Bill was already reaching for another cigarette, hadn't even finished the one in his mouth yet. Could say it was one of those days, except every day was that kind of day, a tauntingly slow motion slog from smoke break to smoke break. Bill made a game of seeing how many he could polish off in fifteen minutes without looking like he had a problem. He preferred Parliaments, not really because he liked the taste but because asking for Parliaments at the convenience store made him feel fancy.
10:30 am. Service should be wrapping up soon, time to warm up the hearse. He almost felt pity for the Lincoln. Sentencing such a fine vehicle to a lifetime of trafficking in the dearly departed was like using a $200 saucepan to make grilled cheese. She drove relentlessly smooth and sure, had a kind of misplaced regality normally reserved for non-governing heads of state and past-their-prime beauty queens. This was by far the nicest car you could never meet women with. Well, maybe Goth women, but how much fun can you have with someone while wondering whether she’s going to tie you up in the night, offer you to her pagan gods, a.k.a. the Moon as human sacrifice?
Curious line of work driving one of these things. Part limousine driver, part mover, part speed confidant, all strange. No matter how good one is at this job, there’s no such a thing as a ‘good day’. He’d better not be caught enjoying himself, joy is wholly inappropriate here. Hard to imagine how horrified a widow would be to find her hearse driver whistling while he worked, listening to Opie and Anthony on the radio, or trying to gossip about “True Blood” and Lebron James. Definitely can’t post status updates about how much he loves his job or is ‘taking it to the hole’.
People can't imagine how hard it is socializing as a hearse driver. Tell someone what you do at a bar, get an introspective "oh", followed by excruciatingly banal chitchat until someone gets the nerve to pretend their phone is vibrating. Nothing makes a guy feel happy to be out like watching someone desperately claw their brain for an exit strategy.
Can’t fault people for their discomfort, not a lot of entertaining places the conversation can go from there. It’s not like he had charming anecdotes and workplace hi-jinks to report “…so one time I was leading this motorcade and needed to stop for gas, the family was NOT pleased. I was like ‘What’s the rush? The dirt’s still going to be there’ …needless to say there were some curiously specific ‘general remarks’ on ‘preparedness and tact’ at the next strategy meeting. Why we have strategy meetings at a funeral home is beyond me. Pretty much everyone on earth is going to need us eventually; the only way we could broaden our market is by selling toilet paper and condoms on the side...”
10:45. Showtime at the front door, time to focus. Bill tried to concentrate on looking slightly somber yet dignified. Always ended up debating exactly how much of a smile would be appropriate for each group. Too little of a smile seems rude, too much grin looks like you work for the Reaper or are happy the guy is dead. Nothing like the science of miming empathy in a professional setting, Roma Downey and Della Reese would be proud.
11:35 Of all the recurring lines of post funeral dialogue, “Thanks for everything" had to be his personal favorite. Knew people were just trying to be polite, but really, thanks for what? He wasn’t driving this Lincoln town car as a personal favor. He was driving it because he wasn't quite focused enough his last two years of high school and this was all his uncle could hook him up with. He was just lucky his uncle didn’t run a rickshaw service, with his luck it’d be in some cardiovascular hell like San Francisco or Aspen. Next time someone tells you to stay awake in world literature class, listen.
The deceased’s mother invited him to attend the repast. He knew he would have to do it, but he could never figure out why people persisted in inviting him. Small talk was hard enough for guys in his line of work, but small talk at the funeral reception of a complete stranger was cosmically brutal. What does one even say? “Yeah, seemed like a good guy, but then again I only knew him dead.” Try to clean it up, end up making things worse “…for what it’s worth, he had a really nice body.” He had one hope; to stoke his face with crackers, bread, saltwater taffy, anything he could get his hands on that might take a while to chew. He couldn’t be expected to banter if his mouth stayed full of wheat thins.
He took one look around the reception hall and knew he’d have to quit this job, and soon. Formaldehyde and cracker binges do not a career make. There was no virtue in “going the distance” when the path was uninspired to begin with. That beautiful hearse couldn't choose its fate, he could. One of these days it would be someone else's job to drive him to the cemetery, and he’d damned if all the preacher could say is "he drove a mean Lincoln."
Friday, July 30, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Gift Season
THIS is the most difficult time of the year people. Gift Season in the Way household. Mother’s Day, my birthday, Father’s Day, my brother’s birthday, and then my mom’s birthday. All in the span of about 10 weeks. A Mexican standoff of soul baring and thinking about someone other than yourself. Brutal on the wallet, more brutal on the brain. Luckily, I don’t have to buy a gift for myself (doesn’t stop me from doing it though), but that little perk is canceled out by having to think of insightful gifts for my mom twice in ten weeks.
Do you realize that if you’re a mama’s boy like me and get your mom something on Valentine’s day, then that means you have to think of gifts for your mother as often as four times a year? Four times. I’ve had women in my life, women who I loved dearly, two of whom I was willing to quit comedy for, and they never got more than three presents from me in a year. Three presents is close to overdoing it. Four? What the heck is somebody supposed to do four different times?
Adding to the difficulty of this particular mission is the fact that my mom doesn’t need or really want anything. It was so easy when my brother and I were kids and the whole family was Dust Bowl poor. Team poverty, by the way, is one of many golden paths to learning to be funny. Cracking jokes together takes your mind off how hungry you are, how irreconcilably wack your tennis shoes are, the fact that you never get to have your own soda when the family goes out for fast food, or how you just spent a whole Saturday night at the mall but came back with no bags.
Those were the days, how does being broke manage to become romantically nostalgic with the passage of time? Window-shopping for hot dogs, rationing pop tarts, learning you could make almost any meat of any age taste good with enough season salt. And dating. Dating poor was the kind of adventure that would make Indiana Jones soil his khakis. Starting as a teen and carrying pretty much all the way through college you’d see a cute girl and want to ask her out, but a part you was always like “Really man, what’s the point? Not like you can afford to take her anywhere. Better hope she likes unshaded parking lots…” Couldn’t afford to chill in the house, because that meant keeping the air conditioner on. If you went on a date with me anytime between 1993-2004, odds are we were going for a nice looong walk, preferably to someplace that didn’t have an admission fee or require more than two dollars of metro fare to get to. We’d walk around the playground a couple dozen times, walk back home, and then I’d walk you to your car, where hopefully you’d be able to find yourself some potato wedges or something on the way home. For giggles a young lady could always count on watching me break into a cold sweat if she asked for anything more than a courtesy cup of water. Yet I’d still think she was stuck-up if I didn’t get a goodnight kiss at the end, “hey what is this “hug” foolishness? No you can keep all that baby, I will NOT be patronized…” Real mature Michael, show her what she’s missing. And for the record, don’t judge or pity my social squalor peoples; have it on good information Richard Pryor wasn’t buying women full glasses of water for women back when he was in Peoria, Illinois either.
Anyway, when the family doesn’t have much disposal income, gift giving is pretty easy, almost magical; it’s all a win. Provided one can scrape together a couple of bucks, the boy who gets his mama a new four-slice toaster is a bloody hero. Not just within the family, but the community at large. The preacher mentions you in the Sunday sermon, and all the city councilmen want to get their picture taken with the “toaster boy poster boy”.
That’s not the case anymore. My mom’s a professional woman with her own budding accounting practice. I’m a young starving comic so I’m still going through my frozen pizza and courtesy cup of water phase, but my parents, they eat lobster on weeknights now. Can’t hate. Life in America had better get more luxurious for a couple when they don’t have kids to feed or put through private school anymore; otherwise somebody in that house has picked up a nasty opium habit. But all that relative prosperity leaves my brother and I in a dilly of a pickle, because anything mama doesn’t have at this point, she probably felt wasn’t worth spending money on.
Gets extra tough gift shopping because my mom doesn’t really have much in the way of hobbies. Why? Because when you’re trying to raise a family and put kids through private school, all while hovering tantalizingly close to the poverty line, you don’t have time for hobbies. You don’t have time for anything that doesn’t clean the house, earn you accounting credits, put food on the table or help pay down that tuition. The closest thing my mom has to a hobby is gardening, and that to me still looks too much like chores. Sometimes I think about the sacrifices my mom’s made to get my brother and I to this point, it gives me nightmares thinking about how much I owe. If she asked me to put a bullet in an army doctor’s head, I’d have to pull that trigger and then help arrange the evidence so it looks like that woman from her job she hates did the killing. So needless to say I need to come correct at gift season?
The pressure’s mounting on this one, feels like a pop final exam “How clairvoyant are you about your family?” Have to think something good for this one. Got my dad a watch for Father’s Day, got my brother an electronic drum set for his birthday, didn’t realize I was inadvertently setting the bar crazy high for mom’s birthday.
Feel the need to come up with something jaw-dropping here, just short of a vacation package to Korea or Europe. Mother’s Day was sincere, but not my strongest showing. Got her an iTunes gift card and some CDs. In retrospect, am amazed and grateful she didn’t call me an unimaginative “hack” and show me the door. Could’ve gone that way too; one year when I was about twelve I messed up and gave her an iron, she flipped out like a football coach, didn’t talk to me for thirty-six hours (note to guys: do NOT, EVER get a woman anything related to chores as a present, unless you otherwise can’t find the nerve to tell her you want her OUT of your life, forever).
Really running short on ideas this time. This lady has been my mom now for thirty years. Means I’ve probably now thought of at least 80 different presents for her since first getting allowance money. Each time I try to top myself; at this rate by the time I’m 50, will probably be buying her trips to Mars with Kelsey Grammar as her tour guide. One year I thought I was clever, got her a bonsai tree, that sucker was dead in a month. Why? Because bonsai trees don’t help you earn your accounting credits. One Christmas I got her a home pedicure tub. It’s still in the box to this day. Basket of exotic chocolates, win. Box of Asian teas, win. DVD on amateur photography, FAIL. Gardening wagon filled with assortment of her favorite candies, big big win. This is the open mic of gift giving; if I buy her something she uses, I’ll know it waskiller. Keep your fingers crossed peoples, the clock is ticking. If things get much tighter, am just going to pretend like we’re poor again; somebody’s getting a new “new toaster” and a gift certificate to Marshall’s.
Do you realize that if you’re a mama’s boy like me and get your mom something on Valentine’s day, then that means you have to think of gifts for your mother as often as four times a year? Four times. I’ve had women in my life, women who I loved dearly, two of whom I was willing to quit comedy for, and they never got more than three presents from me in a year. Three presents is close to overdoing it. Four? What the heck is somebody supposed to do four different times?
Adding to the difficulty of this particular mission is the fact that my mom doesn’t need or really want anything. It was so easy when my brother and I were kids and the whole family was Dust Bowl poor. Team poverty, by the way, is one of many golden paths to learning to be funny. Cracking jokes together takes your mind off how hungry you are, how irreconcilably wack your tennis shoes are, the fact that you never get to have your own soda when the family goes out for fast food, or how you just spent a whole Saturday night at the mall but came back with no bags.
Those were the days, how does being broke manage to become romantically nostalgic with the passage of time? Window-shopping for hot dogs, rationing pop tarts, learning you could make almost any meat of any age taste good with enough season salt. And dating. Dating poor was the kind of adventure that would make Indiana Jones soil his khakis. Starting as a teen and carrying pretty much all the way through college you’d see a cute girl and want to ask her out, but a part you was always like “Really man, what’s the point? Not like you can afford to take her anywhere. Better hope she likes unshaded parking lots…” Couldn’t afford to chill in the house, because that meant keeping the air conditioner on. If you went on a date with me anytime between 1993-2004, odds are we were going for a nice looong walk, preferably to someplace that didn’t have an admission fee or require more than two dollars of metro fare to get to. We’d walk around the playground a couple dozen times, walk back home, and then I’d walk you to your car, where hopefully you’d be able to find yourself some potato wedges or something on the way home. For giggles a young lady could always count on watching me break into a cold sweat if she asked for anything more than a courtesy cup of water. Yet I’d still think she was stuck-up if I didn’t get a goodnight kiss at the end, “hey what is this “hug” foolishness? No you can keep all that baby, I will NOT be patronized…” Real mature Michael, show her what she’s missing. And for the record, don’t judge or pity my social squalor peoples; have it on good information Richard Pryor wasn’t buying women full glasses of water for women back when he was in Peoria, Illinois either.
Anyway, when the family doesn’t have much disposal income, gift giving is pretty easy, almost magical; it’s all a win. Provided one can scrape together a couple of bucks, the boy who gets his mama a new four-slice toaster is a bloody hero. Not just within the family, but the community at large. The preacher mentions you in the Sunday sermon, and all the city councilmen want to get their picture taken with the “toaster boy poster boy”.
That’s not the case anymore. My mom’s a professional woman with her own budding accounting practice. I’m a young starving comic so I’m still going through my frozen pizza and courtesy cup of water phase, but my parents, they eat lobster on weeknights now. Can’t hate. Life in America had better get more luxurious for a couple when they don’t have kids to feed or put through private school anymore; otherwise somebody in that house has picked up a nasty opium habit. But all that relative prosperity leaves my brother and I in a dilly of a pickle, because anything mama doesn’t have at this point, she probably felt wasn’t worth spending money on.
Gets extra tough gift shopping because my mom doesn’t really have much in the way of hobbies. Why? Because when you’re trying to raise a family and put kids through private school, all while hovering tantalizingly close to the poverty line, you don’t have time for hobbies. You don’t have time for anything that doesn’t clean the house, earn you accounting credits, put food on the table or help pay down that tuition. The closest thing my mom has to a hobby is gardening, and that to me still looks too much like chores. Sometimes I think about the sacrifices my mom’s made to get my brother and I to this point, it gives me nightmares thinking about how much I owe. If she asked me to put a bullet in an army doctor’s head, I’d have to pull that trigger and then help arrange the evidence so it looks like that woman from her job she hates did the killing. So needless to say I need to come correct at gift season?
The pressure’s mounting on this one, feels like a pop final exam “How clairvoyant are you about your family?” Have to think something good for this one. Got my dad a watch for Father’s Day, got my brother an electronic drum set for his birthday, didn’t realize I was inadvertently setting the bar crazy high for mom’s birthday.
Feel the need to come up with something jaw-dropping here, just short of a vacation package to Korea or Europe. Mother’s Day was sincere, but not my strongest showing. Got her an iTunes gift card and some CDs. In retrospect, am amazed and grateful she didn’t call me an unimaginative “hack” and show me the door. Could’ve gone that way too; one year when I was about twelve I messed up and gave her an iron, she flipped out like a football coach, didn’t talk to me for thirty-six hours (note to guys: do NOT, EVER get a woman anything related to chores as a present, unless you otherwise can’t find the nerve to tell her you want her OUT of your life, forever).
Really running short on ideas this time. This lady has been my mom now for thirty years. Means I’ve probably now thought of at least 80 different presents for her since first getting allowance money. Each time I try to top myself; at this rate by the time I’m 50, will probably be buying her trips to Mars with Kelsey Grammar as her tour guide. One year I thought I was clever, got her a bonsai tree, that sucker was dead in a month. Why? Because bonsai trees don’t help you earn your accounting credits. One Christmas I got her a home pedicure tub. It’s still in the box to this day. Basket of exotic chocolates, win. Box of Asian teas, win. DVD on amateur photography, FAIL. Gardening wagon filled with assortment of her favorite candies, big big win. This is the open mic of gift giving; if I buy her something she uses, I’ll know it waskiller. Keep your fingers crossed peoples, the clock is ticking. If things get much tighter, am just going to pretend like we’re poor again; somebody’s getting a new “new toaster” and a gift certificate to Marshall’s.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Ohhh Mel...
"Hi. I'm Mel Gibson's career. Been asleep for a few years, but I'm finally feeling saucy and ready to bust a move again. Hey, Mel didn't happen to make any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants while I was out, did he? Oh, he did? Well would you look at that, naptime again. Was a promising six months, tell Jimmy Kimmel I said sorry about the lard. Nighty night America, guess the next time you'll see me will be on the "colleagues we lost" montage at the 120th academy awards."
"Hey. I'm Mel Gibson's fictional son EMelio. My dad didn't happen to make any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants did he? Because I was just starting to make genuine friends at school, friends who don't constantly pester me for "some of that 'Passion' money", or ask me what my Dad's like, if he wears blue face paint to the dinner table or if he's an insane-sounding racist misogynist nut job in real life or just on voicemail. It's been tough enough trying to find even the smallest scrap of legitimate-feeling identity in my father's shadow. Sure am glad he hasn't gone on any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants or anything. Oh, he did? Well would you look at that, naptime again. Guess this propofol should wear off sometime September. Not sure what school will be like this fall, but odds are I'll be taking more punishment than Jim Caviezel."
"Sup y’all. This is Roger Murtaugh. No, not Danny Glover. I'm Mel Gibson's jock strap. Mel named me Murtaugh because I'm always riding his jock. So glad Mel finally put some of his insane-sounding racist misogynist rants on wax. Been telling him for years those flows are classic, he could be bigger than Kanye with the right exposure. You gotta admit the misogyny is especially breathtaking. Any ignorant, poorly-read reactionary amateur can drop some convincingly intolerant grand-wizard quality bigotry, but it takes years of hard work, strenuously selfless teeth-gnashing, narcissistic women-hatred and just plain 'wanting it' to make hip-hop lyrics seem antiquated and genteel. I'm proud to say we've set a new standard, Mel is the Michael Phelps of “keeping it real”. So glad he finally listened to me, this is going to be a new day for my man Mel, I can just feel it... Then again, what do I know? I hang around a butthole all day."
"Um, yes, I’m Dr. Peter Silberman, clinical psychologist. Kind of embarrassing to admit, but uh, I had a patient by the name of Gibson, seems to have gone missing. Claimed to be sent here from the future, believed a computer company was on their way to manufacturing robotic assassins and would eventually be responsible for some sort of nuclear Armageddon. Kept referring to it as “Judgement Day”, freaked out when we showed him a clip of “Pumping Iron”. We attempted an experimental form of immersive hypno- therapy where we convinced him he was not really from the future but rather an insane-sounding racist misogynist. He didn't by chance get out and start terrorizing his ex-girlfriend did he? Because he trusted us to be discrete and keep him locked up tight until he was better, something about a precariously fragile public image to protect. Oh he did get out? Caught on tape telling his ex “she should just smile and blow him”? “Because he deserves it”? Raped by a pack of… Fiddlesticks. I don't suppose anyone's knows the web address of monster.com? Oh, it’s www.monster.com? Well I guess that makes sense, it’s my attention to detail that’s gotten me this far. Could someone tell Mel I have his Xanax?"
"This is Mike's copy of 'Payback'. If you see Mel, tell him to please be quiet, Mike's trying to enjoy the movie."
"Hello, my name is Daniel Lebern Glover. The next buster to ask me about Mel Gibson is getting an ax handle to the windpipe. Stay blessed."
"Hey. I'm Mel Gibson's fictional son EMelio. My dad didn't happen to make any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants did he? Because I was just starting to make genuine friends at school, friends who don't constantly pester me for "some of that 'Passion' money", or ask me what my Dad's like, if he wears blue face paint to the dinner table or if he's an insane-sounding racist misogynist nut job in real life or just on voicemail. It's been tough enough trying to find even the smallest scrap of legitimate-feeling identity in my father's shadow. Sure am glad he hasn't gone on any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants or anything. Oh, he did? Well would you look at that, naptime again. Guess this propofol should wear off sometime September. Not sure what school will be like this fall, but odds are I'll be taking more punishment than Jim Caviezel."
"Sup y’all. This is Roger Murtaugh. No, not Danny Glover. I'm Mel Gibson's jock strap. Mel named me Murtaugh because I'm always riding his jock. So glad Mel finally put some of his insane-sounding racist misogynist rants on wax. Been telling him for years those flows are classic, he could be bigger than Kanye with the right exposure. You gotta admit the misogyny is especially breathtaking. Any ignorant, poorly-read reactionary amateur can drop some convincingly intolerant grand-wizard quality bigotry, but it takes years of hard work, strenuously selfless teeth-gnashing, narcissistic women-hatred and just plain 'wanting it' to make hip-hop lyrics seem antiquated and genteel. I'm proud to say we've set a new standard, Mel is the Michael Phelps of “keeping it real”. So glad he finally listened to me, this is going to be a new day for my man Mel, I can just feel it... Then again, what do I know? I hang around a butthole all day."
"Um, yes, I’m Dr. Peter Silberman, clinical psychologist. Kind of embarrassing to admit, but uh, I had a patient by the name of Gibson, seems to have gone missing. Claimed to be sent here from the future, believed a computer company was on their way to manufacturing robotic assassins and would eventually be responsible for some sort of nuclear Armageddon. Kept referring to it as “Judgement Day”, freaked out when we showed him a clip of “Pumping Iron”. We attempted an experimental form of immersive hypno- therapy where we convinced him he was not really from the future but rather an insane-sounding racist misogynist. He didn't by chance get out and start terrorizing his ex-girlfriend did he? Because he trusted us to be discrete and keep him locked up tight until he was better, something about a precariously fragile public image to protect. Oh he did get out? Caught on tape telling his ex “she should just smile and blow him”? “Because he deserves it”? Raped by a pack of… Fiddlesticks. I don't suppose anyone's knows the web address of monster.com? Oh, it’s www.monster.com? Well I guess that makes sense, it’s my attention to detail that’s gotten me this far. Could someone tell Mel I have his Xanax?"
"This is Mike's copy of 'Payback'. If you see Mel, tell him to please be quiet, Mike's trying to enjoy the movie."
"Hello, my name is Daniel Lebern Glover. The next buster to ask me about Mel Gibson is getting an ax handle to the windpipe. Stay blessed."
Friday, July 9, 2010
Sunglasses
My folks have been harping on my to buckle down and invest in some sunglasses. Love the way loved ones warn you about health stuff. Start with fire and brimstone and escalate to aneurysm-inducing apocalyptic fables from there…
“You’re gonna get cataracts! Your retinas will lose their integrity and your eyeballs will liquefy in your head… happened to a buddy of mine at work, now everybody thinks he’s an oracle… you can do what you want, but I’m not leading you around if you go blind, I hope you like sticks…”
That’s how my parents get through to me, by telling what they’re NOT going to do for me if the worst happens. Last words from my Dad before I went to college
“ Boy, I’ll tell you like this, condoms are cheaper than diapers, and condoms are cheaper than medicine. And just so you know, I’m not babysitting and I’m not driving your scabby ass back and forth to the clinic. Protect your damned neck.”
I can’t wait until I have my own kids, looking forward to dropping all kinds of slightly-too-real knowledge on them
“Homework is like alibis, it’s all about commitment and attention to detail.”
“A little consent now saves a lot of legal fees later.”
“The only times a man should cry are at funerals, sporting events, and terminal hunting accidents.”
So it’s time to buy some sunglasses. I hate owning sunglasses. Always lose them, or break them, or forget they’re in my pocket and sit on them. And though expensive glasses were never my thing, the kind I bought were never quite cheap enough that I wouldn’t be annoyed about breaking a pair. You have to be so protective with them; it’s like walking around with an egg all day, except at least you have the option of eating the egg, or not caring and dropping the egg, or maybe letting it hatch, hook yourself up with some very tiny chicken nuggets. Shouldn’t have said that last part, we don’t know each other well enough for you to learn how little reliable intel I have in this skull. Should’ve probably just said I hate owning sunglasses and left it at that.
I’m now the owner of a pair of Kenneth Cole Aviators. Been kind of a bitter experience so far. Have realized there’s no way my non-threatening excuse for a glare can live up the gangster buildup that comes with a pair of aviators. Malcolm Jamal Warner would never buy these, why would I think I can pull off something he couldn’t? When I have them on, it looks like I might be an R&B singer with eating disorder abs, maybe a backup dancer for Jagged Edge, or at least one of those dudes who walks around nightclubs making sure everybody has their shirt tucked in. As soon as I take them off, you can instantly tell I come from a two-parent home, that DMX lyrics give me nightmares and that I’m the kind of guy who can’t let the hooker leave without trying to spoon.
Sucks being shown up by your glasses. Girls see me walk up, can feel myself starting to get that curious-but-still-too-proud-to-look-directly peripheral eye contact
“Girl, who’s that? Dontlookdontlookdontlook! Maybe he’s in a band! Maybe he’s the one I’ve been saving this uterus for all these years! Maybe we should start making out with each other here on the street just to get his attention, he looks like he like team players…”
Take off the glasses
“Oh… it’s just you. Cool if we be friends for a while? Hey, before you answer that, can you hold my purse for a minute? Gotta take this call… Hi Derek! No it’s ok, I wouldn’t have called me back either, so when am I gonna see you again?”
Am now on a mission now to find ways to toughen up this Candyland Care Bear stare of mine. Not as easy as it sounds. Difficult to get that genuine I-may-have-murdered-some-of-my-own-loved-ones-what-do-you-think-I-won’t-do-to-yours gaze without going overboard in the process. Last Saturday I watched nothing but war movies and a Band of Brothers marathon. That helped a lot but for the next twelve hours I was paranoid every time I walked by a cluster of trees or bushes. How do you play off reflexively screaming “medic!” in the middle of a FedEx Kinko’s? Sunday morning I went to parade. If seeing a parade doesn’t make a man look ready to take lives, nothing will (Think the only way a grown man should be at a parade is if he’s actually IN the parade or the head of a family that’s dragged him to a parade; every other reason screams “watchlist” and “offender registry”). Wednesday I spent my lunch break staring directly into the sun. That worked pretty well, had a menacing squint that would’ve given Clint Eastwood night terrors, but I’ve since been informed that staring into the sun defeats the purpose of owning sunglasses. Looks like I’m on to plan D; become an 80’s fighter pilot and play volleyball with other dudes in my spare time. Look what you’ve brought me to, damn you Kenneth Cole. Damn you to hell. Next time my parents warn me about something I’m buying a hat.
“You’re gonna get cataracts! Your retinas will lose their integrity and your eyeballs will liquefy in your head… happened to a buddy of mine at work, now everybody thinks he’s an oracle… you can do what you want, but I’m not leading you around if you go blind, I hope you like sticks…”
That’s how my parents get through to me, by telling what they’re NOT going to do for me if the worst happens. Last words from my Dad before I went to college
“ Boy, I’ll tell you like this, condoms are cheaper than diapers, and condoms are cheaper than medicine. And just so you know, I’m not babysitting and I’m not driving your scabby ass back and forth to the clinic. Protect your damned neck.”
I can’t wait until I have my own kids, looking forward to dropping all kinds of slightly-too-real knowledge on them
“Homework is like alibis, it’s all about commitment and attention to detail.”
“A little consent now saves a lot of legal fees later.”
“The only times a man should cry are at funerals, sporting events, and terminal hunting accidents.”
So it’s time to buy some sunglasses. I hate owning sunglasses. Always lose them, or break them, or forget they’re in my pocket and sit on them. And though expensive glasses were never my thing, the kind I bought were never quite cheap enough that I wouldn’t be annoyed about breaking a pair. You have to be so protective with them; it’s like walking around with an egg all day, except at least you have the option of eating the egg, or not caring and dropping the egg, or maybe letting it hatch, hook yourself up with some very tiny chicken nuggets. Shouldn’t have said that last part, we don’t know each other well enough for you to learn how little reliable intel I have in this skull. Should’ve probably just said I hate owning sunglasses and left it at that.
I’m now the owner of a pair of Kenneth Cole Aviators. Been kind of a bitter experience so far. Have realized there’s no way my non-threatening excuse for a glare can live up the gangster buildup that comes with a pair of aviators. Malcolm Jamal Warner would never buy these, why would I think I can pull off something he couldn’t? When I have them on, it looks like I might be an R&B singer with eating disorder abs, maybe a backup dancer for Jagged Edge, or at least one of those dudes who walks around nightclubs making sure everybody has their shirt tucked in. As soon as I take them off, you can instantly tell I come from a two-parent home, that DMX lyrics give me nightmares and that I’m the kind of guy who can’t let the hooker leave without trying to spoon.
Sucks being shown up by your glasses. Girls see me walk up, can feel myself starting to get that curious-but-still-too-proud-to-look-directly peripheral eye contact
“Girl, who’s that? Dontlookdontlookdontlook! Maybe he’s in a band! Maybe he’s the one I’ve been saving this uterus for all these years! Maybe we should start making out with each other here on the street just to get his attention, he looks like he like team players…”
Take off the glasses
“Oh… it’s just you. Cool if we be friends for a while? Hey, before you answer that, can you hold my purse for a minute? Gotta take this call… Hi Derek! No it’s ok, I wouldn’t have called me back either, so when am I gonna see you again?”
Am now on a mission now to find ways to toughen up this Candyland Care Bear stare of mine. Not as easy as it sounds. Difficult to get that genuine I-may-have-murdered-some-of-my-own-loved-ones-what-do-you-think-I-won’t-do-to-yours gaze without going overboard in the process. Last Saturday I watched nothing but war movies and a Band of Brothers marathon. That helped a lot but for the next twelve hours I was paranoid every time I walked by a cluster of trees or bushes. How do you play off reflexively screaming “medic!” in the middle of a FedEx Kinko’s? Sunday morning I went to parade. If seeing a parade doesn’t make a man look ready to take lives, nothing will (Think the only way a grown man should be at a parade is if he’s actually IN the parade or the head of a family that’s dragged him to a parade; every other reason screams “watchlist” and “offender registry”). Wednesday I spent my lunch break staring directly into the sun. That worked pretty well, had a menacing squint that would’ve given Clint Eastwood night terrors, but I’ve since been informed that staring into the sun defeats the purpose of owning sunglasses. Looks like I’m on to plan D; become an 80’s fighter pilot and play volleyball with other dudes in my spare time. Look what you’ve brought me to, damn you Kenneth Cole. Damn you to hell. Next time my parents warn me about something I’m buying a hat.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Broken A/C
“…You have got to be kidding. Not right now. Please. Ok, maybe if I turn it off and turn it on again. Nope, still squealing like alien weaponry. No cool air coming out. THIS is going to be the best summer ever…”
Compressor died in my Isuzu last week. It died on me while I was stuck in traffic on 495, trying to make my way out to Reston. There are two things you can’t do without in a car, music and A/C. Lose either one and you quickly find yourself daydreaming about driving the car to the edge of a riverbank and releasing the parking brake.
Is there ever a good time for a car repair? Feel the pinch whenever it’s time to put gas in this beast, so I know getting it fixed is going to open my nose like some horseradish. Why? Because Isuzus are built like a fraternity prank; to fix one thing, you must first take apart 12 other things that are nicely nestled in the way. Why? So you can forget how to put the car back together and wind up paying six times more to have the mechanic clean up the mess you made, who invariably thinks it’s cute to ask why you didn’t bring it to him in the first place. The family mechanic can’t give me an exact quote on how much the repair’s going to cost, but I just know it’s going to end up in the $700-$1200 range. The truck is not even worth $700-$1200. It hasn’t been for at least five years. The bicycle my co-worker rides to work is worth more than my car. At least now we have something in common though; neither of us have air conditioning.
Haven’t spent it yet, but can’t stop thinking about all the things I was going to do with that money. Oh it was going to be so good. I was going to be saving up and not buying air compressors, and hanging out with friends and not buying air compressors, and traveling on the road to do comedy gigs and not buying air compressors, and maybe finally invest in a laptop and oh yeah, NOT BUYING AIR COMPRESSORS! But all that changed because guess what son!?! It’s time to buy an air compressor.
I HAVE to do it too. The way I perspire in summer heat is unnatural, looks like I’m melting. Was waiting at a crosswalk Tuesday morning, just in the forty-five seconds it took for the light to change my forearms started to glisten like I had been landscaping. I sweat too much not to be a 70’s soul singer; Teddy Pendergrass wishes he had my pores.
Fate can be a sore loser sometimes, always likes to hook you up with a few groin kicks whenever something good is about to happen for you.
"Hey Mike, look! Is that success and everything you dreamed of on the horizon? Nope, it's just some freshly punted gonads, might recognize them, that’s right they're yours baby! ...hey, hey, don't be like that, you gotta remember to take it all in stride, enjoy the journey man. It's just like a footprints poster, only with your nuts instead of feet. Think of it as a cameo..."
Can't tell what's more sad, having to spend in the neighborhood of $1200 you didn't plan on or realizing your finances are so tight that news of a car repair hits with the gravity of an unplanned pregnancy.
"What? Oh… No, no, I'm good, just need to sit down for a minute and breathe. How did this happen? Nevermind, doesn't matter now. Are you sure? Of course you are. It’s ok, we'll figure this out, it's going to be ok… just changes the plan a bit..."
I’ll get it fixed in the next couple of weeks, but until then will just have to make due pretending I used to be Special Forces and am too tough for conditioned air. Or maybe I’m Denzel in Training Day and need to keep the windows down so I can hear the streets. Or maybe I’m a comedian of dubious means who’s going to do everything imaginable to avoid getting stuck in traffic on 495. Yay broken stuff.
Compressor died in my Isuzu last week. It died on me while I was stuck in traffic on 495, trying to make my way out to Reston. There are two things you can’t do without in a car, music and A/C. Lose either one and you quickly find yourself daydreaming about driving the car to the edge of a riverbank and releasing the parking brake.
Is there ever a good time for a car repair? Feel the pinch whenever it’s time to put gas in this beast, so I know getting it fixed is going to open my nose like some horseradish. Why? Because Isuzus are built like a fraternity prank; to fix one thing, you must first take apart 12 other things that are nicely nestled in the way. Why? So you can forget how to put the car back together and wind up paying six times more to have the mechanic clean up the mess you made, who invariably thinks it’s cute to ask why you didn’t bring it to him in the first place. The family mechanic can’t give me an exact quote on how much the repair’s going to cost, but I just know it’s going to end up in the $700-$1200 range. The truck is not even worth $700-$1200. It hasn’t been for at least five years. The bicycle my co-worker rides to work is worth more than my car. At least now we have something in common though; neither of us have air conditioning.
Haven’t spent it yet, but can’t stop thinking about all the things I was going to do with that money. Oh it was going to be so good. I was going to be saving up and not buying air compressors, and hanging out with friends and not buying air compressors, and traveling on the road to do comedy gigs and not buying air compressors, and maybe finally invest in a laptop and oh yeah, NOT BUYING AIR COMPRESSORS! But all that changed because guess what son!?! It’s time to buy an air compressor.
I HAVE to do it too. The way I perspire in summer heat is unnatural, looks like I’m melting. Was waiting at a crosswalk Tuesday morning, just in the forty-five seconds it took for the light to change my forearms started to glisten like I had been landscaping. I sweat too much not to be a 70’s soul singer; Teddy Pendergrass wishes he had my pores.
Fate can be a sore loser sometimes, always likes to hook you up with a few groin kicks whenever something good is about to happen for you.
"Hey Mike, look! Is that success and everything you dreamed of on the horizon? Nope, it's just some freshly punted gonads, might recognize them, that’s right they're yours baby! ...hey, hey, don't be like that, you gotta remember to take it all in stride, enjoy the journey man. It's just like a footprints poster, only with your nuts instead of feet. Think of it as a cameo..."
Can't tell what's more sad, having to spend in the neighborhood of $1200 you didn't plan on or realizing your finances are so tight that news of a car repair hits with the gravity of an unplanned pregnancy.
"What? Oh… No, no, I'm good, just need to sit down for a minute and breathe. How did this happen? Nevermind, doesn't matter now. Are you sure? Of course you are. It’s ok, we'll figure this out, it's going to be ok… just changes the plan a bit..."
I’ll get it fixed in the next couple of weeks, but until then will just have to make due pretending I used to be Special Forces and am too tough for conditioned air. Or maybe I’m Denzel in Training Day and need to keep the windows down so I can hear the streets. Or maybe I’m a comedian of dubious means who’s going to do everything imaginable to avoid getting stuck in traffic on 495. Yay broken stuff.
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