl stated.

No shit?

Somehow, using drunken reasoning like "I'm kind of inside you right now," my friend convinced her they were as alone as Tiffany and they continued their trip into adulthood.

Meanwhile, I continued being an ass. I pushed on the bed, I pulled on the sides of the sheets, I did everything I could to be a jerk. But even I have limits. My friend was having sex, the oft dreamed of event of life for a teen, and I was ruining it for him. To allow him to finish in peace, I shimmied out from under the bed, stood, and left. To my credit, I didn't look back, either; I didn't want to see his lilywhite ass doing any gyrating. I did toss out one final giggle, though, saying in a high-pitched, mocking voice, "I think someone's in here with us!"

Oh, and for the record, no, no one washed any sheets when all was said and done. I believe the bed was re-made, but that was the closest they came to cleaning. The happy couple returning to their home after a nice vacation? They got to sleep in the remnants of teen sex sweat. How very crustilicious.

Another happy memory from back in the day was the Burger King parking lot on Friday nights. With nothing to do but cruise the short strip the town had, kids would end up in several parking lots to sit, smoke, and try to look tough while only succeeding in looking bored. A typical evening involved a combination of myself, Ed Weirzbicki and Mark Koch, plus any extra person we might be hanging out with. One night, I was crammed into the back seat with Tom M., when a knock came to the window. Outside was an attractive girl from another town. Ed was in the front, so he greeted the most polite, petite thing you'd ever seen who had come a rapping.

She leaned in, and said to Ed, "could you please pull your seat forward?" which he did. She then leaned in across me and said, "Hi, could you lean back a little please? Thanks." I gave her access, and what came next was quite unexpected. The polite, kind girl let loose a series of sailor-like swear words and started beating the unholy hell out of Tom. Added to the hilarity of the juxtaposition, she kept her civil nature going during the assault, alternately berating Tom, then asking Ed or I for more space quite politely: "YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE! GET OUT OF THE CAR! I'LL FUCKING--I'm not hitting you, am I? Could you lean back a little further? Thanks--KILL YOU! GET OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR YOU FUCKING, FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

She dragged Tom out of the car by his hair and preceded to slap, punch and kick him in the sac until he could take no more. I believe once he was lying on the ground, she actually spit on him before leaving. Maybe she threw food or a drink too, that I cannot recall. Naturally, the rest of us stood around both stunned and amused; there is little in life more funny than watching a friend of yours get his ass handed to him by a random woman.

Turns out, Tom had attempted his teenage best to perform on her orally, but was so disgusted by the yeast infection he found when he got to the holy hole he threw up right then and there. She had been laying back, eyes closed and ready for the generated warmth an orgasm offers, and instead was painted upon by his half-digested dinner. As if that wasn't enough, Tom then spread word of the infection far and wide, giving her a reputation she didn't quite appreciate. The beating was a just response, I suppose.

The good times aside, after graduation I spent very little time in Oconomowoc. I rarely visited, and skipped my five, ten and fifteen year reunions. Age, understanding and distance, however, brought me to attend the twenty. A few months before that milestone, I stumbled across my senior yearbook. It was the only one I bought, and I almost forwent that purchase, too. I discovered the yearbook while in my mom's basement searching for other items, and looking it over is actually what kept me away from the previous gatherings. I would get an invite, pick up the yearbook, ancient resentments would bubble up to the surface and I would take a pass on seeing my old classmates. Perusing the pages before the twenty gave slight hints it could do the same once more, but after so much time had passed, most of the names and faces meant very little to me.

In high school, I watched the rarified air the popular breathed in, and it all seemed so real and significant. After two decades, those who were deemed gods above mere mortals like me were disappeared from places of importance. Athletic heroes lionized by female eyes were never propelled into the elite arena of professional sports, and many weren't even able to cut it at the college level. They had been enormous fish in a very small pond, but once they left that realm of safety, reality sent stars into their eyes with a quick jab to the nose, not the approval of success. It made me very happy my life didn't peak in high school, as happens to some.

I found it odd, though, that even looking over the snapshots after so many years I could still feel a tinge of the stings that once upset me. Little nothings, like having only two pictures in the whole yearbook. I have the standard listing photo, and one candid shot. The candid was from something the administration called "Harmony Week." In a typical "We have no idea how to relate to kids" manner, the faculty dreamed up a melding week where students from all social rings and teachers were to express togetherness. On Monday, everyone received special t-shirts with the word "Harmony" on them. We were told to wear the shirt on Friday, when everyone would participate in an all-school picture to be taken on the football bleachers. Given I received the shirt several days in advance, I figured I had to alter mine slightly. I took it home, bought an iron on decal, and created the universal "anti" sign--a circle with a line through it. I placed it over the word "Harmony," creating an adverse effect to the administrations idea. When I wore it Friday, students giggled and pointed, and teachers frowned and murmured. Someone took a shot of me wearing it in study hall, and somehow it was cleared to go the distance in the yearbook.

While two photos are the complete yearbook documentation of my high school existence, every other page is filled with the pledge kids for "Up With People." Today, the number of times I'm in my yearbook means nothing to me. Back then, it made me feel like a friendless failure. There are, however, two notable omissions the yearbook staff made, most likely because each did the most unspeakable of acts: showed the school up.

The first exclusion involved success. I was in a heavy metal cover band; our name was Euthanasia. I had researched the topic for speech class and the topic and name seemed cool. We covered songs by Judas Priest and Iron Maiden, and played them very well. Towards the end of my senior year, we got permission to perform with another band in the upper gym. I took flyers to every school within an hour radius of Oconomowoc and promoted the hell out of the concert. When all was said and done, around 700 people attended, and a decent chunk of that number came from outside our district. In my promotion, I capitalized on that ever-present plight of the small town teenager: there's nothing better to do, so come to Oconomowoc and rock out! The concert was better attended than a half-dozen school sponsored events, and pulled in more cash than several of them combined. Naturally, the concert was not mentioned in the end of year wrap up, while each failed school idea--Winter Carnival! Madrigal Dance!--received its own display page in honor and memory.

The concert, for the record, was also my first moment of clever, shrewd (or conniving) thought. In researching my future show, I attended a performance several months beforehand and learned something very important. Taking the information into my own show, I approached a member of the other band on the bill and schemed my way into success.

"Hey man," I said. "Just so there's no bullshit about anything, if you guys wanna headline, we'll be your opening act."

"Cool!" my mark said, falling for it.

The night of the show, everything happened exactly as I had seen several months earlier: Euthanasia went up to a full house. In the 20-minute intermission between acts, the audience left to go out and get drunk. Of course they did; it's what teenagers do. The second band went up to about 40 of their closest friends and I feigned ignorance. Golly! Who knew this would happen?

A quick side note involving the speech class mentioned earlier: when choosing a topic for persuasion, I discovered, as said, euthanasia. I was immediately interested in the pro side, believing those with terminal illness should be allowed to decide for themselves whether to live within the confines of a hospital bed or to die with some form of grace and dignity. I researched the topic diligently, and presented my discoveries to my classmates. I think I scored well.

At the end of the year, everyone was allowed to choose both a style and topic for their final speech. A bright-eyed young classmate I won't name decided he had been so offended by my words, he gave an anti-euthanasia delivery as his closing counter.

To this day, I wish I had heckled him. Mocked his speech for what it was, emotionally trite nonsense. The lecture amounted to nothing more than him standing in front of the class, breaking down in tears and openly weeping while saying, "I love my grandpa, and I don't want anyone to kill him."

I didn't have it entirely figured out then, but this was a shining example of the small-town attempt of understanding a complex problem. If you couldn't think rationally, you did so emotionally. Instead of listening to what I had said about personal choice, he countered with crazed murderers storming hospices and dragging the elderly out of their beds. The sad part is, people like that grow up to be not just voters, but usually single-issue ones. "Well, this person might have a better economic policy, but I don't like his stance on gay marriage, and my life is so pathetic I have to worry about what two people do in the privacy of their own bedroom." But I digress.

The other item unmentioned by the yearbook was one I expected to go unreported, as there was no way it was going to be promoted or even acknowledged. Bored with the traditional school newspaper, several students created an underground paper, "Banzai," which was humor based. After the first issue, I was lucky enough to be approached by its creator, a quiet boy by the name of Sean. He asked if I wanted in, and did I ever.

Was what we put out genius? Of course not. It was lowbrow, teenage humor, and therefore exceedingly popular. We satirized the easy targets of any high school--the adulterous teacher, the administrator rumored to have had a facelift--as well as the student council and the student newspaper, the latter of which went on to honor us with an editorial on how funny we weren't. The more we wrote, the more people spoke out in anticipation of the next copy. To remain anonymous and not get in trouble, we would "release" copies by leaving them stacked in bathrooms between classes. They would then be discovered and passed around. The first couple issues had some people taking a copy, while others would simply ignore them. Before long, though, students making the initial discovery of a new issue would hoard the whole pile and give them to friends, leaving the unlucky in the lurch. As we had no budget, we weren't making very many of the Xeroxed little buggers, and the more popular Banzai became, the more valuable an issue became.

What's funny is, though only the people actually in on the production knew I was a part of it, I was a suspected ringleader from the start. Such was the reputation I had with the administration. Char Hall, my wonder-love from seventh grade, was promoted to high school supervision, and I immediately came under watch of her scrutiny. I was called in for questioning, and was told "all eyes" were on me. Which, I hate to say, I was used to. I was lucky enough to be suspected any time anything out of the ordinary happened on school grounds. Only once was I was actually guilty of the offense they accused me of.

In tenth grade, the school sponsored "Flower Day." You could buy a rose and send it to anyone you wanted, including faculty. That year, I was not to large a fan of my English teacher, so I dictated a little "Holy-Christ-are-you-awful" note to my friend Mike, and he sent it to my teacher without signing any name. That evening, a town detective arrived at my front door to give me a stern little lecture. In his words, they had done a "handwriting analysis," and it was determined with conclusive proof I had written the awful note that had so traumatized the teacher. I wasn't in trouble, but I was being warned to straighten up.

I may have been young, but I've never been entirely clueless. I knew the reason I wasn't in trouble is because they had nothing on me. At the same time, I couldn't defend my innocence by saying, "You're full of shit. I know the handwriting doesn't match, because I had my friend Mike write the note just in case something like this was to happen."

The funny thing is, aside from wearing torn jeans and wearing black t-shirts, there was almost no reason for me to have the reputation I did. I didn't fight, do drugs, vandalize or even skip much class until my senior year. That flower aside, I pretty much stayed out of everyone's way. It all traces back to my seventh grade battles with the band teacher. I was branded then, and in a small town, that was enough. I was so disliked by the administration that one assistant principal actually told me he saw jail time in my future. To repeat, I didn't fight, do drugs vandalize school property or do anything really outside the scope of normal teenage behavior, but was still looked at as someone who would probably go to jail. I was John Bender, simply because I dressed the part.

What's sad is, in my senior year, I eventually started acting the way many people already saw me. I still didn't drink much, maybe four times the whole year, and I didn't do drugs other than trying pot once, but I began ditching class as often as possible. I was probably more a punk in my final year of high school than at any time previous, but by then, it was almost a knee-jerk reaction. "If you're going to treat me this way, then I'm going to act out so I deserve it."

Anyway, returning to Banzai, many with power in like only to leave behind a happy, shiny history, so no mention of the raucous little newspaper was given in the yearbook. Thing is, though I was looking for credit for my actions at the time, I have to admit the memories are all that is important anymore. The concert was a damn good time, regardless of recognition. Banzai was done more out of boredom than for the history books. In a delicious turn of irony, though swept under the rug by "proper" students in charge of the school legacy, several issues were time-capsuled for the twentieth reunion. In the end, the students who actually enjoyed Banzai honored it.

The reunion in my eyes was a reminder of humanity and humility. No one was a God anymore; time had ravaged the few who might have believed they once were. Everyone had become adults; some got married, and some focused on careers. Some got divorced, while others had children of their own. A few hadn't changed much, but their arrogance or ignorance didn't faze me anymore. Instead, I felt a sort of pity. A little for them, and a little for society. There's something sad in seeing someone who never moved more than 90 miles from the place of their birth, who never traveled or got to experience a different culture. They maintain the same small town small mindedness they grew up with, believing their idealized and isolated vision of the world is better than the real one.

Ignorance can also be willful; Oconomowoc had a lot of wealth when I lived there, and it was interesting to observe those children of privilege as adults. Most had low empathy levels, and addressed social problems with a sense of, "Life is pretty good, I don't understand why people complain about so much." They felt having been born into money meant they somehow earned it.

Catching up after twenty years was quite therapeutic; almost every old resentment I had ever held melted away immediately. I got to speak with people who had only been on the periphery of my awareness in school, and found many life stories entirely enthralling. Many had gone through the exact same emotions, fears and anxieties I had; many had felt as isolated and awkward as I had. Some had even skipped the same reunions as I, for the very same reasons.

The stimulus overloaded my senses; there were so many faces and names and nowhere near enough time to honor each person with a conversation. Some I have stayed in touch with since that evening, while others dissipated once again.

Out of everyone in my graduating class, there was only one person I felt I could do without talking to, even twenty years later. Of all my antipathies, I wondered how many I had invented; who had I disliked simply because I thought they disliked me, and vice-versa? But regarding this one man, I couldn't escape the lingering feeling he was a douchebag, even if I couldn't remember a single specific reason why. I figured if I didn't bump into him, I would be entirely OK with that. What follows should be all too obvious.

I arrived at the reunion a few minutes before everyone was sitting down to dinner, where Brian Jones had saved my fiancée and I seats at his table. I pulled my chair out, sat down and scooted my butt in, and directly across from me was the one person I wasn't interested in seeing.

He didn't acknowledge me, so I didn't acknowledge him, but I did stare intently and attempt to second-guess my emotions. Why did I not like him? Was I inventing an anger I should just let go? It did make me smile to see he was going bald in the worst of ways; his forehead had expanded to the crown of his head, and he was desperately holding on to his few remaining wisps of hair.

I focused on him through both the welcoming toast and opening pleasantries. I searched my memory for any negative he had done to me, and came up blank. Then, the house lights lowered. The reunion committee announced the start of a slideshow, one to honor classmates who had passed from this world into the next. Pictures of faces I once knew appeared, aged, and then disappeared forever. Each had a story of life, family and loss.

Mere moments into the presentation, my nemesis leaned in to the person sitting next to him, and began talking: "So, this morning was great. I shot under par on hole thirteen..."

And it hit me.

That's why I didn't like him.

He was a douchebag.

He had always been a douchebag, was still a douchebag, and will probably always be a douchebag.

Relief comes in many forms, and remembering why I had unkind thoughts about a fellow human being was as tasty as a cool drink of water on a hot summer day.

As of right now, I have no plans to attend another reunion. Despite the fact I genuinely enjoyed myself at the twenty, one gathering might have been enough. But you know what? If I ever hear that the awkwardly balding douchebag died? He who felt the need to discuss his golf game during our classmate's wake? Well then, I might have to reconsider. Maybe I'll go just to talk about some mundane aspect of my life during his slideshow. Hell, maybe I'll even Bluto Blutarsky it up and cough "Asshole!" as his picture passes across the screen.

And I will smile as I do so.

A Second Sunset in the Sand

2009-08-11T06:31:00.000-07:00

This time, I forgot to tell my mother.

Several years earlier, while readying myself for a trip to Afghanistan, I accidentally made her cry. Mom was worried about my safety, whereas I had no concerns. I trusted I would be fine 'n' dandy on my trip and was so callously indifferent toward her worry it upset her mightily. So about three weeks out from another trip to the Middle East, while chatting casually with my mom, she asked a question and I responded, "Well, I'll still be in Iraq then."

"What," my mother intoned flatly.

Though "what" is generally a question, there was no inflection suggesting inquiry in her voice; mom was pissed. Though I had known for months a trip to the desert country of heat and camels was coming, it somehow slipped my mind regarding informing her.

A stern lecture from an angry and unhappy mother followed. Though I was being chastised, I couldn't help but find it hilarious. A son forgetting to tell his mother he was happily headed into danger? Most amusing! To me, anyway.

Not so amusing was the time spent on a cramped airplane; the trip from Iowa to Kuwait took three flights and over fifteen hours. Exhausted and sore from the ordeal, I met two other comics scheduled for the tour in the Kuwait airport lobby and waited for our transport to the military base.

Landing in any foreign territory, you don't immediately notice subtle differences in culture. The big differences--dress, language, body makeup and color--are obvious. Little things might not register right away, but when the pieces fall into place a light bulb goes off above your head. In Kuwait, what took me a second to realize is that everyone smoked, and they did so everywhere. While designated smoking areas were posted, they were mostly ignored. People--men, actually. If smoking was something women did under cover of their Burka, I was not witness to it--smoked where they wanted and no one enforced any smoking regulation, if it even existed. The Burger King trays were dotted with burn marks, and cigarettes were tossed to the airport floor just as casually could be. Kuwait’s stance on smoking seemed somewhat akin to America’s in the 1950s, so while big tobacco may be losing ground in the United States, overseas it's going gangbusters. In many nations, it is a point of pride to puff a Marlboro Red over any local brand. The positive aspect of all this is: if we don’t get the terrorists with bombs, hopefully we'll kill them with cancer.

Two hours passed as we waited for our contact, and irritation set in. Luckily, in an international airport used by American military, there is always a friendly face about. I struck up a conversation with a couple soldiers looking for someone from the same flight I arrived on, and they were from the base we comics were headed to. They recognized one of the contact names we had, and one kindly called him for us. We were told to wait by Starbucks.

Walking our way to the meeting point, I passed an American man holding a sign with three names on it. I had seen him milling about the lobby, but as none of the names on his placard were ours, I didn't give him much thought. His cell phone rang as I passed, and he began a conversation as I left earshot.

When we arrived at Starbucks, I noticed the man looking in our direction and walking over. When he got back within range, I heard him say, "They're right here? I don't see anyone looking for me."

He paused, and looked at us.

"Are you guys comedians?"

"We are," I told him.

"Going to Arifjan?"

"Yes."

"I found them," he said into the phone.

Our contact's name began with the letter B, and when looking to see why he had the wrong names, B took a closer look at his orders. Every date, on every form, was for the month of June. Sadly, it was now July, meaning B brought the previous month's documentation, names, and pictures with him. While it is somewhat amusing, having the wrong orders meant we couldn't get on base and into our beds; we had to wait outside the gate for over a half an hour while B called in for an escort.

As we waited, one question I pondered while examining the barren landscape was: would you rather be poor in heaven, or rich in hell? Kuwait may be one of the most oil-rich nations on the planet, but all you can do is shuffle from air-conditioned location to air-conditioned location. The desert climate leaves little worth doing outside, and the heat is oppressive. Kuwaiti citizens, much like Alaskans, receive a government stipend simply for existing, but that's something I'm not sure is worth receiving if you have to actually live in Kuwait. Maybe I should phrase the question sexually: would you rather date a beautiful, yet prudish woman, or a Plain Jane that's a wildcat in the sack? Beauty looks good on the arm, but better in the bed is probably superior.

After our escort arrived and we were allowed onto the base, as I undressed in my ten-by-six foot room--one with air conditioning auto-set so low I eventually had to open my window to the 120-degree heat and let the two fight it out--I made an interesting discovery. Several days before departing, I helped my fiancée Lydia with batting practice. She plays softball, so I was lobbing them in and she was knocking them out. Save for the last ball, that is. That one she didn't knock out of the park so much as into my leg. Specifically, my right leg, just below my kneecap. A knot swelled to generous proportions, which I iced and elevated, and eventually the bulge subsided to a healthy little lump. All was well, until I spent an inordinate amount of time seated on an airplane.

Spending fifteen hours sitting meant whatever was left of the leg-swell drained into my foot, creating one exceptionally puffy appendage. My heel became a lovely Prince-purple, as a decent volume of blood had decided to pool there, and my shoe no longer fit. This was not an exciting development.

I hobbled over to a recreation room to lie on the floor and elevate my legs. I scooched my butt up to the wall, and lay with my legs extended up said wall, then set my watch timer for thirty minutes. Fatigued, I began nodding off as if in high school math. I also occasionally snored myself awake, much to the amusement of a cadet working on her computer across the room. After the allotted thirty minutes passed, my leg was a little more normal, though still quite squishy to the touch. I hoped it wouldn't turn into a problem.

Our first show was the following evening, and it was as botched as our pickup. Once again, B proved that you can keep a government job with the barest minimum of effort. At 1:00 PM we were gathered for what was supposed to be a simple day trip to visit another base in Kuwait, Ali Al Saleem.

Entering the van, I asked in a clear, slow voice, “Is our show at the base we're going to, or here on Arifjan?”

“Huh?” B responded. “Your show is tonight.”

“I know that,” I informed him. “But is it on this base, Arifjan, or the one we are going to?”

“Oh,” B said thoughtfully. “It’s here.”

And that was the last of it, until we got to Ali Al Saleem at 3:00 PM and were told, “Ok, show’s at seven, you have four hours to kill.”

The other two comics and I looked at one another, unprofessionally dressed in
sandals and shorts and unshowered and scruffy, and wondered just how stupid B was.

(Very)

The show was neither good nor bad, it was simply a show. We performed outdoors, which is always odd for comedy, and when the start time arrived, we had an audience of approximately four people. Ali Al Saleem is a large base, and it is sometimes difficult to promote a show in such places. While there is very little to do, people still enter routines, and advertising becomes exactly like it is in America: something to ignore. Posters promoted our arrival, but they blended in with every other activity being pushed. Email had been sent from recreation officers to all soldiers, but soldiers receive spam just like the rest of the world, and spam is usually deleted unopened.

I decided to throw myself on the grenade and go up first. My idea was that once the people milling about saw someone yapping away at them, they would be curious, meander over, and have a seat. Like the opening of a spigot, the instant I spoke into the microphone, ears perked. I might not be the most famous thing to ever take the stage, but in that environment, I was something different. Something was happening, something out of the norm, which is always good in the eyes of a weary soldier. While 100 posters were posted in every corner of the camp, only at the show's inception did the event become tangible.

Having done military tours before, I was able to cater my set to the audience a little. I started throwing out little nuggets of inside information on military life to draw everyone in. One such tidbit was how some men of the military refer to female soldiers overseas. As the military is generally a sausage fest, women have all the power when it comes to mixed-gender liaisons. It's basically a buffet for women, which irritates rejected men. Therefore, some of the fairer sex in uniform are referred to as a "two-ten-two." In the states, they're so ugly they're considered a two, but when they get to the Middle East, they're in such high demand they become tens. Their ego soars like an eagle, but when they return to the states, they're crushed as they become twos again.

Very cute, but I gave women their revenge using the same term, telling the men they're labeled the exact same way. In the states, they're two inches and last two minutes. In Iraq, they're suddenly ten inches and last ten minutes! But when they return to America…

The speech flowed the same way every night; up front, men laughed and howled. After the twist, women were pointing fingers and giggling. And I loved it all.

Fortunately, I never have to cater my act to any audience to the point of pandering. I do my best to relate to people on their level, but ultimately my comedy is personal. I tell stories of my life, such as the interactions between my family or future wife. It's an act I can carry with me anywhere, one that need not depend on surroundings, such as traffic. All too often I've seen a comedian get in over his head while relying on the crutch of relating: "Boy, isn't traffic crazy here in…" and where a generic city would be inserted, silence follows and soldiers stare. The traffic they deal with is not "crazy," it can be deadly. Improvised Explosive Devices exist in random locations, and a Humvee doesn't wait for a red light.

Kuwait out of the way, we were told to gather at 9:00 AM the next morning for our foray into Iraq. At nine on the dot, B showed up in a panic.

“Your flight got moved up, we have to get there NOW,” he stressed.

We hurried, he sped, and we arrived at the flight line with plenty of time to spare. Too much time, in fact. So much time, that as we sat and waited, B checked on our situation with the woman in charge.

“Well, they moved your flight from 10:30 to 1:30," B told us. "I’m leaving. Call if you need anything."

I was handed a slip of paper with the contact information for our next stop on it, and like a ghost, B disappeared.

The instant he left, the woman he had conferred with approached us and said, “You know, he screwed up. Your flight was always at 1:30, he just wrote it down wrong.”

Of course he did, and then he blamed her for his mistake.

Lovely.

Flying into Iraq five years after my first visit was an event involving contrast. Five years ago, I stepped off a C-130 cargo plane and into a war zone. Everyone was in body armor, everyone was armed, and military vehicles were everywhere. Bradleys, Humvees, and tanks were surrounded me.

This time, when the back door of our transport opened at Al Asad Airbase, two soldiers and an entertainment rep--not a single one in body armor--awaited us out in the open, and they waited with two standard American SUVs. Simple, off-the-lot trucks, with no extra plating or bulletproof glass on either.

Such changes were a testament to the job being done there. I’m not going to go on record and say the country was safe and that I’d walk around Baghdad at night, but the threat of danger has lessened. Last time I visited, several bases came under some form of attack. Whether it was a single rocket launched randomly over the protective barrier or several mortars lobbed inside the perimeter, violence was ever-present. By the end of this visit, however, nothing had happened. No sirens sounded, no alarms blared, no attack occurred. Sectarian brutality between clans is another issue, but Iraq is getting safer for American soldiers.

In fact, it's so "safe" in Iraq, a serious issue threatens the men and women of the military from within. The first time I visited, soldiers expressed a sense of anger and resentment over their deployment. Anti-Bush graffiti adorned every bathroom at every base, and people were unhappy. In 2009, the pervasive mood was resigned acceptance. The unhappy was still prevalent, but in a way that was more, "This is life, it sucks, and you deal with it." It felt like a loveless marriage, one where the spark died long ago, but inertia kept everyone wrapped up in the union. Such a situation creates a stress that is slow to simmer, but when it boils, it explodes. Though it's not making the news in America, three bases in a row told me they have lost more servicemen in the past half-year to suicide than to terrorist attacks.

The standard suicide follows a pattern: 19-21 year old kid away from home for not only the first time, but for an extended period of time. He went over while in a relationship, maybe did the "panic engagement" to have a lifeline to hold on to, and then he gets dumped. Heartbreak involves actual physical pain, and if you've never felt it, you're lucky. If you add the mind-numbing life of being trapped in a situation where every day is the goddamned same to the bodily stress of heartbreak, and do so in the mind of a nineteen-year-old, you have a recipe for disaster. Few teenagers have the capability to envision a better future when their immediate surroundings are horrific and their emotions are haywire. I remember being entirely unhappy at that age, and my life was fucking fantastic by comparison.

Sadly, the military is responding in a typically out-of-touch fashion. Every commercial break on every Armed Forces Entertainment network has at least one ad addressing the situation. Naturally, these ads confront the problem sideways and offer help that is ass-backwards from reality.

"Friends should be vigilant!" they warn. "If you or someone you know is contemplating hurting themselves, talk to your chaplain!"

Are you fucking kidding me? "Talk to your chaplain" is the cork that will stop the epidemical flow of suicides in the military? It's as logical as saying Jesus will help you pray your gay away. Some problems are real, and real problems need real solutions. No recently dumped teen wants to sit with a priest and talk out his problems. At nineteen, you don't understand that life is full of options, especially not when you see monotony in front of you on a daily basis. The person that dumped you becomes the end-all be-all to your life. No one will ever love you like she did, no one will ever understand you like she did and you two were just oh-so-perfect together...

The truth is, if one partner doesn't work out, another will. It's a fact.

What the military needs to do is take anyone on the verge of suicide, anyone right there up against their wits' end and about to eat the barrel of their gun, take and furlough them for ten days to Thailand. Place a jumbo pack of condoms and $200 in the palm of their hand and say, "You're fucking nineteen years old, go get laid like a nineteen year old! Go fuck your ex right out of your system!"

Will that cure the pain?

No.

But it will let the kid know there is still fun to be had in the world without the Jane Doe that broke his heart, and it will act as a perfect stopgap between the time he might do something stupid and the period in which he begins to heal.

If that seems too extreme, the military can take little measures. Pornography is currently blocked on the Internet service soldiers' use. While this is understandable regarding the public kiosks, many servicemen (and women) have laptops for the privacy of their own barracks. People have needs and urges; if the military would allow them the simple and God-given right to masturbate to something other than their imagination, I guarantee it would boost morale.

As tragic as one tale was, I have to admit to having felt oddly inspired by it. As always, it began with a teenager. He was chatting on Skype with his girlfriend, who was back in the states, and things were not going well. No one is sure if she admitted to falling for another boy, or if she just broke up with him because she couldn't wait any longer, but the end result was the same: he was shocked, and heartbroken. Imagine being that lonely. Desolate. Bored. The one thing you're holding on to is the idea someone loves and is waiting for you, and then she appears on screen, right there in front of you and says she just can't wait anymore.

In a moment of pain, anger and confusion, the boy shot himself. Not back in his room, after writing a note, and not after acting emo for a week, sulking and moping about. He acted in the moment. He stood his Twisted Sister ground, said he wasn't gonna take it and showed his love the magnitude of her actions. The boy killed himself with the webcam still rolling, and a shocked and no doubt permanently damaged girl thousands of miles away was powerless to do anything about it.

While it is an absolute horror the boy took his own life, at the same time, what better way to end it all? To me, the action was like the painting of a great work of art, or the composing of the most beautiful symphony ever heard. "You'll be sorry you left me" is all too often an empty threat, or one used to threaten the girl with action against her, but not in his case. This kid showed the world that if you're going to do something stupid, you have to do it with flair. Damn if I don't give him kudos for that statement.

Again, an absolute tragedy he didn't understand that there would be someone better for him out there, but absolutely beautiful that she had to witness firsthand the repercussion of her actions. And if you don't understand my ugly glee, you've never felt heartbreak. Consider yourself lucky.

* * *

Al Asad was one of Saddam Hussein's premiere air stations, and also home to a notorious piece of history. Uday Hussein was legendary in his day for cruelty; he existed only to cause pain. Uday was the head of Iraq's Olympic Committee, and was known far and wide to torture athletes who did not perform up to expectations. He would take entire families hostage, using them as motivational pieces: play poorly, lose your wife or child.

Dead center in Al Asad was Saddam's Soccer Stadium. Inside, all practice and torture took place under Uday's watchful eye. The best athletes in the country were sent there to train, and not all returned home. Uday's seat was in the center top row, where he would sit, gun in lap, randomly shooting at players' feet like it was the old west.

Today the stadium crumbles. The grass of the field is long dead and has been replaced by the ever-present sand the climate demands. Kiosks line old vendor slots, and bootlegs of American movies and television shows are sold where people were once murdered for motivation.

Outside Al Asad, I visited an old Iraqi fighter jet, one laying in decay on the perimeter of the base. Saddam was "stupid-smart," meaning he had ideas, but didn't think them through. Saddam always placed jets on the edges of his air bases, and would cover them in camouflage, leaving them hidden from his enemies. The plan was, if and when attacks were made on the base, ha-ha! The planes would be safe!

Which would work wonderfully, except when America attacked, we bombed the shit out of the runways, control towers and any building around. So… great, you've got some planes sitting in the desert that can't take off or communicate with one another. Swing and a miss, Saddam, but thanks for playing.

We left Al Asad on a Marine "Phrog," a CH-46 helicopter, which is a smaller version of the twin rotor Chinook. Hazy morning conditions meant we spent five hours waiting for clearance, because not much flies when the sand is kicking. Regarding the Marines, we were told, "These fuckers will fly in anything. If they're grounded, you know it's bad out."

Flying over barren desert, it was safe enough to allowed us to take pictures standing with the airships guns. "Just don't fucking fire it," the gunner comanded. When we got several miles off a city, however, the gunners resumed their posts. Watching the body language of our escorts change was an interesting metamorphosis; both went from a slumped-shoulder casual stance to vigilant attention. Their eyes scanned back and forth, ever alert, the muzzle of their guns followed, tracing all movements. A city is host to many nooks, crannies, and alleyways, and each holds the promise of danger.

On certain flights, I was given a headset and cracked wise with everyone. When the conversation turned serious, I understood without prompting it was time to keep my comedic mouth shut.

"White car to our left," one pilot announced calmly.

"Already targeted," the gunner responded.

"Looks like he's got something sticking out of his window."

"Can't tell what it is, but there's no movement."

"Copy."

When the pilot announced the possible threat, I turned my untrained eyes to the side and saw only traffic; there was a multitude of autos driving back and forth on a busy Iraqi thoroughfare. Only after several seconds of scanning was I able to lock onto the white car. By that point, however, had it been a danger to us, it would have been too late. The fact the gunner had assessed the target I couldn't even find, and had done so before being alerted to its presence, impressed the hell out of me.

The car turned out to be no hazard, as it was just hauling something that didn't entirely fit in the back seat, but for a good twenty seconds, the driver had no idea his car was ready to be lit up by a hail of 50-caliber gunfire.

Every time a helicopter flies in Iraq, it does so in tandem with a partner. If one runs into trouble, the other is there for either attack or evac, depending on what the situation calls for.

I rode in both the lead and second chopper over the course of my visit, and each time protocol was the same: the lead chopper flew a direct route, with the second swaying gently side-to-side behind and a little above it. It was both comforting and hypnotizing to witness, as the follow chopper swayed lazily, like a cat's tail on a living room floor. They were always watching; waiting to pounce should the need arise.

Many bases in Iraq are like small, self-contained gated mini-cities. The last time I visited, most places had only tents standing. Fixed structures were few, and conditions were minimal. This time, many amenities were available. Fast food restaurants, small mall-like shopping areas, and even the occasional movie theater now adorned once-vacant lots. In 2004, meals were served under a canvas roof; in 2009, I ate in air-conditioned luxury. Not that the food improved, even if military food is actually more tedious than bad. The same menu was offered day after day, and it's probably easy to go a little insane in such situations. "Let’s see, do I want a tuna salad sandwich for lunch today, or chicken salad? If I have tuna tomorrow, I can have chicken today, and then again the day after tomorrow…"

Though it was odd to see a Subway or Taco Bell on a base in Iraq, it's probably quite nice for a soldier to have that occasional option. The restaurants aren't the structures we see in cities here, by the way. Fast food locations provided for the military are more like mobile homes you'd see at a state fair or amusement park. You ordered, then ate outside or back in your room. Considering the DFAC (Dining Facility) kept limited hours, Taco Bell works well for a soldier on duty past dinner.

Camp Ramadi, however, was nothing like many of the lush bases we visited. Everything was rustic in Ramadi, and that's putting it nicely. Life is hard. Marines lodged in old Iraqi barracks that are in worse repair than most inner-city apartments. Where Al Asad was known as "Camp Cupcake"--not only because the geography of the base suggested an inverted cupcake, as it rests in a crater looking not unlike a muffin top, but also because it contained many nice amenities--Ramadi exposed the harshest of conditions soldiers have to live with.

Al Asad's freestanding structures had protective barriers, but they were pristine and stood several yards back from any structure. In Ramadi, the barriers showed their wear and tear, with crumbling cement revealing it had been tested and withstood whatever had been launched its way. The blast shields also hugged any building they were meant to protect; they were not twenty yards off a building, they were snug up against them. A mortar or rocket would have to actually hit a structure dead on to do any damage. To miss by even two feet meant the barriers would take the hit and protect all. Which was necessary, as at one point during the peak of conflict, Ramadi had the "honor" of being the second most-attacked base in Iraq.

With literally nothing to do, notice of a comedy show had everyone interested; troops were grabbing the best seats long before show time. I was excited to give a good performance, but the evening got off on a hilariously awkward foot. The opening comic that night purchased a Cuban cigar earlier in the day, and smoked it before going up. There is a reason Cuban cigars are legendary, and one of them is their intoxicating effect. The comic didn't eat much at dinner, didn't drink enough fluids to avoid dehydration, and then smoked his Cuban cigar. He hit the stage a rambling, incoherent mess. At first, the soldiers weren't sure what to think, but as time passed, they realized his disorientation wasn't part of his act and grew amused. I stood side-stage, hissing his name as he went ten minutes past his allotted time before finally grabbing his attention. He maintained lucidity long enough to bring me up, botching my name while doing so.

On the morning of our scheduled departure from Ramadi, a small sandstorm blew in and canceled all flights. I say small, only because that is what I was told. To me, it was full-fledged and interesting. The sand was so red it felt like being on Mars. It entered my pores, and people outside wore surgical masks to protect their lungs. If I even cracked my mouth for a moment, it felt like I was drinking powder and I could feel the grit across my teeth as if checking pearls for purity.

At one point the sun was entirely eclipsed by sand and I could stare right at it, seeing only a haze of an outline. Commenting on that, a soldier reminded me I was standing in the middle of a "nothing" storm; the fact I could see fifty yards meant it was tiny. Many enlisted told me stories of not being able to see their hand in front of their face, the hood of a car from the windshield. On those days, the only thing to do was hunker down and wait it out.

Being trapped allowed for a day of exploring, and I was lucky enough to meet one of the base commanders. He explained part of the reason conditions were so poor at Ramadi is because the base is one of many being shuttered by the military. Within six months, it will be no more. Instead of maintaining it and repairing barriers, they're walking away from everything like a foreclosed home. What's funny (or sad, depending on your point of view) is this fact seems to matter little to the corporation known as Halliburton. KBR, as is its technical name, continues to place bids on non-existent contracts to repair the base.

"Your roads need repair," the rep would say. "We can fix them for ten million dollars."

"No need," the commander would respond. "We won't be here long enough for it to be worthwhile."

"Um… how about for five million!"

The commander I met laughed as he said he kept shooting them down, but to the "ultra-patriotic" corporate heads of KBR, profit is king. They were more than willing to do a multi-million dollar repair of a road, even if it would be useless soon.

Despite that commander's ever-cautious use of American tax dollars, waste is still prevalent in the military. At Camp Bucca, a $26,000,000 American-made sewage treatment plant sits idle because there is currently not enough waste to operate it. The plant was built at the same time a temporary detention facility was created, and my comedy troupe became only the third set of civilians ever allowed inside the "prison."

Prison is in quotes, because public relations is the most important thing in Iraq at the moment. Having won the war, winning hearts and minds is front and center on the American agenda, and that is done through attrition. Blackhawk gunners drop "Candy Bombs" when they see children, sweet treats not unlike the chocolate GIs handed out in WW2. Such actions are meant to win the future generation, but the current people of power are won over using kindness, explanation, and education.

(And, of course, sleight-of-hand in labels.)

After the disaster that was Abu Ghraib, Camp Bucca became the go-to place for sending insurgents. As "prison" has a negative connotation to it, "detention center" became one label used in description, but the most common is "TIF," which stands for "Theater Internment Facility." At its peak, it held 21,000 detainees, and those 21,000 detainees were watched over by less than 6,000 troops. With that many people pooping daily, the sewage treatment plant had enough waste to hum along nicely. Today, Iraq is building its own prisons and America is slowly turning control of all detainees over to them. The center at Bucca is emptying out, and no people means no waste, meaning we essentially built a $26,000,000 structure for temporary use.

In some cases, detainees leaving behind the barbed wire walls are doing so on good standing. Many inmates arrive for reasons somewhat out of their control, as insurgents threaten Iraqis as much as they do Americans. A typical peasant is brought into a terrorist cell through the use of intimidation.

"Tonight, after dark, you will go to this spot, and dig a hole," an insurgent tells a farmer. "If you do it, I will give you one thousand dollars. If you do not, I will kill your family."

So the farmer goes and digs the hole.

Meanwhile, the insurgent approaches another below-average Iraqi citizen: "You will go to this hole, tomorrow night, and run wires from this point, to this point…" with the same threat against his family following the instructions.

So, the second person heads to the hole with wires.

If those two complete their tasks, on the third night, the insurgent takes his IED and completes the cycle.

Sadly, more often than not the first two people are those captured by American forces, leaving the actual insurgent remaining free. The peasants cannot be let go, because they were technically a part of the cell, but their role in things is better understood today. They are no longer lumped in as one with actual religious zealots, and they are allowed family visits and have the ability to learn to read and/or a skill. Where Abu Ghraib was about living in squalor and setting Guinness World Records for "stacked naked inmates," Camp Bucca was created for education and reform.

Those interned for minor offenses are taught both woodworking and farming skills. More importantly, they are taught to read, which is a key component for a bright Iraqi future. By teaching a person to read, they are able then to apply a more critical thought process to life. Thus, when an Imam or cleric from a violent school of thought tells them the Koran says they should be living a life of jihad, the peasant can then open the book and decipher it themselves.

Not all captured have innocence in them, however. Those with absolute hatred were housed within the barbed wire and high fences, and their anger was so great that escape tunnels were once discovered. Said tunnels did not head away from the prison, they were being dug into the camp proper. The insurgents didn't want to escape; they wanted to emerge within the walls of the camp itself, that they might have a chance to kill more Americans. These are the people so consumed by fury they spit on soldiers, and create piss and shit bombs to toss their way. Even though they are treated to three square meals a day and the same medical care as every American soldier--better medical care than many American citizens receive--they remain hateful and violent. All the while, our soldiers remain stoic. They do not react when insulted, nor do they strike inmates when spat upon, because taken out of context, the story or a picture of an American guard defending himself against an attacking detainee would spark outrage among many in the Muslim world.

Fortunately, there just might exist a thing called Karma in the universe. When Iraq takes full control of these facilities, there will be fewer and fewer insurgent prisoners. Iraqi guards are blithely matter-of-fact in assessment of how they are going to deal with the militants. Ask an Iraqi guard, "What do you plan to do with violent insurgents when you take over?" and you will receive a bored shrug in response: "Kill them."

There are times I absolutely wish the American prison system worked this way. I don't think the death penalty should be used as revenge or as a deterrent to crime, it should simply be used because some people don't deserve to breathe air. Rape a woman? Molest a child? Torture someone because you're a sociopath? A bored shrug should be all that's given as the switch is flicked that you may ride the lightning of an electric chair.

Camp Bucca was my favorite base, if only for the "holy-fuck-is-it-a-small-world" moment that happened. Walking through the chow hall at lunch, I glanced down and saw a familiar face. The Wisconsin National Guard was in charge of the base during my visit, and Wisconsin is where I spent most of my formative years. I hadn't seen the fella in about four years, but Chad, an old bartender from The Comedy Club on State in Madison was sitting, in his Army garb, eating.

He was a little disappointed, because he had seen my poster and wanted to surprise me after the show, but seeing him first was better, because I had a story I could pull out on stage that night and embarrass him with. Chad was engaged when I knew him, and to this day unintentionally said one of the funniest quotes I have ever heard. About four months out from their blissful day, Chad's fiancée brought up one of the issues they would have to deal with. I'm not sure if it was the catering, invitations, DJ, or band, but it doesn't matter. What matters is how Chad responded, because he offhandedly tossed out, "Oh, didn't I tell you? I moved the wedding date. I didn't think the one we had was going to work out."

I repeat: Chad said this to his bride to be, casually, four months out from their wedding.

Suffice to say, the two are not wedded today, nor are they even together anymore. Chad did inform me, however, he eventually did meet the right woman, and they will be married upon his return to the states.

* * *

As always, events blurred together by the end of the tour. Bits of note that amused me involve the little, larger, and enormous. On the small side of things, when arriving at Camp Basrah, I was amazingly amused by the fact my private quarters had a Winnie The Pooh welcome mat in them.

On the larger aspect of life experiences, when traveling for extended periods of time, I tend to stop shaving and document my freedom using a travel-beard. This means that several days into any trip, I have a decent scruff going, and on a military base, it gets attention. Male members of the military, as one might expect, are clean-cut and clean-shaven. All save for one small segment, one that wears their hair thick and grows their facial hair to match. These are the Special Forces, men who wander into the wilderness and disappear for days and even weeks at a time. Regular soldiers don't know exactly what they do, but on many a base they are looked upon with wary eyes; I remember well the first time soldiers started giving me a somewhat wide berth when I attempted to walk among them. It was a Master Sergeant that finally explained my way that when I looked scruffy and walked with an air of indifference concerning protocol, it was believed I was indeed a member of the Special Forces. To combat the confusion, I started walking with a goofy smile on my face so no one would at first fear me, then feel cheated when seeing me telling jokes that evening: "Hey, I thought that guy could kill me with his pinkie finger, but it turns out he's just some douchebag!"

Finally, regarding the most mammoth of life experiences, when traveling between two bases on a C-130, a question came down from the cockpit: "Any of you guys wanna fly the plane?"

There are moments in life where you think you heard something, but aren't exactly sure and request it be repeated for clarity. Being asked if I wanted to fly a plane was definitely one of those moments.

In full candor, I'm positive I was allowed behind the stick for two reasons: one, the plane was 100% empty. There was no risk to anyone or anything, the only cargo aboard being three expendable comedians. Two, the pilots know their shit backwards, forwards, inside and out. There was no way I could crash it before they could re-assume control, if need be.

So there I sat, in the cockpit of a military plane with everything under my control. The sad thing about trying to describe such a feeling is that words do fail. I know exactly what pure joy is, because I've been skydiving and ridden in a Blackhawk helicopter. Pure joy is your body feeling alive, tingling with excitement. Flying an airplane without any warning or training, by comparison, is almost too much to comprehend.

A transparent, teleprompter-type screen was placed in front of my eye-line; on it were a series of graphics, circles, lines, and numbers. The pilot explained the graphics to me and said my goal was to keep the big circle centered over the little circle. He then intoned, "She's all yours," and released the controls. Touching controls in front of you, and feeling several hundred tons of metal move under you, is an odd sensation indeed. If I nudged the stick left, the entire plane would sway left immediately. If I fingertip-pushed down, we swooped sharply. The plane was big, but she was sensitive. Just like a fat girl mustering up the courage to ask a boy to prom.

I'm not sure if it's the way the human mind is wired, or just me being a little off, but it kept crossing my mind to push into a nosedive. Not to endanger anyone, just for the fun of doing so. Sort of a, "Well, you're test-driving this puppy, let's see what she can do" feeling. After the fifth time the devil on my shoulder whispered how exciting it would be, I started feeling almost guilty. I knew I wouldn't do such a thing, but damn if some part of me wasn't interested in seeing what would happen if I did.

The tour finished back in Kuwait. We boarded a Blackhawk in Iraq and sped south across the border in the best taxi a person could ever hope for. Flying hundreds of feet above the surface, the scenery remained the same, yet changed at the same time. Iraq's economy is a mess, whereas Kuwait is oil-rich. The highways in Iraq were sand-blown, like a North Dakota plain in winter, nature's substance of choice whipping across the man-made intruder. In Kuwait, though all still looked of sand and waste, the roads stood out as having been maintained. Power lines appeared, and they too looked first, not third world, in quality.

Not wanting to leave us on a happy note, B tried one final time to damage our trip. He didn't meet us at the landing pad; another representative did. The man was kind, and began reading our itinerary to us: "Ok, you'll spend tonight, tomorrow night, then..."

And we interrupted him.

"Two nights? Um, we fly home tomorrow."

"Really? B didn't arrange any transportation for tomorrow."

We shook our collective comedic heads, which was all we could do. Transportation would be arranged for our actual flights home, but it was still a testament to the incompetence that was B that we had to explain our orders to the people that issued them.

My trip ended as it started, with an injury of sorts. Why I feel the need to embarrass myself is beyond my understanding; one would think that as I author the events of my trip I could easily edit out anything less than flattering. Unfortunately, I am too much an idiot to protect my self-esteem.

The Middle East, it goes without saying, is hot. It is a desert clime, and temperatures easily reached upwards of 120 degrees during my visit, which isn't horrible considering it was regularly warmer the last time I visited. I still have in my possession a picture of a thermometer reading 140 degrees from that previous tour.

Such sunny situations can create a not-so-fresh feeling in the darker regions of the human body, and suffice to say, I succumbed to an unfortunate affliction the region offers to unsuspecting visitors. Basically, my pores bled free so much sweat by my bottom I returned to America with what could best be described as severe case of "Adult Onset Diaper Rash."

Seeing a physician for such an ailment was hardly flattering, though when scheduling the appointment, for half a second my mind flashed to the comedic value of saying "woman" when asked my preference in doctor. Embarrassment and ego won out, however, and I asked for a man to tackle the unfortunate task of examining my red flesh.

Upon meeting my white-coated new friend, I apologized in advance for what he was about to look at. He laughed, and was kind, gentle, and professional; he told me looking up my heroin-hider was no different than looking into my ear, considering how often he researched both orifices.

It was diagnosed I did indeed have chaffed skin betwixt my cheeks, and that I would need a medical gel to go above and beyond the duty any over-the-counter cream could handle in healing me.

Sadly, in hearing this news, Lyds immediately pulled out the "We're not married yet" card, meaning it was not within her obligations to help apply an ointment to my balloon knot. I showed her the still visible welt on my leg, reminding her of all I'd gone through for her, but she was not swayed in the slightest.

Oh well, apparently no good deed ever does go unpunished, especially when dealing with the animal known as woman. Maybe one day I'll dial Lyds up on Skype.

That'll show her.

video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3NI7GPIfJBg

The Gay Days of Boston

2009-04-16T15:41:00.000-07:00

After graduating from High School in 1988, I had absolutely no clue what I wanted to do with myself. Actually, I take that right back. I wanted to be either Sting, or a bass player in a heavy metal band like Slayer or Metallica. I just had no idea how anyone went about obtaining such a career, especially living in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Being in a high school cover band didn't exactly lend itself to grabbing a recording contract, and when it came to writing original music, we hadn't even tried. A possible lack of ambition may have played a role in our apathy, but more than that, we were entirely ignorant in the ways of writing unique material.
For reasons that escape me now, I knew I didn't want to go to college. At least, not immediately that fall. I had just escaped the rigid structure of authority and oppression known as "public education," and didn't want to turn right around to re-enter it. Many teens look at college as an escape into partying and carefree existence; having had such a shit time from 7th - 12th grade, I thought "further education" more enforced repression. The problem was, without college, what was I going to do with my time?
Comedian Doug Stanhope has a hilarious bit in his past that translates the "Scared Straight" drug intimidation program into a "enjoy life" seminar. I cannot do the joke justice, but the gist is: instead of using addicts to scare teens away from drugs, take teens to a factory. Scare them into living life by bearing them witness to a soul who has punched a time card for thirty years of existence. A bit cruel to the blue-collar crowd, yes, but effective. Many years before I was ever a comedian or had ever heard of Mr. Stanhope, I lived the joke. My parents, though not forceful, were firm: if I didn't want to go to college, I would have to get a job. Not a "summer job," such as the ones I had been busying myself with through high school, but an actual job. My mother looked over the open positions list in the J.C. Penny warehouse; I applied for one and was hired.
Back then, Penny's held hidden ownership of a home shopping network. People would watch TV and order away to their hearts desires, not realizing they were simply getting re-labeled items from the company catalog. I became a packager for this division. Every morning I'd rise somewhere around 5am, drive 30-45 minutes to Milwaukee, punch in, and receive a list of wares. I would walk the aisles of stock, pick what I could reach wait for those on forklifts to grab the upper items. Everything would be taken to my station where I would box, protect with Styrofoam peanuts, and seal and label the every purchase. The ready-to-ship article would be placed on a cart, and when the day was done all carts were pushed to the docks to be loaded on a truck and shipped off around the country. I believe I knew five minutes in to my first shift that this was not my idea of a fun future.
With every day came the same routine. Pick an order, pack an order, go on break, repeat. The monotony seemed destructive to the soul. At least to my soul, that is. There is a reason people get blind stinking drunk every Friday night, and trying to blank out the previous five days of their lives is usually it.
There were those around me who hated every moment of their existence while at work. Others treated the job as if nothing more than a paycheck, and there did exist a magical few who had the wonderfully sunny disposition that allowed them to enjoy their jobs. They performed the daily routine happily, and lifted my spirits when I was less than enthused with my lot in life. I befriended an upbeat forklift driver named Rick; he became my lifeline to inner peace amidst the lifeless drones and angry workers. We would talk Monty Python and other such comedic gems throughout the day, and his presence gave me focus. I had chosen this path; I might as well walk it in enjoyment.
One year in the warehouse was enough. I worked fall through Christmas, was laid off after the holiday, and was re-hired a few weeks later after I filed for unemployment, something done at my father's behest. According to him, it was another "life lesson," more "real-world" experience. In my mind, I was nineteen and laid off from a job I didn't want in the first place, so filing for unemployment felt like taking advantage of the system. I thought should just move on and find something to do with my life that actually interested me, so that's exactly what I did.
In the spring of 1989, I applied to and was accepted by the Berklee College of Music in Boston, Massachusetts. Music still interested me, while regular college did not. Plus, working for a year gave me both a good foundation for the tuition and decent insight into the importance of focus. I was aware of several former classmates who had partied hard their first year away from home, and were thus removed from the college roster due to poor grades. Unlike some of my peers, my enlightenments came while earning a paycheck, not while paying tuition.
The only thing I remember about leaving for Boston is my mother crying. It comes to mind because I thought it so odd. I had no idea what "empty nest syndrome" was, and I was just leaving for school, not dying. As our home wasn't all that happy a place to be, I thought it a good thing to be getting out. Little did I know then that staying with my father was something my mother had done strictly for my sister and I. Fifty percent of her reason for being under his roof was now out the door.
I arrived at Berklee full of excitement and hope. Delusions of rock stardom shone in my eyes, and I believed that the institution held the answers to the music world I desperately longed to know. As with much expectation in life, the letdown came fast, and hard. I discovered the school was more a technical institute than anything else, one teaching proficiencies rather than creativity.
It's entirely unfair to sum up my educational experience with one story, but I'm going to do it anyway. I took a course, Songwriting 101, where students were taught structure. The idea was to learn how to write a song for any medium, be it jazz, pop, or a thirty-second commercial. I was unhappy from the start, believing the whole point behind music was to lose structure, not enforce it; if you were creating a song, you did so with what was inside you and if that had you coloring outside the lines of conformity, so be it. I cite the Red Hot Chili Peppers as an example: in his autobiography, Anthony Kedis states that when the band first started, they had no idea how to write songs. They wrote what they felt, and that was that. Later on, they learned about verse-chorus-verse-bridge-chorus pop construction, and began to use it. Personally, I find more originality and interest in anything and everything the band did from Freaky Styley through Blood Sugar Sex Magic than anything they've done since 1992. I didn't know why until I read Anthony's book, but that made it crystal clear. They went from outliers to the norm, which had them lose an intangible spark to my ears.
For the songwriting class, I wrote my pop-ditty and attempted my jazz standard. When it came to the "TV jingle," I was struck with inspiration. While I in no way remember the melody behind my masterpiece (meaning "not masterpiece"), I remember the title and a bit of the lyrics. It was either an ad for condoms or a PSA for safe sex and was called, "Baby on the Way." The line retained in my mind is, "You slipped between her thighs, but didn't condomize, and now there's a baby on the way!" This is why I'm no longer a musician.
While I smiled at my little musical silliness, my professor did not. He, in fact, lectured me on inappropriate behavior in the classroom, as if I were in junior high and not an expensive specialty college. During his rant, he asked me; "What if the dean had come in at that moment? What if he stopped by to audit my class and heard that filth?"
"Fuck if I know," I laughed inside my head, but did not say. I sat and listened to the beratement with confused irritation, and let it go. Sadly, the professor did not.
Later that month, a teacher I did like pulled me aside and said the songwriting professor had been complaining about me to other staff members, and those other staff members were taking note. I couldn't believe it. I was attending an institution that purported being about expression, yet was running into someone petty and close-minded right off the bat. One song, and I was already on my way to becoming a pariah. The experience tainted my time there, yet at the same time sums up the school: a drummer named Barrett had the near exact same experience in Arranging 101. The professor lowered Barrett's grade for arranging his chosen song in a manner "too odd to be commercial." What were they teaching, expression or conformity?
As stated, it is somewhat unfair to use that single story to explain my attitude towards the school, but it does encapsulate all my experiences into one. While Berklee seems, in retrospect, to be a very decent factory for churning out technicians, I would argue it still failed on every level when attempting to nurture creativity. I still remember how good I felt when, half way through my 3rd semester, I simply realized, "I don't like this. I don't have to attend next semester. I can stop here and re-assess my life." That decision saved me thousands upon thousands of dollars and taught me there is nothing wrong with recalibrating your goals, even if it isn't the most socially acceptable decision.
The classroom aside, dorm life I did enjoy. I met a bunch of wonderful people who should have become lifelong friends, but have somehow managed to fade into the ether that is memory. Berklee had two dormitories at the time, and thanks to a curse of the Gods I was placed in the satellite location, the all-male one. While the sausage-fest aspect was irritating, the camaraderie was enjoyable indeed.
The building was a dump, but was beautiful to me in all its cramped, one-room glory. Three students were supposed to share each small space, but my West Virginian roommate Roy and I had fortune smile on us our first semester; our scheduled third never arrived. This was indeed a lucky break, as the room was barely big enough for one person, much less two or three. I never met the man, but I owe Ruben Scottomeyer a debt of gratitude for skipping out on his obligation to college. And yes, that was his name. My sister found it so absurd she named her dog "Reuben" in honor of that missing man.
My room was on the 4th floor of the Hemenway Building, named so simply for the street it resided on. Over the course of the first few weeks, a group of students from several rooms on the South side of the dorm became known as the "4th-Floor-Posse." Silly? Absolutely. But in reflection, perfect. We were a tight band of idiots who bonded like young men are supposed to bond in such situations.
There was Estephano, an African-American Republican from Malibu. To be black and Republican was one thing, but to be a musician in a jazz school and have a conservative lean? He was absolutely an oddity. His roommate Rick was known for the entire year as "condom," as he showed up as if in a 1980s teen sex comedy, with one suitcase full of clothes, and one full of prophylactics. Down the hall was a trio of cohorts, Chris, J.J. and Barrett. Next to them was a room with two students I cannot remember by name, but hilariously recall in description. By the luck of all draws, somehow two boys who were Goth before it was even called Goth, ended up in the same room. They painted their windows black, wore all black, and pushed their beds together, that they be able to snuggle at night. One we called "Batman," because of the cape he wore everywhere, and it is to the testament of a school of the arts two students could express themselves openly like that. People laughed and poked fun a bit, but overall accepted them for who they were. I doubt a college with football jocks would have been so forgiving.
I have no idea how friendships are made, but Barrett and I seemed to figure out early on we were going to get along well together. J.J. was another matter. He had two things going against him: a temper problem and a girlfriend out of his league. She was attractive, he was a goof, and while they made decent high school sweethearts, she began stretching her college legs immediately upon separation. She went to school somewhere across the state, and whenever he would call her dorm her roommate would say she was out with another boy. This drove J.J. insane. To make matters worse, her name was Muffy, and we all ran riot with that ammunition. J.J. stood vigilant over her handle the best he could; no one was supposed to mock the name or even allude to the idea it might have a double meaning, one rooted in sexuality and the female anatomy. Like a famous Howard Stern sketch, sitting around on a lazy afternoon, several of us started tossing out anything we could relating to "muff," just to get on J.J.'s nerves.
"Man, it's cold outside," someone would say. "I need ear MUFFS to even go to class."
"True that," another would respond. "Hey, you want to go to the bakery and get some MUFFins later?"
J.J. began to pout and scolded us, making me roll my eyes. I grabbed one of the many pornographic magazines laying around, opened it to a random page and pointed at the lovely upside-down triangle the woman wore--this was in the days before the ubiquitous landing strip--and said, "You know what? THIS is muff! Deal with it!" I threw the magazine at J.J. and left the room. J.J. went ballistic. He had to be restrained to prevent him from chasing me. When he realized I was probably back in my room and out of reach, he destroyed his room, upending his desk and kicking the bathroom door in half. When all was finally calm again, Barrett, in a bit of inspired brilliance, got up, walked into the bathroom, closed the remaining half of the door and took a leak as if nothing had happened. Several years after leaving Berklee and Boston, I received an update from the college. They sent out a journal listing current and previous students, and what they were up to. J.J. and the company he worked for were listed, so I decided to check it out. After business hours, I called the company office and listened to the directory menu. J.J.'s name came up, and I pressed the proper digits to get his line. After his brief outgoing message and the ensuing beep, I yelled, "MUFFY-MUFFY MUFF-MUFF!!" into the phone for twenty seconds and hung up. I may not be coffee, but I bet that got him fired up the next morning.
As a collective, the posse would do silly and stupid things, such as going to the corner pizza shop at 2am wearing our bathrobes and pajamas. While all others were drunkenly stumbling in from the bars, we would dine away in the corner, wearing slippers and attracting odd stares. Other stupidities involved several of us stealing away to other floors and making off with the florescent lighting in their hallways. Leaving our fellow students in darkness amused us, and tossing the lights out the window made for nice little popping implosions when they landed in the enclosed courtyard between the neighboring buildings. One of my favorite bits of entertainment was to leave food in the garbage can in my room, and then find mice in it after returning from class. The little buggers could get in when they smelled food, but couldn't scramble their way back out after dining. I would take the garbage can down to the first floor and tip it at the base of a door, allowing the frightened mouse to scurry under the crack and into some unwitting person's room.
Naturally, being in an all-male dorm at a school where boys outnumbered girls two to one meant very few of us were getting any of that wild college sex we'd heard so much about. Pornography was the interest of the day, and as Al Gore hadn't yet invented the Internet, free, easy access to smut didn't exist. A single television in the windowless dorm basement was available for student use, and one of my fondest memories is of a late-night porn-fest that was attempted. The absolute specifics of the evening are long gone from my mind, but the most important moment remains. The community room was separated from the stairwell by a small hallway. The television inside the community room was old school, with a knob and dials and no remote control. It was attached to an enormous and clunky 1970's era VCR. One night, someone, and I've no idea who, bought and brought a sex tape to the community room. Word spread throughout the building quickly: get downstairs now, because the show is about to start. Fifty or sixty young men crowded themselves into the space and waited in anticipation. As we knew watching such content was against dorm rules, we placed two guards as lookouts: one stood at the base of the stairs, and I stood in the doorway to the community room. Should an authority figure arrive, signals would be given that the porn should be halted.
The event began with giggles and nervous energy; the video started amidst hoots and hollers; "I'm sorry, I ordered a pizza, but don't think I can afford it... Is there any other way I can pay you?" It was every delivery boy's fantasy played out by a beautiful woman.
Naturally, when an entire dorm disappears, those in charge take notice. Soon enough, a resident assistant came inspecting, and from the base of the stairs my fellow guard signaled. I reached an arm inside the room and snapped my fingers, then gestured wildly; "Nix the tape! Nix the tape!" What happened next is something I will always remember fondly.
A fast acting yet slow thinking student leapt to his feet.
He darted to the television.
He turned the television off.
He sat back down.
The resident assistant opened the door to the community room to find fifty (or sixty) kids sitting in a pitch-black room, staring at a blank television screen.
If there were any way to represent the word "awkward" in the dictionary using the feeling in that room at that second, perfection would be indeed achieved.
There was a moment of utter silence, and then in a moment of absolute pure genius, something so rarely achieved in life, a Canadian drummer named Pat Aldus firmly intoned, "So the bartender says..."
There was another second of silence, and then everyone just busted out laughing. Yes, the cleverest of covers, fifty (or sixty) young men had been sitting in a dark, windowless basement in complete silence, facing an extinguished television, waiting for a punchline. I believe we all got off with a stern warning on public decency, and I probably shouldn't have used the phrase "got off" right there. Good times.
Money was always tight, and it was the enterprising drummer named Barrett who came across an interesting advertisement designed to alleviate our suffering: we could donate sperm. The ad said they paid $35 a shot for something many of us were already shooting down shower drains and into tissue paper for free, and eyebrows raised in interest. The posse split somewhere down the middle on the issue; 50% said, "Fuck yeah!" where the other half played prudish and lied, saying, "I don't do that." Those of us willing to announce our private dalliances rolled our eyes; at that age, everyone masturbates, even Christians. They just cry during and pray afterward.
A group field trip was organized, and sperm bank contacted. Those interested could attend at the scheduled donation time, between seven and eight in the morning Monday through Friday. We were startled and wondered if an afternoon arrangement could be worked out. It could not. The bank wanted donors in and out of the building before it opened for clients. No fraternizing with the ladies was the rule of the day, because they would either (a) discover just what miscreants were fathering their children, or (b) take an attraction to a donor and decide to get the sperm the old fashioned way. Ok, maybe not (b) so much, but the fantasies of college students are not too far off from those of pizza delivery drivers.
The group was collectively unhappy. Not only were many of us oft-times getting to bed around seven in the morning, but above and beyond that we wondered, "Who could pleasure themselves that early?" Yes, Virginia, there exists "Morning Wood," but that's generally a piss-on and it creates a different kind of release, one generally found on fetishists websites. Worry ran high that no one would be able to perform at such an odd hour.
As money is still money, however, several of us decided to give it the old college try. Even if we failed flaccidly, we'd still have a laugh and a story to tell. A day was chosen, alarms were set, and bright and early one morn we subwayed our way across town.
There are letdowns in life, and there exists disappointment. I don't exactly remember what I imagined the place would be when gearing myself up for arrival, but a stale looking office building wasn't it. I had hoped for a bit of flair, or something somewhat seedy, but all was cold, sterile, and professional. We were checked in, handed a plastic cup, and shown to an examination room.
Sadly, the best they did pornography-wise was, no lie, the Sears catalog.
Again, I'm not sure exactly what my imagination led me to believe donating sperm would entail, but sitting in a doctor's office at seven in the morning attempting to attain orgasm to bra and panty shots wasn't it. In the least, I expected the playful shame of videotapes or magazines a little more along the hard-core line. To make matters worse, they didn't even provide lubrication, something a necessity unless you're interested in chaffing. Dry-jacking can be a painful experience indeed.
I struggled, and I wasn't alone. I was actually the second person from the group to enter the waiting room after finishing, and I had taken thirty minutes. These weren't thirty minutes of "for your pleasure, ladies" blue steel. They were thirty, uncomfortable, "I believe I've made some wrong choices in life" minutes with at best a half-staff of embarrassment. To the janitor's credit, however, a side note of irony, or fun, is that when finished shooting Mark Spitz's into the cup, I washed up using Ivory Liquid Hand Soap. Cute visual, I thought.
I wasn't alone in my difficulties; Barrett took forty-five long minutes to procreate into his cup, and others finished anywhere within the thirty to forty-five minute mark. The speediest member of our group was a tiny Cuban we nicknamed "Rocco." He was in and out in under two-minutes. Only our friend Peite proudly proclaimed he enjoyed the experience, as he was having so much fun he sat in the gynecological stirrups (yippie-kai-aye, motherfucker). Peite was also the only one who admitted to having masturbated the night before, "in preparation." Only upon arrival the first morning did they tell us we weren't supposed to ejaculate for forty-eight hours beforehand, that we not deplete our reserves. Oh, and yes, Peite is how his name is spelled.
Over the course of several weeks, people rotated in and out of the donating process; I believe only Barrett and I went every time. Many were one-and-done; some gave several valiant attempts. When donating sperm, you need an extraordinarily high count of swimmers, as many die in the storage process. Sadly, we were all only average, and no one was hired on after the trial run.
Peite, by the way, was a damned interesting and intelligent person; I'd liken him to Oliver Wendell Jones from Bloom County. Somewhere in his teen years, a government body, CIA or FBI, I forget which, confiscated Peite's computer. They said he had broken into too many forbidden sites to be allowed to keep it. While at Berklee, I personally watched him break into NASA, right from his dorm room. He called the phone company, and cracked their code. Using the phone company, he routed his call through several countries to hide his location, and then ultimately phoned up Houston. Once there, he rooted around NASA until he found a way in.
At one point, Peite looked into changing our grades to all A's, a la Matthew Broderick in Wargames, but that never came about. He set his computer up to call every single number within the local region, and make a note of computer lines that answered. He was going to then figure out which one was Berklee's server, and hack into it. Maybe he ultimately decided that changing a series of grades would be too public, but I watched for a while as his computer dialed number after number in our area code.
I haven't talked to him in several years, but last I heard he was working for Richard Clarke. Peite's inquisitive nature always got the best of him, and one day after Berklee the government came calling again. He'd been frisky with his computer, again, and they had an ultimatum: work for us, or go to jail. As jail is always a shitty option, he went to work for The Man. An old professor friend of mine told me to google his name, and then to click "images." Sure as shit, I found shots of him sitting next to people like Condi Rice and at the same table as Bill Clinton. I laughed heartily upon seeing such photos. Look them up if you're bored; his last name is Zatko.
Though our grades never got changed, Peite helped me save money, that much I remember. For several dollars worth of materials, he was able to put together a hand-held tone generator. When used at a pay phone, it tricked the system into thinking a quarter had been inserted. I would dial any long distance number I wanted to, and when the recorded voice said, "Please insert five dollars," I would just press the device twenty times. This worked every single time, up until the one mishap when an actual operator jumped on and asked for the money to be inserted. I hung up on that occasion.
Donating sperm wasn't the only way to make money back then; medical science existed, too. Barrett, ever the eagle eye, discovered another advertisement, one offering cash to take part in experimental treatments. The medical world is always coming up with new pills with which to cure society's ills, and though I believe such things should be tested on prisoners for our benefit, apparently that's unconstitutional and a violation of personal rights. Such was my financial gain in college, as the only way to find willing subjects was to have those in need sign waivers and offer payment. Barrett and I thought it would be a place full of other college students, but when we arrived we found only the homeless and other such downtrodden people milling around. Barrett bowed out immediately, leaving me to my own devices.
I had to go in two weekends in a row, each time arriving on Friday evening and staying in the facility for twenty-four hours solid. Bright and early Saturday morning, I was given pills. To this day, I'm not sure exactly what I took. The institution divided everyone into two groups: control and actual drug. You got either a placebo, or the medication, and you had no idea which.
The first weekend was fine, save for the blood draws and boredom. After taking the pills, I had to give blood samples four times within the first hour, then every half-hour after that for twelve hours. No technology existed to pop in one needle and then seal off the vein, they had to poke a new hole every single time. At the end of the day, I looked like a junkie, but felt fine. I figured I got lucky and received the placebo, or the drug was actually a decent thing to put on the market.
The second weekend, however, everything went wrong. It's all a haze to me now, but I remember Roy wondering how in the hell I got released in the condition I was in. At the end of the day I was shaking, stark-white pale, had a fever and the chills all at once and was incoherent. I signed myself out of the facility, got on a bus and near passed out during the ride. When I made it back to the dorm, I startled everyone who saw me and went straight to bed. I slept most of Sunday, waking up only in time for dinner. Fortunately, by then, whatever was in my system had departed. I wisely decided I didn't need money that badly, and next time I was broke the payday wouldn't come at the expense of my health.
Though we were all broke and living in a male dominated school, alliances with females eventually started occurring. The miscreant called "condom" lived up to his name not by successes, but attempts. One cold winter day, he played the "Oops, I accidentally left my jacket at your dorm and walked home a mile in the zero degree weather" game, that he might get a second date from a girl he offended with his advances. Far as I know, it didn't work and he needed to buy a new parka.
Living in the dormitory and attempting to hook up with co-eds was interesting, to say the least. Before the advent of cell phones and texting, placing a coat hanger on the door wasn't Hollywood invention, it was necessity. When it someone got lucky, there existed no way to get quick word to a roommate: "I've got a live one, don't come home." So on rare evenings, you'd find you weren't welcome in your own room. You'd have to amuse yourself until either 3AM (at best) or all night (at worst), finding either somewhere to wander or another floor to crash upon.
One such night, I found myself on the un-fun outside side of the door. Sexual escapades where happening within, and apparently I wasn't invited to watch, coach, or film, so I decided to go for a stroll. It was late, and I wasn't in much of a social mood, so I meandered down Mass Ave. towards the St. Charles River, and realized I had never walked along it.
The path along the St. Charles River, at least in my neck of the Berklee woods, was depressed in setting from the surrounding topography. You had to find a set of stairs from the street down to the river, and once on the path while between two sets of stairs, you were "trapped." Though it was nearing 2AM, the trail seemed well lit enough to be safe, so I made my way down and walked my Eastward way.
This would be my undoing.
Approaching a set of stairs, I saw a man carrying a bike from the street to the path. A quick mental calculation told me he would reach the base of the stairs at the exact moment I would. As he carried a bike, my hope was he would hop on and ride away. My fear was he would be a chatty-Cathy and strike up a conversation. Naturally, my baser instincts proved correct. I had an inner impulse tell me to head up the same stairs he was coming down, but I labeled it "paranoia." Word to the wise, never neglect your niggling little spidey-senses.
Here's the thing with being in an anti-social mood: you generally feel guilty about being prickish. The bike wielding man was actually very amiable, and we struck up an easy conversation. I began thinking, "I'm such a horrible person, not even wanting to say 'hello' to a fellow late-night wanderer." The man was, or claimed to be, a professor at either Harvard or M.I.T.--one of the big-brain universities--and was an easy enough conversationalist. So much so, that when we hit one of those issuances of speak called a lag in conversation, though it wasn't horribly awkward or uncomfortable, I, the person who initially was against such a back and forth flow of words in the first place, felt compelled to offer up a continuance.
"So..." I intoned, pointing at his bike, "you out cruising?"
"Actually," his reply began, "I was cruising you."
While physically I continued walking, my mind hit pause.
"Cruising... me?"
My cockeyed glance was enough to elicit a laugh, and an explanation.
"Oh, I figured out a while ago you aren't gay," he stated. "You're new to Boston, aren't you?"
Indeed I was.
"Well, after midnight, walking the river is a way for men to meet and hook up. Head off into the bushes, or someplace hidden."
"Funny," I muttered, furrowing my brow, "that's not mentioned in Fodor's guide to Boston."
While I didn't mind getting hit on, especially considering it was me treading on his turf, what bothered me was the insistency with which he continued. As I was stuck walking until the next stairwell, he had ample opportunity to turn his charm on, and therefore not respect my state of being.
"So," he began. "Ever try it?"
"I'm no Mikey," I replied.
"What?"
"Cereal reference, never mind."
"Ever considered it?"
"Ever consider that every time the right-wing Christian agenda goes after your rights, your group argues 'biological orientation?'"
He hemmed and hawed, but had no real response for my question.
I escaped further badgering at the next set of stairs, but I did not escape further attractions. Boston was a bit of a gay Mecca for me; I was approached often, and began to mockingly shake my fist at the Heavens that I was so attractive to men, while my luck with women was as sporadic at best.
In the dark ages before digital downloads and mp3's being used to sell music, Tower Records was a behemoth in the record industry. All was carried within its walls, from books and magazines, to music and movies. Of course, in 1990, "movies" meant "big, clunky VHS tapes." Not nifty Blu Ray or DVD discs. Being a poor college student, I'd often away into Tower Records to peruse the periodicals I couldn't afford to buy.
On one such visit, as I read my music magazine touting why the bass guitar I owned was inferior to the one displayed within its pages, a tiny fella approached me. His height fell somewhere between 5'4" and 5'6", he was balding and had a dark, Mediterranean complexion. When he spoke, the accent was thick, distinct French.
He asked if I was a student, followed it with, "Where," and became quite animated when I responded with my, "Berklee."
"Oh," he smiled, "You are musician! I am musician! I am student! We should jam together; play our instruments and create beautiful music for the world to listen to!"
While I'm not always a fan of my suspicious nature, his enthusiasm seemed a bit disingenuous to me. He continued to talk and began peppering me with questions. I answered him, but did so while continuing to read, never giving him my full attention and usually responding monosyllabically. He eventually asked for my phone number, and as I didn't have one, I told him to call the pay phone at the Hemenway dorm. It was listed in the student directory; if he were a student, he'd have access to it. If not, no loss to me.
Student or not, soon enough, the phone began ringing. My dorm room was back to back with the wall the phone was on, so several times a day someone would thump the plaster for my attention.
"Timmel! Phone!" would come muting through the wall.
"Male or female?" I'd ask, because there was always an outside chance it could be a girl, right? (Wrong)
"Male, French!"
"Fuck him!"
"Copy!"
After two days, no one even bothered to ask me if I wanted to take the calls. The phone would ring, the answerer would hear an accent and the phone would be replaced into its cradle. After two weeks, the French phone stopped ringing my way, and I was happy because of it.
I did finally date while at Berklee, and ended going out with an oboe player for several months. While we were together, I discovered I had happenchanced myself out of an interesting homoerotic encounter. We were in her room, playing a game of kissy-face or something along those lines, when a flyer came sliding under the door and captured our attention.
I picked it up and read:

SECURITY NOTICE
It has come to the school's attention, a man is posing as a Berklee student. He is either French or assumes a French accent when speaking and is of dark complexion. This man is not a student, and anyone coming in contact with him should notify the police.

I made a "well how about that" face, and passed the paper to my female companion. She read it and gasped.
"That's him!" she shouted.
"That's who?" I asked.
He was, she explained, the man her roommate's boyfriend met, and met at Tower Records no less. Her roommate's boyfriend was also a student at Berklee, and had taken up the Frenchman's offer of creating "beautiful music for the world to hear." He went to the man's apartment, shared some wine and cheese, and woke up on the floor with his pants around his ankles. The boyfriend stumbled away quickly, too incoherent to realize where he was or how to return police to the apartment later. He tried to make it very clear that he woke up before anything happened, and that the Frenchman was in the bathroom preparing himself, but the popular rumor became the man was in the bathroom washing up after the fact. My fiancée Lydia calls me overly cautious, but I'd say my suspicions of human nature have kept me safe my whole life.
At the end of the school year, we all made promises to keep in touch with one another, but life intervened like it always does. Of everyone, Barrett is the only person I still speak with regularly. When the next school year started, he, Peite and I were the only three of the posse to return to Berklee. Regarding my love live, today I laugh nostalgically at what happened, but at the time our demise wounded me. At the end of the school year, my oboe player and I decided to stay together romantically while apart physically over the summer; she was heading home to New Jersey, and I was staying in Boston. Naturally, her very first letter to me, landing in my mailbox within a week, was a "Dear John" notice. She didn't drop her bomb when departing, but didn't want to be bound to anyone while over the summer. Very confusing at the time, absolutely expected in retrospect.
The fourth floor did have a couple people who made a small splash in the music world. Abe Laboriel Jr. was already a phenomenal drummer when he entered the school, and several years after leaving Berklee I was watching Saturday Night Live when I spotted him playing for the musical guest, Seal. I dialed up Roy and within minutes my call waiting went off as Barrett called me. We were all watching and all amazed and proud. Several years after that, I saw Abe playing for Paul McCartney in Red Square, his famous Russian concert. Again, I was happy for my former dorm-mate.
Letters To Cleo was a near-hit wonder in the 1990s with the song "Here and Now," and I went to see them when they played a small Milwaukee club. The bass player recognized me, and we chatted after the show. My memory needed some jogging, but when he saw me the first words out of his mouth were, "Fourth floor, Hemenway building." I thought the connection nifty.
As said, I wasn't returning home. I had escaped my family and wanted nothing to do with going back. My isolation from them had grown so deep that the following semester, as I was in an apartment of my own and didn't have to worry about the dorm closing for break, I skipped Thanksgiving. In a move of pure selfishness, I also declined to return for my paternal grandmother's funeral, she who had cared for me so often during my childhood. She had wasted away in a hospice, and I had visited her until she no longer recognized me. By the time I was in college, she was no longer lucid. When my grandmother died, she was no longer the woman I knew, and I didn't want to be a part of the procession if it meant having to see my mother and father fake it for public eyes. I felt I had already given my goodbyes, and felt that was more important than putting on a show.
Barrett decided to stay the summer, and he also felt loss that year. The memory evokes odd emotions in me. We lived in an exceedingly small one-bedroom apartment. It was all we could afford, and after living in the dorm, having a living room was like owning a mansion. Neither of us had a box spring or full bed, so we each threw a mattress on the floor and figured that was good enough for government work. The room was so small we were near stepping on one another constantly, which is why what happened was so strange. One night, I went to bed, and Barrett was already asleep. The next morning, I woke up and his bed was empty. I didn't think anything of it figuring he either had to work, or was off farting around somewhere. Several hours later, the phone rang; Barrett was on the other end. He was at home. Home, home. New Jersey, home. His mother had died. He got the call in the middle of the night, packed a quick bag and jumped on an emergency red-eye flight. All without me waking up. I knew not what to say. To this day, the family has no idea what felled the mother Goodwin.
To pay the bills, Barrett and I each got a job working as security guards. Barrett patrolled a parking garage downtown and had to wear a full uniform. I was lucky; I did an overnight shift at a building that was supposed to be under construction, but had run out of funds and dressed casually. The builder's insurance provider didn't want anyone entering the structure, hurting themselves and filing a lawsuit, so they hired guards. All summer I held two jobs; I loaded trucks in the early evening at UPS, then skateboarded the two miles home, ate, and then went off to the empty building. When school started, I kept this schedule as long as I could, then eventually gave up UPS and held on to the security position. Working without supervision, I figured I could do homework and practice at the building. I was right, too, until the place decided to save money by shutting off the power. The unfinished office I was in, already cold but kept bearable by the single space heater, was now freezing and dark. Other guards simply sat in their car for their rotation, but I had no vehicle. I did two shifts in the pitch-black cold night, and then decided if they weren't going to respect me, I wouldn't respect the company. For the final few months before security was pulled entirely, I would show up at my scheduled time and replace the guard before me. I'd take the ledger, fill out all my rounds for the evening, then return home and go to bed. My alarm would go off an hour before the end of my shift, and I'd hike it back to the building to sign off and be replaced by the next worker. After masturbating, it was the easiest money I ever made.
When it came time to register for a fourth semester at Berklee, I took a pass and saved myself a lot of money and debt. With my free time, I explored the city. The Combat Zone is long gone from downtown Boston; when I lived there it was already on its dying days. Once a beacon of prostitution, violence and drug dealing, only a few smut shops remained during my tenure. Peite, Barrett and I would visit it when bored, and when we learned of porn stars passing through to sign autographs, I brought my bass down to be marked up. Barbra Dare was a delightfully warm person, and enjoyed the process, taking pictures with fans for free. Tori Wells was bitter and bored. Someone ahead of us in line asked to take a picture and was scolded severely enough to have us hide our cameras in shame. Jamie Summers was just off-putting in general; she wasn't even a name star, yet was acting like a diva. I didn't like her much.
Several years later, with me living in Milwaukee and Beverly Hills 90210 a huge hit, the cute blonde with a button nose named Jeanie Garth was scheduled to sign autographs at the local auto show. Because nothing screams "teen idol" like "auto show." My roommate at the time Jim and I treated 90210 as a home cooked version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. We'd watch and shout our own dialogue at the screen, laughing at the silly teen soap opera. But when we saw Jeanie was going to be in town, we knew we wanted to attend. Naturally, I brought my bass, and when I plopped it down for her to sign, she glowed.
"You really want me to sign this?" she asked.
"Sure do," I answered.
Then she noticed it had already been marked up.
"Who's are these?" she asked innocently of the signatures.
"Porn stars," I smiled.
Little did I know Jeanie was a hard-core Christian.
She frowned, signed my bass and shoved it aside without giving me a second look. The bass was stolen several years later; the apartment was broken into and much went missing, including, and it still bothers me to this day, my Keebler Rainbow cookies. I remember arriving home and seeing the back window wide open, the screen torn. Then I noticed a blank spot where our television used to be. Frustrated, I went to assuage my anger with a cookie, and they were gone, too.
Goddamn criminals.
Anyway, Barrett, Peite and I also went to the Combat Zone's rundown, old school movie theater that had devolved into a porn theater. The idea being, it'd be damn nifty to see an adult movie like the good old days of "porno chic," when X-rated movies made it to the big screen. The theater had been built in the heyday of Hollywood and was probably forty years old by the time we entered it. Though run down, you could catch a glimpse of what the place used to be like when new. A chandelier hung from the domed, ornamented ceiling, and artwork was painted onto the outer walls. I was of mixed mind while there; on the one hand, it was nice, in a strange way, to see it still in existence and not boarded up or torn down. On the other hand, it was a dilapidated mess showing pornography. Sadly, while it might have been a theater by name, no actual film stock was present. The screen was illuminated via video projection, meaning we were witnessing grainy, poor quality porn thirty feet tall and seventy feet wide. Though that was a disheartening, it was still neat watching a pimp in one corner send his prostitutes up and down the aisles. The women would occasionally stop to sit next to a mark, then either drop their head or gyrate a shoulder, depending on what he could afford. The other corner held a drug dealer offering wares. It was the first time I'd seen both businesses practiced so brazenly.
That we visited as a trio and sat together gave many of the regulars pause. They were loners, and this was supposed to be a place you went to by yourself and minded your own business. When a man sat down behind us and a loud "ziiiiip" emanated from his seat, we made our way out of the theater. It was probably his jacket, but we weren't about to take any chances.
Also on the smut side of life, I was lucky enough to road trip it down to New York and visit Times Square and 42nd Street before Rudy Giuliani and Disney made that a family fun place. Barrett, his friend Michael and I walked among the filth and smiled at the absurdity of it all. We entered a smaller shop that contained a live peep show and made our way to several respective personal cubicles.
The set up was as follows: the staging area was a half circled room pressed against a flat back wall. Small, closet-like cubicles surrounded it, with one wall lined against the arc of the stage. Against that wall was a small, mini-window blocked by a drop visor. You put your token in, and the visor rose, allowing you to look in and talk to the two girls on display. They were bored, sitting on a couch and waiting for patrons, that they might wiggle or do worse for tips. When one made her way to you, you negotiated; so much to touch a titty, so much to rub a butt... what you offered depended on how desperate and ugly you were.
Michael, for the record, was not ugly in the slightest. He was a tall, handsome black man, and had women swooning over him with regularity. From our respective vantage points, Barrett and I watched as he wooed the women on display. Using muscles that I would say were fairly impressive, Michael put each foot high up on each wall within his cubicle, then pushed his legs with enough outward force to brace himself where he could fit his dick through the viewing slot. Though you were only supposed to negotiate enough to caress, Michael started receiving oral sex, for free, while Barrett and I laughed our asses off. I wish I could end the story with a funny account of Michael running out of tokens and the visor coming down on his cock, but I cannot. The wise man loaded the machine up with all his money before ever attempting such a move.
That was it for my time in Boston. When spring rolled around a second time, I decided to move back to the state from whence I came. The big city was exceedingly expensive, and as I wasn't in school, staying just didn't make much sense. I didn't know what I was going to do next, but Dorothy was my name, and Wisconsin was my Kansas.

The Focal Point of Falling Apart

2009-03-24T08:39:00.000-07:00

When examining someone with an addiction, there is usually a moment in the person's past that can be traced to that began their tumble. It can be as tragic as rape, or as innocent as divorce. Regardless the event, from that point on the person assumes a stride of downward spiral that ties them too tightly to drugs, alcohol, religion, or some other crutch.
My drug of choice is the stage, and I believe I can trace my need for attention, acceptance and understanding, to a tipping point that occurred when I was six years old.
After leaving Tomorrow's Youth, my father encountered enormous obstacles finding work. When the institution started gasping its dying breaths, he did something both honorable and unwise. Payroll was not being met, and as dad was the director of the facility he used the family savings to pay its employees. Revisiting the event thirty-odd years later, dad believes he made the decision while in the grip of a deep depression; his life was not working out in the manner he had hoped, so he began championing righteous causes. If the worker was being screwed over by the powers that be, he would issue protest and challenge said power. My dad believes he delusioned himself into believing the board of directors would reimburse him the expense. That the governing body of Tomorrow's Youth had little interest in keeping the center afloat meant my father was dead wrong.
In an attempt to restore our now decimated bank account, my dad sued to retrieve his money, but all attempts were for naught. Naturally, when you sue your former boss it is difficult to obtain a proper recommendation from them, even if your lawsuit had merit. So as he hunted for gainful employment, anyone who decided to contact the listing atop my dad's résumé got an earful, and my father received no work.
With nothing left to lose, he applied for a job advertised by the Nigerian Government. They were looking for American educators to train teachers inside their West African nation, so dad scrounged up what money he could and flew to the Embassy in Washington D.C. After an interview, he signed a two-year contract. This would not be a solo run for my father; as soon as the family could get passports and shots, away we'd all go.
Within the years of my life already lived, I've had the opportunity to meet people who spent time living abroad, and I have to admit to a tinge of jealousy. They often seem more adaptable and open to new ideas than adults in America, many of who spend an entire life living within a fifty-mile radius of their birthplace. I say I am jealous, because while plans were made to move, the actual event never occurred.
My mom put together a garage sale, and all our winter clothes (a necessity in Wisconsin) and much of our furniture and other belongings were sold. After that, we began the waiting game.∗ Visas were due any day, but as happens all too often in Africa, a military coup played "Swap This Government" with our plans. The ruling body that had been looking to educate its people was replaced by a military dictator who began buying arms from the Soviet Union and issuing anti-American sound bites. In the 1970's, fresh off the Vietnam War and the phrase "the domino effect" still looming large in the public lexicon, to visit such a country was now a very poor idea. Suffice to say, our visas never arrived, and my fathers signed contract was not honored. Thankfully.
Now my parents were scrambling. They were broke, and living inside an uncertain moment projecting a bleak future. We were still renting a farm outside Amherst, so my mother drove into town to register me for kindergarten. While at the school, she inquired about substitute teaching and was offered a part-time position as a math teacher. She accepted on the spot.
Within a month, my father finally fought through the blot on his résumé and signed a one-year teaching contract with the Hammond Indiana School District. Now a decision needed to be made: move the family, or split it apart?
By whatever process they used, it was determined my dad would live in Indiana during the week and return home on weekends. His father extended his stay at the farm, continuing to live in his mobile home parked in the yard. While my mother worked, he would look after my sister Amanda and I. As Amanda was but a baby, this must have been quite an undertaking. That my paternal grandfather decided to help his daughter-in-law raise her children could be an example of his "do what needs to be done" generation, but in this particular case the psychology of support could delve a little deeper.
Patterns repeat themselves, it is an inevitability in life. I was witness to my parent's disaster of a marriage and thus threw six years of my twenties down the toilet, chasing a relationship that was never meant to be. Likewise, my grandparents were unhappy and divorced before I was born. My grandfather, when married, traveled as often as he could for work. He felt trapped, was unsure how to be a father and avoided his family the best he could. With my father now spending the workweek away from my mother, sister at I, a familial pattern began to emerge. So while he may have been simply rolling up his sleeves to help my mother because his generation didn't shy away from hard work, absolution of his own history may have played into my grandfather's assistance.
For one school year we lived this way. In the spring of 1975, my father was offered a one-year extension to his contract, and he accepted. According to my mother, he enjoyed the living arrangement the way it was and wanted to continue commuting between Indiana and Wisconsin. My father has always been a fan of nature, and whether he enjoyed the weekend getaway of the farm or preferred the weekday time away from family, I do not know. But as happened often back then, my mother pushed and my father relented. She was fed up with living isolated in the country, raising two kids with a grandparent. She got married to have a husband, not a ghost, so the living situation shifted against my dad's will and our nuclear family of four moved to Long Beach, Indiana.
I attended first grade and hung out with my cousins; one of my mother's many sisters lived close by. We rented the home of a well-to-do dentist, one who "wintered elsewhere," and when spring arrived, so did he. My father's contract was not extended a second time, the dentist wanted us out of his house, and work wasn't readily available. Though they wanted to stay in the area, the resources did not exist with which to do so. Neither had a job, nor any clue what do next. My parents loaded our belongings into a U-Haul, drove to my maternal grandparent's house in Kaukauna, Wisconsin, and filled their garage.
As he did at the farm, my paternal grandfather assisted the best he could. He was spending his summer teaching band at the Interlochen Center for the Arts in Michigan, and sent my mother an application for a job as the cafeteria supervisor. She was easily qualified and hired immediately. As if by established legal precedent, my father was then hired to teach summer school in South Bend, Indiana. Like the year before, my mother found work in one region, and shortly afterwards my father was employed elsewhere. So like the year before, he would work away for the week, and return home on the weekends. If that reads like condemnation, it is not supposed to. As I write I am on the edge of forty years old and feel barely qualified enough to care for house pets, much less children. That my father would scrounge for work anywhere he could in order to send money to provide for a family should be read as honorable.
Regardless, for the summer months of 1976, my mother, sister and I lived at a campground in my grandfather's camper, while my grandfather rented a second camper and lived the next space over. Every morning at five, my grandfather would come over and fix Amanda and I breakfast as my mother biked to work. She would return between nine and nine-thirty AM, and the three of us would have until four in the afternoon to attend art, craft and music classes, or inner tube in a local creek. At four my mother would bike away again and my grandfather would arrive to baby-sit Amanda and I until after dinner, when mom would return to us.
One weekend, my father didn't make the trek north, so my mother, sister and I took a ferry across Lake Michigan to Manitowoc, Wisconsin. A teaching position was available, and my mother's application garnered enough interest to warrant an interview. My father did not have anything lined up once his summer position ended, so when my mother was offered the job, she accepted. As if a written by in a shitty sitcom or by fate, not long after, my father was hired by the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee. Once and again, decisions needed to be made.
The two of them looked for a house in Milwaukee, but my mother was no longer within the bonds of starry-eyed youth; two children and a half-decade of struggle had put an end to that. While she admits to pushing for the marriage, my mother was no longer certain it was what she wanted. Instead of demurring her obligation to the teaching position in Manitowoc, my mother decided to hold fast and move to the tiny city with my sister and I. My father offered up the continuance of the separate-but-together living situation they had been using; he offered to buy a house in Manitowoc and commute there from Milwaukee every weekend, but my mother desired solitude of a different kind. Even though they had barely lived with one another for several years, or maybe because of it, my mother wanted to make a firm decision in her life.
This would be her first step on a twenty-year walk towards divorce.
My mother's pronouncement did not sit well with my father, and what exactly happened next is unknown. If ten people are witness to one event, in interviewing everyone you will likely gather ten different accounts of what happened. In talking to my parents, I have two diametrically opposed points of view, and neither is very pretty.
Before she was able to secure an apartment, she lived with Amanda and I at her parent's house in Kaukauna. My father had moved to Milwaukee. In her memory, my father showed up one day, saying that if she wanted to move on, that was fine, but he was taking the kids. There was a shouting match, and at some point Amanda and I were grabbed and put in his car. My father started to drive off, the two of us screaming and crying, confused as any child would be in such a situation, when my mother threw herself across the hood of his car. She said she remained there, crying hysterically as my father backed out of the driveway, drove uphill to the end of the block and turned left. My mother remembers him finally stopping at the cemetery, which would have been a good half block away. Not a huge distance, but probably an eternity for both a mother watching her children being taken from her and said children crying inside the car.
That's not where it ends.
My mother rented an apartment and moved to Manitowoc with Amanda and I in tow. As the unplanned abduction didn't work, my father made sure to do it right the second time. A month into our new residency, my father showed up and simply took me back to Milwaukee while she was at work. My mother remembers the principal of the school telling her I was gone and little else. She was in shock. One moment she was teaching wee little minds the wonders of the world around them, the next she was being told her son was no longer in her life.
To complicate matters, my father tells a different tale of how I ended up with him. My father's recollection of the event is altered a bit from what was just written. He recalls arriving in Kaukauna to spend the day with his children. When he pulled into my grandparent's driveway, the first thing he saw was my mother with her "new boyfriend," a person my mother says, if he existed, was a friend at worst and in no way a lover. My dad was not happy. There was a fight, with shouting and accusations thrown all around. Amanda was outside and began to cry, so he put her in the car in an attempt to dampen the effects of what was happening around her. The shouting continued, and at some point he looked up and was witness to me standing in the living room, looking out the window, crying. Realizing the situation was both out of control and detrimental to childhood development, he left. A few weeks later, after my mom moved to Manitowoc, she called him out of the blue. Two children were too much for her to handle by herself, and I was quite unruly. A Sophie's Choice was made and she called him to come retrieve me. So my past has in it either a father who took, or a mother who didn't want. As said, neither one an exciting path to take.
However it happened, I ended up in Milwaukee, living in the lower half of a duplex on Sherman Boulevard.
My mother says she visited a lawyer to inquire about getting me back, but his response was that legally the courts would simply issue a lovely nineteen-seventies shrug and that there was nothing she could do. He did point out, however, that child psychologists believed that separated siblings was the worst way for them to grow up, and that she never should have let me be taken in the first place. There are many reasons lawyers are despised, and I would guess guidance like that is but one of them.
For six or so weeks, I alternated weekends between them. One weekend I would visit my mom and sister, the next Amanda and I would spend in Milwaukee. The exchange took place at a McDonald's halfway between the two cities.
Eventually, this wore on me. I apparently didn't like Manitowoc and didn't have any friends there. One day I balked at an exchange, and my mother realized the situation wasn't going to work as it stood. She was depressed. She was earning $6,700 a year teaching at a small Catholic school and could in no way fight a losing battle in court. She went to see a therapist and instead of helping, he hit on her. In her apartment, she had the pleasure of listening to her downstairs neighbors fight, with one or two such melees ending in violence as the man physically assaulted his wife. My mother was too terrified to call the police, because if the woman didn't press charges, the man would be free to exact revenge on the only person who could have tattled. She was heartbroken when on the worst occasion the couple's two children escaped up to her place to call their grandmother to come get them.
With all this stress raging in her life, my mother decided to do what she thought best for her children. The weekend after I refused to spend time Manitowoc, she brought my sister to Milwaukee and we sounded out what it was like to be a family. Amanda and I seemed happy to have everyone together, so instead of shuffling us back and forth, every weekend after that she and my mother visited my father and I.
At the end of the school year, my mother gave up her lease, a house was purchased in Milwaukee and an attempt at reconciliation was made.
It would not last.

.

transparent discrepancy

2009-02-26T09:49:00.001-08:00

for our wedding ceremony, lyds had an interest in getting a 3-piece string trio to play while guests made their way to seats and for her walk down the aisle. such a happening was a childhood dream of hers, and one she's interested in making a reality this august.

through diligent search, a local group was found, and contacted. lyds estimated the total playtime would be 20-30 minutes. they could start playing 15 minutes before the ceremony, and then for 15 minutes (if needed) as people made their way away from their seats.

i cannot remember the exact price quote she got, but given the amount of effort they had to put in, it seemed rather unreasonable. yes, they would have to charge a fair amount in order to take the gig; they can't say yes and then get offered something big they can charge more for and lose out, after all, but i decided to get a little sneaky.

i fired off an email from my account, and made a request for a trio for a dinner party. same play time, just for a dinner party.

my quote came back several hundred dollars less.

there is an oddity in the world that suppliers, entertainers and the like feel they can jack up their prices just because the word "wedding" is attached to an event.

'tis bullshit.

i didn't call the trio out on their obvious asshole move, but neither will we be using them.

and i'm seriously considering telling anyone else we use for anything we're having a family reunion. when they show up and see they've been lied to?

oh well.

(ps--if you are planning on coming to the wedding? try and get your hotel on priceline. it's proving to have much better rates than the "special wedding party rate" the hotels have offered us)

My Kitties are Chris Cooper

2009-02-10T05:12:00.001-08:00

At the end of the movie American Beauty, Chris Cooper's marine colonel murders Kevin Spacey's character. This happens after Cooper's homosexual advance is spurned by Spacey, an advance that exposes the inner nature of many overtly angry homophobes: that they themselves are gay and use anger to blanket such feelings. Outside of Hollywood, we've seen this pattern repeated in Right-Wing senators and Ultra-Conservative Religious figures.

If you are unaware, Lyds and I have two kitties, Simon and Pandora. They're both female, even though Simon is gender confused and thinks he's a boy. Regardless, these two female kitties engage daily in a ritual not unlike the rage of a closet case being discovered.

Many times upon waking from a nap, a nap usually taken while snuggled up together, they decide to help one another clean the area they themselves cannot alone: their face. Each begins to lick the other's noggin, and all is well for a minute or so. They're happy, relaxed... but almost immediately after a few cleaning licks have taken place, they always, always, always engage in an all out hiss-fight, with back-bent ears and snarling mouths.

I could be wrong, but I'm guessing they're closeted lesbians, and as they fully wake up from their naps and realize what they're in the middle of doing, Christian Kitty Guilt hits them full force and causes them to lash out at one another. "You tricked me! I'm no lesbian! I would never lick another female kitty when in my right mind!"

I'm going to ask the government for a million dollar grant to study homosexual animal guilt.

I Remember Harry Houdini

2009-01-22T09:29:00.000-08:00

When I was ten, my parents allowed me to make my first real life decision.

We were moving again, leaving Milwaukee and heading north to Appleton, WI. Gainful employment awaited my father at a local hospital, where he was going to work in something along the lines of administrative training.

The decision to be made was what grade to place me in at school. When I was in kindergarten--many years and cities previous--my mother stopped by the classroom one day and discovered me sitting inside my flip-top desk, playing with Hot Wheels cars while the rest of the students were doing reading assignments. Asking the teacher why I was allowed to fuck around and not pay attention, she was told I was already above and beyond the rest of the class in the language arts department, and thus was given "extra free time." Not wanting her son to miss out on any opportunities, my mother arranged for me to travel from kindergarten into 2nd grade during the reading portion of class.

Switching classrooms was un-nerving for my wee sensibilities, and on my first day, when everyone was ushered onto the floor and into a sitting-circle to read, I was so nervous I eventually peed myself. Not knowing anyone had intimidated me into trying to hold it instead of asking for a bathroom pass. I had been lying on the floor, pressing my little hips down as hard as possible in order to try and create a pressure that would hold the urine in, which of course that didn't work. A trickle became a torrent, and soon I was soaking in a puddle of my own piddle, with my clothes absorbing it like Bounty and creating a nice wet spot from nipples to knees across my front.

Though that auspicious beginning should have been the end of my days of advancement, instead I began being bumped up entire grades. In 3rd grade I was moved forward two levels, so when the time came to move to Appleton I was technically ready to enter what was known back then as Junior High. I would have been ten and entering 7th grade.

My parents were split on the issue. I was very young and would easily be the smallest child, and therefore the largest target, there. Even the un-cool kids would be able to vent their hormonal frustrations onto me. But, as I had already completed the grades others my age were attending, why would I mingle among them a second time? After discussing it heatedly amongst themselves and coming to no conclusion, I was asked what I wanted to do: enter 5th grade and be around kids my own age, enter 6th grade and be slightly younger but mostly compatible with those around me, or venture onward into a Doogie Howser future of academics and angst. I've no idea why I chose the way I did, but I opted to start all over and mingle with my peers in the 5th grade of Franklin Elementary. Maybe I was shooting myself in the academic foot, maybe it was explained to me that I would find the easiest assimilation there, but whatever the reason the outcome remained: I would be repeating two grades, thankfully without the stigma of having been held back.

Arriving in Appleton, the biggest shock to my system was the small-town societal psyches. In Milwaukee, I had been a minority in the next-door-to-inner city; in Appleton, all was white. With isolation, then, came fear and judgment. Even among those at my young age were racial epitaphs being tossed about with a surprising casual nature. I was confused; here everyone was complaining about "niggers," when there weren't even any black people in town. As a child, I had no idea what impact media portrayal played on a people's beliefs. If you have no interaction with a race, religion or sexual orientation, yet are exposed through your television set to either gross stereotypes or only the most negative of events, you will form a perception based not in truth, but limited exposure. Thus you will consider yourself aware while remaining utterly ignorant, an interesting irony.

Donna White had been my first schoolyard crush, back at the 38th St. School in Milwaukee. A cute little blonde, she taught me the importance of athleticism and alpha male attitude by favoring David Sutphen over me. David was going to be the next Pele, where I was, well, not. Learning from this rejection, after moving to Appleton and discovering Melanie Marceau, who became my second classroom crush, I quickly signed up to play soccer that I might impress her. Unfortunately, soccer wasn't exactly as popular in Appleton as it had been in Milwaukee. Sadly, I was reaching for the low rung on the jock-oriented totem pole. Even worse, upon first meeting Melanie I believe I said in the worst French accent possible, "Ah, Marceau, eh?" and pantomimed a bit, probably the "I'm in a box" routine. At the time, I took her look to suggest she heard the bit all too often, but I'd go on record today and guess she had no idea who Marcel Marceau was and that she simply thought me a freak.

Over the course of the school year, though, I wore Melanie down and in summer actually got her to go on one date with me. It was, in fact, my first date ever, and it was every bit as lovely and awkwardly embarrassing as first dates are supposed to be. My mom drove me to Melanie's house, where I got in the back of the car and she sat up front. The two women then chatted happily while I did my best not to die of mortification. Having mom there was bad enough. Having my date enjoying her company was a fate worse than karaoke with your co-workers. Your boss might think he can sing, but no, no he cannot.

(Like Kanye West when his voice synth is turned off).

In my mind, I wanted to be driving. It would have been so cool had I at my young age been able to roll up all on my own. Melanie would have been so impressed, she probably would have let me get all the way to second base, which for an eleven-year-old boy meant rubbing a girl whose chest was the same curvature as my own.

To make matters worse, my mom had to buy the tickets for my mid-day matinee; the theater wouldn't sell seats to such young kids. No idiot I, I wanted to take Melanie to a scary movie, one I had just seen and knew would startle her right into my waiting arms. The previous weekend, my mom had taken the family to the theater, but had done so without researching exactly what it was she wanted everyone see. There was a blockbuster of epic proportions currently running riot across the country, a family friendly crowd-pleaser that was getting great reviews and selling out theaters everywhere. Approaching the ticket booth with her husband, son and six-year-old daughter, my mom told the teen ticket clerk she needed "Two adults and two children for the new Speilberg film she'd heard about." Well, this was enough for any teen with a sense of humor to send us into the horror movie Mr. Steven had just produced. The woman hadn't, after all, said, "the movie Speilberg directed."

It wasn't until the paranormal researcher began tearing his own face off in a bathroom did my mom ultimately understand we were seeing the wrong movie. As quickly and quietly as she could, she escorted my terrified and crying sister out of Poltergeist and into the lobby. My dad and I refused to budge, however, and remained and had a dandy of a time.

The next day, three of us returned--my dad had had enough of the movies for one weekend--and tickets to E.T. were purchased. It was near sold out by the time we arrived, and we could only find two seats together. Mom and sister took them, leaving me to my own devices. Now, the funny thing about embarrassment is, it's something we generally do to ourselves. As I was sitting all alone, there was no way for anyone in the packed theater to know I was my mother's son; any actions of mine would in no way reflect her, sitting rows away with her daughter. Yet at the movies climax, as E.T. withered away and several hundred people started crying, a laugh rose above the sniffled din, and my mother began to grow beet red.

"It's a goddamn puppet and a contrived scene!" I would have yelled had I known what emotional manipulation was. I simply understood I was being toyed with, and I wanted nothing to do with it. As the puppet "died," and hoards of people blew their runny noses and wiped teary eyes, I laughed harder and harder, to the point I almost peed myself like it was second grade reading period.

So the allure of E.T. was lost on me, as was the fun of Poltergeist on my mom. Sadly, when it came to my first date, as Melanie was female, she enjoyed neither the scary movie nor my company. Melanie Marceau was my first date, but that one moment was also our last. Nichole Bouvery was my second Appleton crush, but she never even deemed do dine with me a single time. Oddly enough, I cannot recall the name of the one who did become my first girlfriend, which happened in Appleton in 6th grade. I can remember her brown hair, blue eyes and spotted freckles, but no name rushes to the forefront of my memory. It's funny how failure and rejection remains ingrained, while success fades with time.

Soccer having been a poor choice of "cool" sports, as the days grew short and winter entered into the Northern Wisconsin town, basketball became my next attempt to attract women. I remember playing one game, for about one minute, and shooting one basket for two points. Beyond that I was a benchwarmer. Being new to the sport meant I wasn't all that good at it, so I practiced, and practiced often. Even in the cold outdoors of lunch and recess, when we were supposed to run around to create warmth, if no snow was on the ground I'd be on the outdoor court performing shooting drills. This ultimately led to my demise. One winter day, I threw the ball through the air, and like most of my shots it was well off the mark. The basketball lodged itself between the rim and the backboard, leaving me to climb up and knock it free. Unable to retain a grip while wearing gloves, I barehanded it up the cold metal piping and reached for the stuck sphere. Dislodging the ball was easy enough; getting down was not. While my original plan had been to simply let go and fall to the ground, I had not anticipated my bare skin freezing lightly to the pole, making my dismount ungraceful to even the most forgiving judge. Instead of descending feet forward, I managed to somehow pull my hand back in alarm, and then twist and drop to the concrete elbows first.

What happened next comes in snippets to my memory.

I landed and heard a crunch emanate from my left elbow. Springing to my feet, though no doctor I, I could tell something was wrong given the new geometric angles my jacketed arm was sporting. I started to scream, and made a crying dash for the school. Only one teacher was my nemesis back then, she who thought I was a brat and a troublemaker, and while she was probably right, she was also a bitter cunt of a woman. Proof of that harsh label lay in her next action. As I ran screaming and crying past her, one arm holding the malformed mess of the other, she actually grabbed my collar and said something about not being allowed inside until the bell had sounded. I pulled free and bellowed "FUCK YOU," something she tried getting me suspended for, and darted into the office where I passed out.

According to my mother, the school, acting in its infinite wisdom and compassion, neither called an ambulance, or her with worry in their voice. Their direct quote was, "You need to come pick Nathan up, he's in our office." That's all they would say. Unsure why, my mother did not rush out the door, but took all the steps she needed to in order to leave work early. According to her best estimates, I sat in the office with a shattered elbow for anywhere between an hour and ninety minutes until she arrived. By the time my mother walked through the door, I was sheet-white, deliriously fading in and out of consciousness and couldn't walk. Though my mother should have demanded an ambulance on the spot, she was too panicked and enraged and had the principle help her carry the chair I was haphazardly balancing on to her car. She hurried me to the emergency room, something a mere half mile away, where the doctors looked me over, then quickly re-set my elbow, saying it was merely dislocated.

Fortunately for my future, I was an inquisitive little bugger, and as they were rolling me out the door in a wheelchair I innocently asked, "So it's ok that I can't feel or move my hand?" Whoever was pushing me paused in his tracks, and then and only then, decided to order some X-Rays.

What they discovered was the bone had not just dislocated, it had shifted and several pieces that make up the joint were pinching my nerve. Apparently only a few more hours of remaining in such condition would have rendered my left arm a paperweight. Had I not opened my mouth and asked, had I asked when we got home and had been told to come in the next morning, any small little accident of fate and the nerve would have died and today I'd be typing these words one handed. Feel free to insert your own on-line masturbation joke here, if you wish.

I had immediate surgery, which made me nervous, but all I remember was a ceiling and a man telling me to count backwards from ten. I made it to eight. After that I had a lovely plaster cast outside my arm and two metal pins inside it. I quit basketball, as sitting on the bench hadn't done much for my self-esteem anyway.

While I wouldn’t actually go back and change a single day of my life, I do sometimes smile and wish the elbow event had occurred later on, say in the 1990's. By then my family and I would have known all bout lawsuits. In the early 1980's, however, suing the shit out of someone wasn't yet the fashion trend it became. So the school system that should have been bankrupted by a settlement, the hospital that would have made my family millionaires due to negligence and incompetence, well, they both got off scott-free.

Bummer.

Appleton gave me my first glimpses into what would become my living, though there would be no way of knowing that at the time. Stand up comedy first reached my eyes and ears in those young years through the ignorance of the elderly and the excitement of youth. My maternal-side grandmother lived fifteen minutes away in a town called Kaukauna, and we visited often. I would find out much later in life that grandmother's house was used as an escape both from and for infidelity and arguments at home, but as a child it was simply a visit. Kaukauna, for the record, is a town whose major industry is a paper mill. If you've never smelled one, it is eerily akin to that of a freshly filled diaper. Thus every time we visited my grandmother, I thought she had had an "accident," something that I feared came with advanced age. But, she made me Oscar Meyer cheese-filled hot dogs whenever I wanted, something my mother frowned upon, so I always forgave the smell for the reward of my taste buds.

My grandmother, like most spoiling grandparents, would usually take me shopping for little nothings. We generally went to the dime store downtown, but on occasion sojourned at the mall where the biggest and best presents lay. It was on one of these jaunts I made one of the most important discoveries of my life. Perusing the KISS albums in the record store, I browsed my way past an album with an interesting cover. What you have to realize is, these were not the wimpy little CD's of today, in tiny casings with miniature artwork. I was looking at 33 rpm, vinyl records inside big cardboard packages, where the covers jumped out at you and you could see them from across the store. On this particular day, I saw an album with a man on the cover. He was faking one finger up his nose, was sitting on the dunce's chair in front of a chalkboard that had the words "Class Clown" inscribed on it. I had no idea what it was, but I knew I wanted it. I was a class clown, and the idea of picking your nose was hilarious to me. Seeing as there were no "Parental Advisory Stickers" back then, I pointed, my grandmother shrugged, and I took home a copy of one of George Carlin's most infamous records. To say it was beyond my eleven-year-old sensibilities would be saying too little; the first time I listened to it, I don't think I even knew what to think. I was, however, utterly transfixed by the words. Words about war, America and racism. Words about life, living and growing up different. Dirty words. Very dirty words. Seven, dirty words.

I listened to the album obsessively, memorizing every word and nuance. I absolutely absorbed the seven dirty words contained within the oil-based grooves and proudly repeated "shit-piss-fuck-cunt-cocksucker, motherfucker and tits" to all my peers. I started trying to figure out exactly what stand up comedy was, and in 1982 in a wonderful little bit of manipulation, convinced my mother that seeing the R-rated "Richard Pryor Live On The Sunset Strip" was a great "mother/son" moment to share. It was playing at a single location, The Viking Movie Theater in downtown Appleton, and I reveled in the big screen experience. Hearing George Carlin had been one thing, seeing Richard Pryor's full body interpretation of ideas and words was sensory overload. I loved it all and wanted more.

Stand up comedy became my new fetish. I'd already been listening to Steve Martin and watching Saturday Night Live and SCTV, but in my mind Steve Martin was a TV/movie star. I knew little of his actual touring comedy, but I got the bug up my butt to learn. Learn about his early career, and what other stand up comics were out there. This interest would last until high school, where music and the bass guitar would surpass comedy in the foot race for my spare time.

There are only other two memories of note from my two years in Appleton. One wobbles forth from my mind randomly, the other is a bookend to a previous tale. The random but wistful to me tale is that my father was able to bring a small, suitcase-sized movie projector home from work. Oddly enough, the library had old, silent movies on film you could check out as easily as their books. So it was in the eleventh year of my life I discovered Buster Keaton, specifically his classic "The General." I'd thread the film between the two spinning reels and project it onto my bedroom wall. After the climax of the bridge collapse, I'd stop the movie, scan-rewind it to watch the structure rise from its ashes, then watch the trestles tumble earthward again. I tried inviting friends over for movie adventures, but they always seemed bored by the silence and confused by having to read a movie like a novel, so the magic of silent movies remained an event flown solo. I used to own The Buster Keaton Collection on VHS, but have yet to translate that to my DVD shelf. Maybe I'll remember to ask for it for Christmas one day.

My final note takes me back to my broken arm, covered in cast and held together by pins. As said, one teacher and I were at constant odds in Franklin Elementary, and on the day I shattered my left elbow, she actually tried to prevent me from seeking help. Upon returning from the hospital and re-entering school, I came across her in the hallway on my first day back. Frustration, snotty arrogance and a tinge of self-righteousness overtook me, and I held my mended arm up to her and said, "I told you I was hurt."

Without flinching, she shot back angrily, "Do you want detention tonight after school?"

How some people are allowed around kids is beyond me.

Dance for Your Dinner, Monkey-boy

2009-01-08T08:49:00.000-08:00

Dance for Your Dinner, Monkey-boy

There is a philosophy that states you will experience whatever you focus your attention on. If you think, "man, I'd hate to trip and fall down in public, that'd be so embarrassing," you'll trip and fall in public, that you may confront your fear.

A while ago, I was performing in the middle slot of a three-person show, and when I walked up on stage I was met with an ear-piercing cry of, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" That someone was so drunk to bellow at a comedy show did not surprise me; live comedy is sadly a realm of entertainment where drunken louts have to be dealt with on a semi-regular basis. The source of the screeching on that particular occasion, however, did make me tilt my head to the side like a dog riddled with confusion. At a table in front of the stage was a group of ten women, all dressed to the hilt, all white, and all easily aged sixty and above. Grandmother's night out, if you will. In the front row, one of them was so drunk she was doing a head bob, as if it were eighth grade history and staying awake was a chore in and of itself. This woman had been the source of the high-pitched screech of obscenity.

I asked her to repeat her war cry, as I wasn't positive my ears were working correctly, and once again the live-action Mrs. Howell cried, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" I half nodded my head, said "Well ok then," and started telling jokes. The woman randomly bellowed the same refrain several times throughout my time on stage, and after giving her the benefit of the drunken doubt for a couple of her interactions, I slammed her pretty hard and the audience roared their approval. The woman realized she was on a losing path and proceeded to doze off and drool lightly out the side of her mouth. Through the rest of my time on stage, two tables of drunks in the corner did their best to "contribute" and derail the show with shouts and inter-table talk, but I simply shouted over them until a bouncer finally made his way over to shush them.

After I exited the stage, the headliner, who I am going to call Adam, was introduced. If I thought the wealthy dowager up front had been belligerent enough to warrant getting kicked out during my set, what happened next was unlike anything I'd ever seen; when the headliner hit the stage, he too was met with a new high-pitched cry from the elderly woman. It wasn't a random generalization as had been with me, this time, she took one look at the comedian and knew exactly what to scream. "Bring it on, nigger!" echoed above the welcoming applause the host had called for. Not "nigga," which could have been considered marginally more appropriate (but not really), but "nigger," as bright as a day in July and loud and proud like Alabama man might cry. It wasn't said as a challenge, but more a hoot, like the full-blown cheer of someone looking to have a good time.

To say the audience was stunned would be saying too little; there are rare times when you can make two hundred people gasp collectively and hold their breath, but this was one of them. Adam, to his credit, handled the situation with as much grace as possible; he didn't blow up at her, but he didn't let it go. His first response was a measured, "Excuse me?" to which he received a second, "Bring it on, nigger!" He asked why she thought it was an appropriate thing to say, or if she was playing or believing she was somehow relating to him. Her response was yet again, "Bring it on, nigger!"

Given that the room was filled with as diverse a cross section of Americana as possible, and that a certain tension filled it from the instant her first racial slur was shouted, anything could happen. Still, Adam kept control of the situation and did his best to move on. The club, believe it or not, made no move to have the woman removed or quieted. In the corner, meanwhile, the two tables of white trash I had done my best to ignore got even louder, to the point Adam could do nothing but wage war with them.

By now, most everyone was talking amongst themselves about what was happening, shouting at either the two tables in the corner or the racist woman to "shut the fuck up," or directly up at Adam, who was doing his best in trying to deal with an out of control room. In the midst of this battle, the manager of the club carried a note to the stage and handed it directly to him. Adam read it, then resumed his war with the out of control audience. Eventually the table of women left, and did so to a chant of "Na-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, good bye" from the entire audience (save for the two drunken tables in the corner, who continued to shout random shit to the stage through the rest of the evening). Adam worked the stage for his contracted time, eventually closed his and the audience gave him thunderous applause for his efforts.

After all was over, as Adam and I stood by our for-sale wares, every person that walked by us issued an apology on behalf of the behavior of others. For the woman and her racial slur, for the staff who didn't intervene, for the drunks in the corner… everyone was apologetic save for those who should have been. Everyone was also curious. All who exited remembered the note being passed to the stage, and asked Adam what it said. They wondered if the police were being contacted, or if he was given insight as to how the drunks and racists were being handled. He passed on answering, instead tossing out vague little lies; "It was about something I had asked about earlier," "oh, nothing important," and the like. When all was said and done and every member of the public had left, I asked what the note really said. What I was told floored me. "Let it go and move on," was written in bold strokes on the folded piece of paper. A black man who had just been called a nigger in front of a room full of people, and three times no less, a man doing an amazing job of handling the situation in a club that was doing nothing to police its customers, well, he was handed a note telling him to let it go and move on.

I don’t think I had ever heard of anything less supportive.

To the manager's credit, somewhat, admitted to being in the wrong and said she was sorry for the note and much of the situation. Apparently she and the bouncers were unaware of what had happened, assessed the situation incorrectly and made the decision to intervene inappropriately. But that didn't make it right. An apology follows an accident, and to not have the comedian's back in a situation shows an incredible lack of faith in the person. I couldn't believe she had taken the note up there in the first place, was angry on behalf of the other comedian, and wondered what I'd do if anything like it ever happened to me.

The neat thing about life, then, is when you look at a situation and wonder how you'd react if it were presented to you, sometimes you are given the opportunity to find out.

A headliner myself now, in a different room in a different state, one fateful night I took to the stage a little after 10pm. The 9pm show had been delayed a half an hour, because a birthday party of twelve was exceedingly late in arriving. Such an action immediately set a poor precedent; the incoming people saw the show had been held just for them, and even if they didn't openly realize the power they had, they understood on a subtle level just how important they were.

That everyone arrived intoxicated should be no surprise, nor should the fact they then did jell-o shots all through the opening act. By ten o'clock, they were slurringly drunk. "That's my brother's name!" was shouted at my introduction. "Your brother is named Nathan Timmel?" I asked, and got a laugh from the audience. A gentle enough response, but enough of one to start the table off and running.

The birthday party was listless; they were talking to one another when I wasn't dealing with them, and shouting random incoherent shit when I would break from my jokes to acknowledge and attempt to shut them up. Instead of being witness to a bouncer or club employee kicking them out or quieting them down, I would look over to see them being served even more alcohol. They were all members of the Army, and as the club itself had called for a toast for those that serve, I was placating as nicely as firmly possible. I never have a problem telling a table to shut the fuck up--witness this if you haven't already seen it--but for the life of me couldn't get the group to behave in the slightest. So it was to my stunned anger when forty minutes into my set I was handed a note from the club owner, "Please stop talking to them and move on with your act."

I couldn't believe it. I felt defeated. I had just taken two flights across the country, rented a car and driven an hour and here I was, standing in front of a group of people who never should have been let in the door, let alone served more alcohol or had the show held thirty minutes for their arrival, and I was being told I was the fuckup. Had I an established career, I would have apologized to the people who had come out to see comedy, told the club to fuck off and walked off the stage and out the door. Fuck the pay; if I could have afforded the professional repercussions, I would have eaten the time and money. Instead, I remained on stage for another 20 minutes, doing my best to remain as professional as possible given the circumstances.

Unlike the time I was witness to a comedian being blamed for club failure, I was given no apology for the rude behavior or lack of support. I was, in fact, told, "The other tables complained and I had to give out comp tickets to another show because of that group." Apparently this was somehow my fault.

The final straw on this irritated back came from the doorman, who shook his head in resigned confidence to me; "Those people, I tell you, they came in a couple weeks ago and did the exact same thing."

Of course they did.

I have one other moment in my mind involving the "experience what you witness" theme, but it's rather anti-climactic after everything before it. Hell, given proper narrative form, this whole thing is probably written ass-backwards, with the peak being in the beginning with the racial story, but so be it.

I think Clerks II is a damn fine movie. Watching it recently, the scene that jumped out at me was that with the Jason Lee as the Internet Millionaire. If you're not familiar, Jason Lee arrives at the fast food restaurant the main characters Dante and Randall work at to mock them for being in their thirties and failing their way through life. The scene ends with an angry-at-his-existence Randall needing to get the hell away from everything and blow off some steam. Why that moment in the movie meant something too me I do not know, but I do remember thinking how much it would suck to run into a nemesis that superseded you in life.

As always, be weary what you wonder about.

The next comedy run I went on had me working with a fella who, though not an enemy of mine by any standard, had still been doing comedy less than half the time I had, was fairly green on stage, yet was already being invited to the biggest comedy festival in the world. Agents, managers, HBO and Comedy Central all scout it and thousands of comedians apply for entry annually; the kid on the run with me had a friend who knew those with clout and had gotten him a foot in the door. There is a conventional wisdom that says you respect something you earned more than anything simply given to you, but I'm going to have to cry bullshit on that. I have found money lying on the ground on several occasions and never once did I say, "Damn, I really wish I had earned this twenty dollars."

Playing the game "why not me?" is probably the most self-destructive thing a person can do. "She got a promotion, why not me?" "That person won a million dollars, why not me?" "That person lucked into success, why not me?"

Because life is random, and stupid.

I have no other answer than that right now.

All I have is attrition.

Hopefully that will be enough someday.

An Uncovered Gem

2008-12-28T11:09:00.000-08:00

On December 26th, 2008, my fiancée Lydia and I drove to Madison, Wisconsin, to spend the day with my mom and fake dad. Fake dad had been doing some winter cleaning and came across an old floppy disc of mine, God knows from where. He said it contained a word document titled "Psycho," that he had opened it and it looked like a story. I nearly shit a brick. I knew exactly what he was talking about, and was exceedingly excited as I had long thought the physical copy of the tale had been as long lost as the mental version in my muddled mind.

In 1996, I was attending college at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, and tending bar at both Benjamin Briggs Pub & Grill (no longer in existence) and the restaurant Pieces of Eight (hilariously no longer in existence; they remodeled, re-invested, and were kicked off their property by the city). Back then, the internet was in its infancy, and email was foreign to most people. Texting didn't exist and public phones were still prevalent, as cell phones were not. The Fox network was still considered a rebellious challenge to the big three networks, and computers used floppy discs to store mobile files (that my mom and fake dad have a system that still accepts floppies tells you how often they update their technology). While modernization has changed the way we look at email and phone use, some things remain the same; not only do I still use the same email address I did back then, but writing out the tale I used a young rising star named Jennifer Aniston as an example of a sex symbol. Twelve years later, I'd probably do the same thing, only now I'd have to add and asterisk to her name and footnote that being involved with John Mayer has given her the same untouchable status as a leper. Some people you want nothing to do with after they make such poor life choices.

(Another amusing note is that this all got started due to what is essentially known today as "Forwarding." Back then, it was amusing to receive a chain email letter. Today, not so much so)

To date, I have had two stalkers in my life, and both instances occurred around somewhere during this period of the nineties. One was an Asian exchange student, someone who had bumped into me while tending bar at a restaurant called Nancy's (thankfully no longer in existence), and the other was a woman from South Dakota. Someday I'll sit down and do my best to recall what happened involving the Asian sensation, but the story "Psycho" was a re-telling of the tale involving the midwestern woman. Back then, in the days before blogging, I would write several long letters a year about my life, then print up and mail them (at a decent expense) to friends around the country who may or may not have been interested in receiving such shit.

I re-post the tale of my second stalker here, written in 1996, with only her name changed. When I first wrote and mailed it out, I used her real name, but I don't think there's any reason to do such a thing today when posting for public consumption to the web.

It started innocently enough. Then again, I suppose it always does, doesn’t it? A friend of mine in Boston, Pete, has a mailing list on his computer. Not a standard mailing list of addresses, but one of those Internet e-mail deals you’ve probably heard so much about. I am on this list, so is she. “She,” is Julia, a thirty-year-old grad. student in South Dakota. This is our story.

Pete's list has a theme to it: humor. If you happen across something amusing, such as a joke or story, you electronically send it in and he zaps to the people on file. One day I decided to offer a story I had written about Pete and I and our contributions to the Sperm Bank of Boston. The story was quite well received; I got many compliments from strangers. Julia was one of the complimenters. Trying to be considerate, I sent “Thank Yous” to anyone who wrote. Julia replied to the thank you, and a dialog was started.

Common interest came by way of "The Tick," a Saturday morning cartoon show. Living in South Dakota, though, prevented her from watching the program as no Fox affiliate existed; South Dakota ranks somewhere behind most Third World countries in this case. I was taping the show on a regular basis and offered to send her a copy. She was ecstatic. I was amused. We began emailing one another daily, and my eyebrow raised itself in curiosity; could this be one of those “Internet Romances” popping up across the country the media was raving about? I sent the tape, and with that she got my physical address.

Two weeks later I received a female condom in the mail. An odd thank you, as our interactions had never been anything more than friendly. Though we got along easily, we never discussed any sort of sexual attraction, and had never even exchanged photos. Regardless, a note was attached to the condom, “Save this, I’m coming to visit.” In my imagination, I figured that should this woman happen to look like Jennifer Aniston, I would be in heaven. No dummy I, I did not believe fortune would smile upon me so and became cautious. I asked Pete if I should be afraid. The single word reply was, “Yes.”

Julia asked for a picture. Playing off Pete's chillingly brief warning, I sent a photo of me skydiving. My head was bowed and the helmet covered my face. It gave no indication of my looks and was half joke, half identity protection. Julie emailed me that she loved the picture and hung it in the middle of the living room she shared with four other roommates. They told her I was “something special,” which alarmed me more than Pete's warning. Not only had I no idea how I was being described to warrant such a compliment, but I hadn't really told anyone about her, because there was nothing to tell. Meanwhile, I was common knowledge to her friends? Creepy.

The condom was followed by a string of erotic messages left in my e-mail account, each more graphic than the previous. They began to detail what she wanted to do to me and how it was going to be “the best night of my life.” Though several weeks had passed since I sent my picture, the favor had not yet been returned, a definite cause for alarm.

The volume with which I responded to her mail decreased by half. Where to this point I had always dropped a decent reply to each message, I now began sending short notes to roughly every third one. A detailed account of actions she was going to perform on my body would receive, “Just got home from work, got your letter, am too tired to write” in response. She used my backing off to double her efforts, sending two or three letters a day. Some would be violently angry, decrying her life and position in it, then do the most bizarre switch into how I would rescue her from her mundane existence. "I hate my job! Everyone I work with is stupid! I need a vacation. Can you perform oral sex for hours on end?” is a direct quote.

I was told my picture was masturbation material and received a second package in my physical mailbox. Nothing sexual this time, thankfully, but instead several small, odd, gifts. According to the accompanying note, she thought of me when she saw each item and decided to buy and send them. One trinket was a bizarre looking plastic mug shaped like a cartoon vampire, another was a Frankenstein refrigerator magnet. As I didn't have a particular affection for old horror movies and had never hinted to her I might, why these reminded her of me I do not know.

I decided I needed to stop being a pussy and just get everything out on the table. Where was she going with all of this, what did she look like, and what did she think we had going on? Her reply was hesitatingly honest, and I felt somewhat ashamed. “I am a little self-conscious because I am surrounded by women who eat red meat all the time and never exercise," she wrote. "It wears off on me and makes me lazy." At the end of the note, she dropped a mini-bomb; "By the way, I'll be visiting friends in Wisconsin in two weeks, and on December 28th we're going to road-trip to Milwaukee to meet you. You better be home, or else..."

The "or else" was probably meant playfully, but my reaction was immediately opposite; I told her was going to be out of town. There was a photography exhibit at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art I wanted to see--by Andres Serrano--and several friends and I had plans to spend several days visiting the windy city.

She was furious. “ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER BASTARD SHITBAG ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER” was left in my inbox the very next day. “I AM COMING TO MEET YOU WHETHER OR NOT YOU WANT ME TO, SO YOU BETTER FIND TIME FOR ME TO DO SO BEFORE SUNDAY!”

Her "How to Win Friends and Influence People" response sealed the near-contracted deal for me. I told her my schedule was full and that there was nothing I could do about it. I received another thrashing. I also received and oddly timed surprise. On the same day her second email of vitriol and spite found its way into my email inbox, my physical mailbox received an envelope from her, something obviously mailed before I told her I wouldn't be around for her arrival. Gathering up great courage, Julia had finally sent her picture, along with the note, “Just wanted to send something so you’d know who was knocking at your door when I come.”

The picture was simply her face, which was enough. As cruel as it sounds, it is a face that created the phrase, "only a mother could love." I probably gave Homer Simpson's fear bleat upon gazing upon it. As much as I knew I was dealing with an easily wounded ego, I was also concerned with the tone of her emails and entirely sure I didn't want to end up in a room alone with her.

Two weeks passed quickly, with Julia continuing to insist she was going to meet me no matter what. My plans to visit Chicago fell apart, and I couldn't think of a thing to do for the weekend. In the least, I figured I just wouldn't answer my door if at home on Thursday.

As if on cue, at one o’clock that very afternoon, I was home alone, sitting in my room reading when the door buzzer went off. Someone was in the lobby looking to get in. I closed the book and frowned; no one ever buzzed my apartment. The door buzzed again--I got up cautiously--the door buzzed. I decided against answering, and instead walked into the living room and sat down behind a plant next to the window. From this vantage point I could see the front porch; the apartment was on the first floor, and when the person left I would know who it was. If friend, I would knock on the window, bid them back and explain my childish behavior. If foe...

The door buzzed. Two minutes had passed since the first sounding. This person was persistent. I remained seated. Two more minutes passed filled with intermittent buzzing. I was now irritated. When phoning, how many rings do you wait before deciding someone isn’t home? Twenty? Fifty? This was absurd. What was running through this person's mind, “Maybe someone’s home, but in the shower. if I keep ringing, they’ll get out and come to the door?” I have no idea.

After six minutes the front door opened. My mystery woman from South Dakota stepped out, shook her head, and walked away. As cruel as it is to say, her description of being "lazy" told half the story; she was roughly 5'4" and topped 200 pounds easily. I could see where the self-esteem problem came from, but the aggression that went with it is what had me on edge. I went back to my room and resumed reading. Moments later the door buzzer went off and was held for ten seconds. While not a long time in most cases, when listening to a door buzzer it is an eternity. I closed the book and wondered; had she somehow seen me step away from the window? Three short bursts filled the air, followed by silence. I began reading again and eventually went to work undisturbed.

This action repeated itself several times a day over the next few days, all the way until December 31st. On that evening, I went to work as usual, and it being New Years Eve my first call of order was to get as much stock ready as possible. The reservation book was full, and we expected to go through liquor like mad. I was in back of the restaurant grabbing bottles when the word came; “Nate, there’s someone here to see you.” My mind went on red alert. Never before had words spoken so innocently filled me with dread. Had I ever told this woman where I worked? Sometime in the beginning of our correspondence? She often referred to my early mailings, so I suspected she saved them. This was not good.

“Who is it?” I asked.

The hostess didn’t know.

“I’m busy,” I said flatly and went back to stocking.

She shrugged. Five minutes later my partner bartender came back; “Nate, your sister stopped by and dropped off some things for you.” I thumped my head against the wall. I was now officially paranoid.

That night I worked, went out with co-workers, and finally returned home and got to bed around six am. At nine my alarm went off; I was driving to Oshkosh for the day to visit a friend. I got up from my nighttime “nap” and called him, checking to make sure he was awake and such. The door buzzer went off in the middle of our brief conversation. I excused myself from the phone and hung up. Something didn’t feel right.

I took my seat by the window and waited. The door buzzer sounded repeatedly over three minutes, then paused. Moments later, I heard my neighbor’s door open; the lobby security door soon followed suit. Two seconds later the other apartment door closed and a knock came upon mine. This was not a knock used to wake a person on New Years Morning, but a cautious one, almost too quiet to be effective. It was repeated several times over the minute it took me to gently tiptoe across my creaky living room floor to reach the door. Once there, I looked through the peephole.

As sunlight was pouring into the inner lobby behind the figure, all I could see was a dark silhouette. It was very large. I couldn’t be 100% positive, but who else could it be? I stood bent over, watching every move, listening to every knock resound a mere inch from my head. My breathing was light. The figure leaned over. It looked into the peephole from the outside. We were now watching each other separated only by two inches of wood. I had to fight back laughter over the absurdity of the situation.

Then the doorknob turned.

Slowly.

Methodically.

Quietly.

This wasn’t a person casually entering a room. Someone was testing waters here, putting their big toe in to check for warmth. The knob reached its crescent and paused. Gentle pressure was applied; the door creaked in my ear. Someone wanted in. The door moved a millimeter, was halted by the lock, held in place a moment, then relaxed. I returned to the peephole.

The figure stood with slumped shoulders; a defeated pose. Its head looked up and to the side, as if in thought. It retreated into the light. Julia looked out the lobby door, back at the apartment, and left. I got dressed in twenty seconds and left out the back, un-showered and unconcerned by that stinky fact.

At 10:32 pm I returned to my apartment; it had been a good day. At 10:35 the door buzzer fired. Fortunately, I do not light the entire apartment when entering. I had walked in, gone to my room, and flipped only that switch on. This cannot be seen from the front of the building, which meant there was no sign of life in the apartment. I stole to my window seat in the darkness. The buzzer rang again. A minute later, my now nemesis left; her waits were growing dramatically shorter. I sat wondering how many times she had repeated this action throughout the day.

The next morning I woke around eight and lay in bed until eight thirty. I heard the phone ring and my roommate Jack rushed for it in a panic as he always did. Something about a ringing phone made Jack trip over himself to answer it, as if one day he would receive the winning lottery call from a beautiful nymphomaniac waiting to give him great sex with his million dollars. Regardless, Jack answered the phone, and moments later, there was a knock at my bedroom door.

“Hey,” he said, a look of caution on his face. “The phone’s for you. Some woman I don’t recognize. Should I say you aren’t home?” Jack knew the situation. How could he not? My South Dakota stalker had been buzzing our door for five days now.

I thought it over. It was Tuesday. Julia had mentioned she needed to be back in South Dakota this very morning. She left so quickly last night it looked like a last ditch effort.

“Nah,” I replied. I had never sent my number anyway, and I wasn't listed. “I’ll see who it is.”

“You sure? I’ll run interference for you.”

I waved him off, which I'll call an early morning "not thinking yet" mistake.

I grabbed the phone.

“Hello,” I stated.

“Is this Nate?”

I didn’t recognize the voice, and therefore knew exactly who it belonged to. Was I fucking retarded for taking the call? Jesus.

“Yup.”

“Do you know who this is?”

There was giddiness in her tone.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” I said flatly, suggesting this was not interesting to me.

“Ok, well, I’m coming over now.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’m right around the corner on a pay phone, so don’t even try to get away. I’ll only stay for a minute, there’s something I want to give you.”

I paused. This would be difficult to get out of. Even if I hung up, she knew I was home. I decided she was NOT getting into my apartment. I’d meet her in the lobby.

“Whatever.”

“Ok, great, see you in a minute.”

She hung up. I shook my head. This would all be over soon.

Why hadn’t I let Jack tell the person I wasn't home?

The apartment door soon emitted a knock; the lobby must have been unlocked.

Great.

I walked into the next room and answered it.

There she stood, Julia in all her glory.

She was smiling. I frowned and gave a squint of irritation in greeting.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!!” She shouted, raising her hand in alarm. “DON’T SAY ANYTHING!! I don't want to ruin the moment!”

Ruin the moment?

She put forth her hand, in it was a small Tick figurine.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Just take it... NO! DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Don’t ruin the moment... just stand there with my gift. My gift to you...”

I held out my hand, confused more than irritated, accepted the action figure, and watched as she clasped her hands together as if showing the joy of a child.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!"

This seemed to be all she could get out.

“I’m going now... I just wanted to meet you and give you that.”

She waved and moved away from the door.

I stood silently, unable to say anything even had I wanted to.

She left.

I closed the door.

What the hell had just happened?

That’s where it ends. Julia never emailed me again, and I had had enough of the anger and erotic pushing from her to reach out to her in either friendship or otherwise. I asked Pete about her once, and he had little to say, so I let it go. The only thing that remained to be explained was her phone call, which Jack had a theory about. I cannot prove or disprove it, and I can’t say that I disagree with his thoughts. Jack said she called two minutes after he walked in the front door that morning. This is the amount of time it would take a person to get to the pay phone around the corner if standing in front of our building. Was she watching? Standing in the cold or sitting in her car, waiting for someone to enter the apartment? Jack was roughly my height and we both had dark hair, so from a distance…

Either way, the phone was in Jack’s name. She must have looked him up after not finding my lovely moniker in the white pages and grabbing his off the mailbox in the lobby. Not much Sherlock Holmes action needed to figure that one out.

So, as Vonnegut wrote, it goes...

the death of charity within me

2008-12-04T17:17:00.000-08:00

it's taken me a long time to understand that questioning something and chastising it are often perceived as the same action.

lyds donated money to both the obama campaign and npr this year, and each time i wondered aloud why she did so. not that i didn't feel the causes worthy, it's just that for some time, giving has been something i rarely do. until recently, i never sat down to examine why. i cannot say i am either proud or ashamed of this mindset, it simply is what it is.

my initial flirtation with offering aid began in college. one day, without reason, i got a bug in my butt to volunteer at a soup kitchen. i made a few phone calls--this was back in the dark ages, before a google search could net you 10,000 hits in .23 seconds--and found a location in a church several miles from my apartment, one in a seedy milwaukee neighborhood. the shelter gave meals daily, so i simply showed up unannounced one evening. the hall was like any old-school rectory basement; spacious, and able to fit several rows of school-style picnic tables at a length of about ten deep. overall, a couple hundred people could eat simultaneously with enough elbowroom to be comfortable.

i wandered around looking for someone in charge and was brushed off several times by disinterested people, until i finally came upon a cluster of people with a bit of authority. i asked what i could do to help, and was met with an odd mix of suspicion and hostility. i was thrown, but after a few moments spent assuring everyone i was simply there to do what i was told, i was given the glorious honor of wiping down tables after people finished eating, that the next wave of needy could fill their tummies.

a line would begin to form about an hour before service, and i was warned not to hang out outside, as stabbings, muggings and other fun activities took place beyond god's walls. when the doors opened, an interesting influx of arrivals would enter, and even on my first night i could tell who was who. those new to the game had down turned heads and slumping body posture in embarrassment of their need. those who had surpassed this stage walked in with simple acceptance; they were hungry, this is what they had to do, and there was no shame in it. the final ingredient in the blend the actors. usually young men, they walked in with a swagger and sunglasses, dressed like they didn't need the food and making a show of their favor to the church in eating it. the ethnic mix was divided down easy lines; most volunteers were white, most recipients were black. my first couple weeks in, i wondered if this played into the attitudes and slight if not outright contempt many workers had for the diners.

wiping tables was by no means interesting, rewarding or fun, but i began a weekly pattern of riding my bike into the ghetto and doing what i could for those in need of human assistance. i didn't do it for bragging rights, karma or acknowledgement, i only volunteered because it seemed like the thing to do. i had the time, charity doesn't happen by accident and it seemed more productive than playing tetris, my common pastime. over the course of a year, my attitude did begin a shift into negative territory. while i never looked forward to going in, neither did i ever resent it. but toward the end, i did start to feel a hesitation.

when you spend time in any one area of life, you become aware of little nuances that make up the whole of a setting. cracks begin to shine through the foundation you once saw as solid. everything you witnessed but didn't notice initially stands out, and this takes place in jobs, relationships or friendships. after a year, instead of seeing simple need, i saw waste. people would go down the food line taking heaps of everything offered, then sit, eat the dessert and throw all else away. this action was far from rare, it was widely practiced. i began to get irritated by it; the idea people couldn't simply say "not interested" to whatever they weren't going to eat anyway offended me, especially when i noticed the families acting with complete disregard for instilling a sense of value in their children. to not clean your own plate is one thing, but to raise a child under the banner that waste, let alone waste of auspice, is acceptable? i began to understand why my fellow volunteers were embittered. before i could reach their level of apathy or anger, i bowed out. one week i didn't feel like volunteering, so i didn't go. and then i never went back again.

i still had the sense to act in a positive manner in me, though, and gestated a bit over my next move. such meditation eventually ended in deciding to adopt a third-world child in need. i researched a few outfits, centered on one and contacted away. forms were filed, choices were made and before long i was writing to (and sending checks for) a young boy in latin america. thanks to the simpsons, my friends and i diminished my kindness by referring to him as "pepe." but i was still happy to be doing my small part to combat the problems of a destitute nation. i wrote my little "dear ndugu" notes well ahead of the reference just made, and though i tried to be simple and straightforward in my letters--"i hope you are well, i hope your family is well"--i'm sure they were as foreign to my ward as those written by nicholson. i received pictures and crayola drawings in return, hung a few on the old fridge and filed others away in a folder i bought for correspondence.

the particular organization i went through had a graduation age for adoptees, and when it was reached i'd receive a packet of choices for my next child. in my years as a member, i believe i helped three children on three continents--south america, africa and asia--reach maturity, but as with the food pantry, i began becoming irritated by patterns i had dismissed early on. every new packet i received came with the same basic description, "(name) is the youngest of six/eight/ten children, living in abject poverty and in desperate need..." and i would read and wince. six children? eight children. ten fucking children? if these people are living in abject poverty, why the fuck are they continually squirting out more mouths they can't feed? because they need farm hands? because so few will eventually survive? sorry, that's shit logic and works against basic intuition regardless of education or economic standing. yes, once again, my ego got in the way of compassion and i had to opt out of adopting a fourth child before becoming even more of a fuck of a human being than i already felt like.

it was now the late 1990's and i was performing stand up comedy, so several of us decided to throw shows for charity. we would set everything up, practice our craft, and pass the door's take to a different foundation every time. many organizations were kind and giving, both putting out the word to supporters of their cause and appreciative of the money we gave. but an odd, or maybe understandable parallel between the size of the institution and their kindness (or lack of it) soon became apparent. when local groups were promoted, they were the most open and appreciative to our help. the larger the system, naturally, the more the red tape and less support there was.

my first (and worst) experience came at the hands of the make a wish foundation. a local dj heard of our shows, and having an interest in both comedy and the causes we supported, invited me to appear on air to promote the event. sadly, he wasn't aware of my ever-present ignorance when it comes to inappropriate behavior. simply put, i find very few subjects to be taboo in life, and things that somehow make others wince make me giggle. maybe i'm wired wrong, but when i got on the radio this was the exchange heard throughout the metropolis of milwaukee:

bryan erwin, dj: "i've got local comedian nathan timmel in the studio with me, he's part of a group of comics running "comedy for charity" down at stooges comedy club. every week they throw a show and donate the money to a worthy cause. nathan, why don't you tell us about this week's show and charity?"

me, idiot: "thanks bryan. this week we're donating to the very popular make a wish foundation. if you're not familiar, this is a great organization that allows terminally ill children the chance to do something they've always wanted to but never had the chance to, such as visit disneyworld, swim with the dolphins, or have their first homosexual experience."

bryan cut my mic and immediately went to commercial. he didn't exactly chastise me, but did explain that there was a difference between pushing the envelope and going too far, and for radio, that was definitely going too far.

and he was right.

the next morning my phone rang and the anything but lovely head of either the wisconsin (or milwaukee, i'm not quite sure which) branch of the foundation started shouting at me before i could barely say hello.

"how could you say that? did you think that was funny? how could you suggest that we could do such a thing for a child, or that a child would ever..."

what? be a homosexual?

i rarely show restraint in life when confronted with ignorance, but bryan had shown me great kindness and instead of blasting the woman, i apologized. the foundation had recently undergone a massive public relations disaster for supporting the dying wish of a child wanting to hunt and kill a bear (because i suppose sometimes when you're at your end you don't become enlightened to the idea of life being precious and simply want to take it from other creatures because as it was unfair to you, hey, fuck everyone and everything) and was widely rumored to have purchased prostitutes for children who wanted to lose their virginity. i absolutely wanted to hammer back at this ignorant cunt who was angry with me for suggesting a child would actually be--*gasp*--gay, but i tried, and failed, to keep bryan out of the mess i caused. bryan was eventually fired and i received legal notice to never promote anything even remotely involving the make a wish fucks ever again. as if i would want to.

oddly enough, bryan and i became close friends, and a big, blowout charity show was planned. bryan came from the world of bands and music, had connections, and a theater show was to be our grand farewell from the world of comedy and charity. after slight deliberations, the so-we-thought excellent habitat for humanity organization was green lit for fund reception. putting the cart before the horse, we printed posters, placards and got everything in place... and then contacted habitat for humanity. while kind, they claimed that their modus operandi was to remain inconspicuous. they didn't want to "get in anyone's face" with what they did. they appreciated the money, but weren't interested in either setting up a display at the event, or even sending anyone down to collect the money. they couldn't wait to get the check in the mail, but i don't remember being thanked by anyone i talked to. though feeling slighted, with everything already printed we had no choice but to go ahead with the plan and created what eventually turned out to be a standing room only crowd for an organization who wanted nothing to do with us. i will grant that it was our fault for not checking in with them before deciding to support their cause, but it still felt like a slight.

after that i pretty much ended my kind ways. i still donate food to pantries, but even that has become the occasional afterthought, like grabbing a canned item to place in a bin seen when entering the grocery store. lyds reminded me that this year i bought mosquito netting to combat malaria in africa, but that gesture was defeated by my complaining when lyds attempted to donate to npr a second time; "but i gave to the tribesmen this year..." as if giving was something to mark off a to do list but once.

charity should be like an apology; you don't give an apology to hear one in return, you offer supplication for reasons within you. when it comes to my period of giving, though i never did it for karma, thanks or even recognition, over a decade's time, desire to aid was removed from me. i could espouse bullshit about how governments could end all suffering if they would focus on it, but that doesn't forgive me my complacency or my questioning of lyds when she acts in a manner much more compassionately than i do.

today i find it hard supporting much of anything outside of systems involved with helping animals. maybe lyds can wring the old me back out of my current shell, or maybe i'll just donate more to the humane society and groups that focus on furry creatures.

how mother theresa managed to live among people perpetuating their own problem is beyond me.

sainthood truly is for the christ-like among us, and i have never claimed to be a decent human being.

the mental retardation of a corporate mindset

2008-11-22T13:24:00.001-08:00

when i was in college, i tended bar at a wannabe fine dining restaurant. a corporation that owned fifty or so eateries across the country ran it, but that doesn't mean it was part of a themed chain. each restaurant was its own entity, not a series of red lobsters or olive gardens. that said, no individual location was ever allowed to function in a manner that made it unique to its region. in the three years i worked there, i saw five general managers and more manager-managers than i can remember pass through. each story was fairly similar; the place wasn't pulling a profit, so a gm was replaced and given a new strategy with which to grow business. each strategy was handed down from corporate, written by people who lived across the country and who had zero knowledge of the local market. so each gm would arrive with a puffed chest and the idea they should be respected and listened to, and each would leave defeated as the clientele wanted to be cajoled, not bullied, into eating there. no matter how many times the failed pattern repeated itself, corporate still made sure to dictate everything from afar; from how a manager should manage to what the customers should want, edicts were handed down from above. naturally, the only thing corporate actually succeeded in accomplishing was creating a disaffected staff. my personal revenge was to constantly dump full bottles of absolut down the drain; if a manager yelled at me i'd roll my eyes, wait until they turned their back, then pour their attempted profits away. others i worked with quit by simply not showing up; no loyalty to the business was ever nurtured.

one of my best friends manages a movie theater. like a majority of theaters, it is corporate and he is micro-managed from across the country. right now, many braches of the chain are losing money; my friend's location, however, is solvent. such things do not matter to a corporate head. when they make changes, they do so using a sweeping motion, uninterested in nuancing their way across the country. their solution to the overall loss of money was to implement several policies: cut the first showing of the day, effective immediately. cut payroll, by making one person do the work of three. and of course, raise prices. oh, and to go with those changes, naturally, was the new slogan: "our focus is customer service!" the problem being, of course, that every new policy enacted is in direct contradiction to customer service.

a competing theater chain by my friend's location cut their early show long ago. naturally, senior citizens who enjoy daytime events all flocked to my friend's theater. these would be the same senior citizens who will now be turned away from their weekly routine. by cutting payroll, my friend, who is salaried, has had to pick up the slack. he mentioned having several calls who had been put on hold hanging up because he couldn't get back to them quickly enough; he was trying to sell tickets to a movie starting in five minutes, a movie he needed to get to the projection booth to run. but hey, as those customers were hanging up, $5 an hour was being saved by having a worker cut from the shift! corporate also mandated a nationwide rate at the concession stand, one already gutted of all the specialty sweets the competition didn't carry and replaced with par for the course candy. when challenging the new corporate rate, my friend argued that his market would have a problem with the exceedingly high price. corporate argued back that a flat rate made sense. my friend was furious. naturally a flat rate makes sense on paper, but in reality a two-bedroom apartment in houston doesn't rent for the same rate as a two-bedroom apartment in boise, so why would popcorn in new york city cost the same as popcorn in tulsa? corporate had no answer. but hey, it's for the customer! they should want to pay more! right?

last month, lyds dodged a bullet. fed up with the way corporate new york was running their satellite iowa city business, she up and found a new job. part of her frustration came in the way corporate was panicking this year. for three previous years, the business grew at an amazing rate; every year profits exploded, so at the start of every new year corporate set higher goals to reach. for example, if they demanded "10," the business hit "15." when new york demanded "25," iowa hit "30." until this year.

this year, with the economy slumping, profits slumped, too. the best the iowa satellite was able to do was to near last year's numbers, not grow to new heights. this was a problem for new york, because they wanted to sell the iowa branch and was offering up the business as a profitable powerhouse. so, though in the black, corporate decided to eliminate 20% of the iowa city workforce; lydia's department was decimated. all but four people were outright let go, no notice given. the other four were told they would be training their replacements, people who would be working out of the new marketing department in of all places, new york city. that's right, in an attempt to save money, corporate decided to shut down an already profitable and well oiled machine based in the labor cheap state of iowa, and train a whole new crew based in the ultra expensive location of manhattan. all so several people on top could show better returns and increase stock shares, making the iowa business ripe for sale. never mind the people they put out of work one week before thanksgiving, one month before christmas, and all within the walls of an already profitable company.

these are personal stories and don't even begin to dip into the asshole nature of corporate greed. general motors dismantled its electric car program and destroyed all prototypes years ago; now they beg for billions of dollars in order to restructure its business because they took a hit on gas guzzling hummers this past summer. they beg while flying to and from washington in private jets.

aig received billions and immediately all the top officers ran to a horrifically expensive spa for massages and manicures. before receiving their bailout money, just in case they got shot down they spent the months leading up to asking by securing enormous bonuses for the top dogs.

after 9/11, the airlines were given billions in bailout money, and somehow it all stayed at the top as lower level workers were laid off.

my point, if i have one, is this: write to your senators and congressmen and shout as loud as you can: don't support the corporate mindset. don't bail them out for using backwards thinking that got them into trouble in the first place, let them go bankrupt, because even when they have money, they still don't give a fuck about the workers they claim to be begging on the behalf of. they don't care about workers, and they definitely don't care about customers. they never have, and never will. if they did, they'd understand what a classic song tried to teach the world many years ago: "what might be right for you, may not be right for some."

(sorry, couldn't resist)

regardless, while i may not be a religious person, i do hope there is a special realm of hell reserved specifically for corporate fucks who live their lives off numbers on a piece of paper.

i cross my fingers for it.

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good god, it's great to be white

2008-11-10T06:35:00.001-08:00

normally, when you go on the road as a comedian, the comedy club puts you up in a hotel. sometimes, however, you get an apartment rented specifically for traveling comedians.

the problem with staying in an apartment is: when it comes time to check in for a flight and print boarding passes in advance, you're shit out of luck.

most cities have a little business called "kinko's" within their borders, but not all, and ocala florida, if you do a google search, is lacking such an establishment.

just my luck, i happened to be performing in ocala, and had little interest in arriving at the airport early just to check in.

what to do...

what to do?

well, when you're a reasonably normal looking white guy, you just find the nearest hotel, wander into the lobby like you're staying there, walk over to the elevator as if to go to your room, then change your mind and meander back to the front desk and say, "excuse me, i'd like to check in for my flight and print my boarding passes, where's the business center?"

not only will they tell you, they'll give you the access code to the computer.

and they'll do it with a smile.

take that, minorities who receive suspicious eyes whenever you enter a business.

:D

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i dry my asshole incorrectly, and other observations

2008-10-31T13:07:00.001-07:00

i don't really think of myself as a prude person, nor am i a germophobe. that said, when it comes to stepping out the shower and drying my body, i stop at the crack at the bottom of my back and reach for toilet paper. this tp is for a quick, final dab at the delicate, inside pucker. this action makes my lyds laugh, as she says, "you know it's fresh-clean from the shower you just took, right?"

such things do not matter to me, as maybe it's a psychological quirk, but i still don't appreciate the idea of sticking a toweled finger up in there, then using that same cottony-spot to dry my face the next day.

on the subject of towels, i wonder if lyds and i should take two of them to bed for one of our little liaisons. it would make more sense to use a towel apiece afterwards than to continue our process of duck-waddling to the bathroom attached by a single piece of cloth, delicately trying to avoid spilling sputnik on our carpet.

i do wonder what our kitties think when they see us enact this ritual. not the sex part, which they seem to watch with a casual disinterest, thinking "can i get fed soon?", but the towel-attached shuffle into the bathroom afterwards. we're aware we look quite silly, yet continue the act after each and every, well, act. and the kitties tilt their heads to the side and wonder what we're doing every time.

on the subject of kitties, while they don't always watch lyds and i intertwine, they do have rituals for each of us that i don't entirely understand. every morning, lyds showers before work, and, and especially so in winter, every morning the kitties join her in the bathroom. they jump up onto the counter, enjoying a little steam-sauna to start the day, and upon completion of her cleaning, lyds opens the curtain to see them resting contentedly.

meanwhile, neither joins me when i shower. they could get the same little burst of moisture they seem to enjoy in the morning, but they opt not to. simon, however, always, always, always seems to come running when it's time for me to enjoy a relaxing constitutional. as i rest on the throne, i find a gray kitty rushing in to sit at my feet, stare up at me, and meow until i pet him. and when i stand and flush, he always props his front two paws up on the toilet to peer down at the swirling water, his kitty curiosity asking, "hey, what's goin' on in here?"

simon's other fetish is a closed door. at the condo, he would sit at the front door and howl until allowed into the hallway, where he would simply lay down, suddenly satisfied. at our house, the door to the garage is his nemesis. he will sit at it and cry as if in pain, and has even taken to gnawing at the rubber stopping at the base in attempt to get through it. yet whenever allowed into the garage, all he does is sit down. he does investigate, as kitty paws across my windshield have shown, but generally all he does is relax and little else. as it's grown colder and the door to the house is closed behind him, simon's visits to the garage have grown shorter and shorter in length.

on the subject of not having any sort of segue for the next segment, i was paid a compliment last week at the chicago improv. walking up the hallway after the show, my head down, texting and eye-contacted with my phone, i glanced up to see two young women heading towards me.

"oh my god," the first whispered excitedly, "that's him!"

"no!" the second countered, grabbing the first girl's arm and pulling her, "you have a boyfriend."

"awwww," the first finished, defeated.

i smiled as they faded into the distance and told lyds, swaggering that male swagger so laughable to women; "i've still got it!" yeah, because that woman only get to see the "fun" nathan of the stage, she didn't peer behind the wizard's curtain to deal with me the other 23 hours of the day. as lyds will tell anyone, those hours are eye-rolling tests of patience.

but it did enter lyds and i into a discussion of men and women and their protective behaviors. women may be vapid creatures of dissection, tearing down their counterparts at every turn, but when the chips are down, they'll step up for one another. they won't let a friend go home with someone beneath them if they're too drunk to make a judgment call. and if a friend gets sick while drinking, she'll be taken home, have her hair held for the puking ritual, and then put to bed.

compare that to men, where not only will a man not care if his buddy cheats, he'll actually encourage it. especially if the guy has a hot girlfriend, because then the friend on the side will look to be the jilted girlfriend's revenge or rebound fuck.

and for men, looks don't matter at all with drunken sex. as said, if a woman is trying to hook up with a loser, her friends will intervene. if a man is attempting to pick up a woman that looks exactly like brian urlacher, his friends will wave him goodnight with a "have fun with your centerfold, hef!" and then give him shit about it for the rest of his life. i personally text my friend dan goff of tucson, arizona, once a month a mocking reminder of the "girl" i helped send him home with over five years ago.

when it comes to drinking and care, that's a fun one, too. unlike women, men will not take care of a drunken buddy. maybe we'll have his back in a fight, but only if we feel like fighting, not because of honor. other than that, all bets are off. not only will we not hold hair, i personally once spent two hours listening to my roommate and good friend rob baxter drunkenly vomit all over himself in bed. all i remember was thinking, "oh for fuck's sake, will you just choke on that shit so i can get some sleep?"

his comforter and futon the next morning were things of beauty. i think i laughed for weeks off the sight of him waking up in and surrounded by crusted, smelly bile.

in chicago, i stayed at my friend and fellow comedian joe hamilton's apartment. joe is actually jim flannigan, but the first time we met i absolutely could not remember that, and took to calling him joe hamilton. i now encourage everyone, everywhere, to call him joe hamilton. many do.

that aside, after the sunday show i drove home to iowa and crawled into bed somewhere around two in the morning. lyds immediately nuzzled up to me, but this time she paused, then pushed back a little.

"you don't smell like you," she said unhappily.

i hadn't thought about it, but there is a certain security in the scent of your lover, a familiarity that you react to unconsciously, and positively. when we moved into the new house, it smelled like a new house. now i smell lyds when i come home from a long weekend, the same lyds i smelled in her condo and found so comforting when i moved in.

that night, i smelled like joe hamilton's apartment and guest bedding. it being dark and lyds being half asleep, she was relying on senses other than sight to relate to me, and the fact i "wasn't me" set off a confusion in her.

thankfully, the situation was rectified the next morning after a shower in which i washed the stench of other off me, and after which i tore off several sheets of toilet paper for my final starfish of drying.

lyds laughed at me for it and reminded me she herself dries 100% of her body with her towel.

and she wonders why i do the laundry so often.

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