The Heat of the Moment

This post is not about the song of the same title by Asia. It is one of the best songs of the 80s, though, so you should listen to it:



Nor is it about South Park’s Cartman, who performs a cover of the above song in order to convince the U.S. Congress to legalize stem cell research. This clip is hilarious and shows that “Heat of the Moment” is all about the hand claps.



No, this post is SEXUAL in nature. Be warned.

While reflecting on Cheap yesterday, I left out the main characters of the book. All right, there are no real characters in this non-fiction book, but the book cites so many studies by Dan Ariely, a professor of behavioral economics, that you’d think he was the protagonist. There were a number of his studies that seemed kind of interesting, but then the author mentioned one of Ariely’s studies that threw everything else into question: “The Heat of the Moment: The Effect of Sexual Arousal on Sexual Decision Making.”

The experiment was designed to see whether people (and by people, we mean men exclusively, of course) make different decisions when aroused. In other words, do guys sometimes think with their penises? That’s a question that warrants research, for sure. And how does Ariely gather his data? He solicits thirty-five male college students and pays them $10 a piece to watch them masturbate. They are to answer questions while pleasuring themselves, because there needs to be some pretense of this being a scientific study and not a pornographic exhibit.

And it gets even weirder. Students were given a laptop to type their responses with their non-dominant hand (the dominant hand being, well, otherwise preoccupied). The questions were all pretty “gotcha” in nature. They flashed pictures of a preteen girl, a 60-year-old woman, a man, a fat lady, an animal, etc. and asked the guys to indicate on a scale from 1-100 how attracted they were to the image. Since they were already arousing themselves, I think it’d be nearly impossible for them to indicate that they weren’t at least slightly aroused, so it seems like a bunch of hooey to me. If I were to have participated in this study, though I would not have responded to this ad in the first place, I would be very suspicious of the experiment – perhaps to wary to even arouse myself in the first place. Am I being filmed for the internet? Are there police waiting to apprehend me if I indicate that a preteen girl is anything more than a score of “1”? Is the real test to see if I continue masturbating after the notion of me having sex with a dog is planted in my head?

If you’d like to see the study written out in full by Ariely, click here. My favorite sentence of the whole article is: “It is important to note that all the subjects completed the sessions, and no one reported that they accidentally ejaculated during the session (subjects were instructed to press the tab key if they ejaculated, which would have ended the session).” Good to know!

There’s a lot of scientific mumbo-jumbo to legitimatize it, but I can’t get myself to believe its sincerity. The study is framed in the context of “we tend to believe that men make different decisions when sexually aroused but we’ve never proven it!” I’d guess that’s because it’s not something anyone needed proven. The results are clear, however: men who are already masturbating are more willing to penetrate people and things that they wouldn’t (at least admit to) when they are not masturbating. Gotta love academia!

The mere mention of “The Heat of the Moment” study in Cheap seemed pretty out of place, but maybe the real conclusion we can draw from the experiment is tangential: poor college students will do just about anything for ten bucks. Even masturbate while looking at pictures of senior citizens. I’m not judging… if anything I wish it were a full time job! You can’t tell, but I’m ending this post by hitting the tab key multiple times.

Cheap

If I were to describe myself in a word, it would be “cheap.” Well, I suppose if I were having good self-esteem on that particular day I might instead say “creative” or even middling self-esteem I might go for a euphemism like “frugal,” but on just about any day, if I were being honest, “cheap” would definitely be in the top ten.

When I heard about Cheap: The High Cost of Discount Culture, a book by Ellen Ruppel Shell, I made it a point to read it to see if I could challenge my thrifty inclinations. Truthfully, I admire my own frugality. It’s what makes life more manageable in my recent period of un(der)employment. The fact that I didn’t spend much money even when I was earning it also makes it easier. However, while cheapness can be good, I know it often comes at a price, so I wanted to educate myself on the subject. I didn’t rush out and buy Cheap; being cheap and all I just waited patiently for it to come in on hold at the liberry.

Cheap was a good read, and raises some interesting points. There is a lot of focus on the thrill of the deal. Sale prices trigger excitement on the part of the consumer, and I am no exception. Through some psychological… I’ll call it a quirk, but feel free to call it a deficiency… I can barely bring myself to pay full-price for anything. I’ll buy the brand of cereal that’s on sale that week or search tirelessly for online coupons for products I’m interested in. Although saving 50 cents won’t make or break me, it does make or break whether I buy something ultimately. I wish I could get over that, but it’s not a unique mindset apparently.

Even if Shell hasn’t shaken the frugality out of me, I am at least a more educated consumer for having read Cheap. For one, the book dispels the appeal of outlet stores. I always assumed that these stores were stocked with surplus items, but apparently many just house items made specifically for these locations. These products are of inferior quality and the stores won’t stand behind the products by way of returns and warranties in the same way they will at their regular stores. Instead, they are merely using an established brand name with the promise of a deal to lure customers. Furthermore, people will typically spend more on gas traveling to these outlets than the difference in price had they bought them at a nearby store.

Another lesson is to do your homework, because Wal-Mart and other big-box discount retailers are selective in their low prices. By having the cheapest prices on the products we are most familiar with the value of (milk, batteries, socks, etc.), they use that to earn a reputation and get you into the store and actually jack up the prices of less conventional goods. Once you think everything is cheaper at this spot, you’re less likely to research and discover that the same clock or pair of headphones is actually $20 cheaper next door.

The book is also littered with fun facts. Shopping carts were invented because, previously, shoppers would never buy more than they could carry. A funny notion, huh? When the first grocery store introduced carts, consumers wouldn’t touch them; the men saw them as emasculating and the women viewed them as unpopular. To reverse this trend, the store paid burly men and attractive women to push carts around the store until the general public followed suit. To this day, people buy more items when they push a cart than when they hold a basket, which reconfirms my tendency to never grab more than a basket when I shop.

While reading this book, I was in the market for a bed, and most of my friends vouched for Ikea. I saw that there was a whole chapter devoted to Ikea, which I figured wouldn’t be too favorable, so I almost decided to buy the bed before reading the chapter so that I could plead ignorant. Since ignorance was the exact opposite reason I chose to read the book in the first place, I forced myself to confront the issue.

The Ikea chapter was linked to the death of the craftsman. Quality, built-to-last items are now losing in popularity to cheap, flimsy counterparts. Though the quality items cost more, you buy less of them over time, hence saving money. Unfortunately, for many people, they can’t afford to make the long-term investment and have to choose the cheaper, short-term option.

Author Shell wonders whether we live in a world that doesn’t cherish craftsmanship anymore. I’d say yes. Oddly enough, the chapter reinforced the reasons why an Ikea purchase might still be the wisest for me. An Ikea bed is appealing because of its disposable nature. If I move soon, I can take it apart and move it with me. I’m not in a settled position in life, so buying a finely-crafted bed that I would become attached to and be proud to have throughout my life doesn’t interest me, it just bogs me down.

So, yeah, I bought an Ikea bed. That’s not me thumbing my nose at Cheap either or admission of a problem, just the choice I made in this instance. At least I can say I weighed the pros and cons. Plus, I rather enjoyed learning that the Ikea CEO, a multi-billionaire, still haggles over the cost of produce at the market. Clearly, the thrill of a deal is not just about saving money if someone with more money than he could ever spend falls prey. My challenge going forward is to stop and review my thrifty impulses: Am I being cheap because it’s the smart option or because it’s a compulsive response?

The Shopping List

Though I resisted the urge to steal a grandma sweater from the Recently Deceased Old Woman's house at Ben & Jocelyn's wedding in Kentucky, if I'm being honest, I did steal something from the house.

My petty theft occurred from post-wedding reception at a boisterous after-party. I was chatting up a couple of new acquaintances and decided to make up a game: choose the funniest knickknack in the house. The parameters wound up being too large, so I narrowed the field to the very busy refrigerator. Someone picked a homely photo of a grandkid, another person chose a hokey printed-out email forward, and I chose a magnet that said, "A Woman's Place Is In The Mall." It made me laugh because, since you're in the kitchen, you assume the sentence will conclude with the word kitchen, but instead it takes a different sexist direction and makes a joke about women and shopping. Rich!

I amended my choice when I spotted a shopping list. It was as simple as this, but cracked me up:


I laughed so hard, I proceeded to steal it.

I forgot that I had pilfered that until I rediscovered it in my jacket pocket the next day. I read the three items on the list repeatedly, but couldn't figure out why I found it humorous, let alone why I enjoyed it enough to take it. Confused, I shared it Michael to see if he could discern where the hilarity lies. He laughed - only it was directed at me and my absurdity, not the list - and made fun of me for a while, as is par for the course.

Geez, I pondered. I must have been crazy drunk and laughing at just about anything if I thought it was worth taking. I was pretty embarrassed by the whole thing. I had just met two people and thought we had shared some hysterical moment together over this shopping list, but in retrospect, they were probably just humoring my drunken raving and found me strange for pilfering a dead woman's shopping list.

By chance, I bumped into one of the new acquaintances at the airport. We small-talked for a little bit, and although I wanted to bring up the shopping list to sort of apologize for the incident, I couldn't bring myself to do it before ultimately leaving to find my gate.

Separately, about twenty minutes later, Michael also ran into this girl. Never missing an opportunity to make fun of me, he brought up the shopping list to her and talked about how ridiculous I must have been. And you know how she responded? She defended me! She insisted that the whole thing genuinely was funny. That there was this woman who kept a shopping list and needed to buy three items. She bought the salt and then died before she got to the eggs and bleach. Those eggs would never be purchased. It was a symbol of unfulfilled wishes and mortality.

I sort of get it. I bet it was really funny in the moment and in context. More than anything, I just like being vindicated and validated. An incomplete shopping list is, in fact, hilarious... for reasons uncertain.

At any rate, I'm still holding on to the list. Thanks for the souvenir, granny.

I Love Grandma Sweaters

Previously, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I probably wear dead people’s clothing, but I’ve never done it so brazenly and defiantly.

It all occurred in the supposedly “haunted” house in Kentucky. While exploring a dark room that turned out to just be a walk-in closet, I hit the jackpot. Inside, I found about one hundred of the tackiest grandma outfits. I tried to show off the clothes to some of the fellow guests, but Gina insisted that I not touch them out of fear that I would disturb the Recently Deceased Old Woman’s spirit and prompt her to take revenge. Although I didn’t believe that, I also didn’t want to get in a debate over it, so I just left it alone.

Well, I left it alone for a little while, but the ridiculous sweaters were practically calling to me. Sneaking away, I put a couple articles of clothing on before making a dramatic entrance dressed like Recently Deceased Old Woman. Surprised at the sight, everyone laughed heartily – I told them the clothes were ugly, but they didn’t believe just how ugly until they saw them for themselves.

Suddenly, no one cared about awakening her spirit and everyone wanted in; a few of us put on the sweaters. Stephanie and I were so committed that we started wearing our favorites all around Kentucky. We wore them to restaurants, we wore them to bars, we wore them for walks down the street.

It was a bold move on my part. I mean, this is Kentucky, not Hollywood. The locals aren’t used to seeing men intentionally emasculate and humiliate themselves. I was somewhat afraid that someone would start beating me up and calling me a sissy or whatever, but fortunately no one said anything to me. At a bar, while Stephanie wore the crazy flower sweater, some guy called her a lesbian and proceeded to wrestle her to the ground, so that was pretty freaky, and we had to leave after that, but no one said anything to me.

While no one said anything to me, they were certainly saying things about me. I got a kick out of watching people watching me and whispering or pointing and laughing. They were just jealous that they weren’t staying in a nice house with a wild, extensive wardrobe.

I liked my sweater so much that I contemplated integrating it into my wedding outfit. Alec helped style me, with sexy results:

How Fresh Prince of Bel-Air am I? Ultimately, I chose not to wear the sweater to the wedding because I didn’t want to be disrespectful. Well, truthfully, I just didn’t think it right to upstage the bride – you know I’d be turning heads in that outfit. After the reception, however, I was sure to put on the blue duck sweater vest.

The groom’s mom saw some of us wearing the sweaters and asked me whether I had gotten them out of the house. I winced, afraid that I was about to be reprimanded for not being respectful of the Recently Deceased Old Woman’s belongings. Fortunately, Mom told me that she found it “hysterical” and made it a point to say that she thought Recently Deceased Old Woman would get a real kick out of knowing that young people were wearing her clothes around town. She also added that while Recently Deceased Old Woman was a great person, her kids are not, so she asked me to make sure all the clothes went back exactly where they were found when we were done with them to avoid pissing them off. I readily agreed, and took care of that task the next day. I might have contemplated stealing a sweater otherwise (let’s be honest, those clothes will never be worn again), but I wanted to be

In the meantime, I continued wearing it the rest of the night, happy in the knowledge that I would be pleasing the Recently Deceased Old Woman. With any luck, maybe I did awaken her spirit when I wore her clothing – I hope she had a good time playing all around Kentucky with me.

Best 10 TV Shows of the Decade

As the 00s roll to an end, I pause to reflect on the good times I’ve had over the past ten years. For better or worse, many of those good times were in front of a television set. What better way to commemorate a decade of amazing television than to count down my ten favorite TV shows of the 2000s.

10. It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (FX, 2005-present)

It’s hard to imagine that a show can be so enjoyable with absolutely no likeable characters. That’s not an exaggeration, each character is positively awful by design. Nonetheless, it’s a fun change of pace to actively cheer against your protagonists and hope they find their comeuppance, all while laughing along the way. The show has a consistent them: think of the most offensive premise possible and run with it. Over the years, the gang, several alcoholics who run a pub, fakes cancer to get sex, switches positions at an abortion protest because the opposing side has hotter women, and intentionally addicts themselves to crack in an effort to obtain welfare. Their romantic lives are short-lived interactions with underage teenagers, disabled veterans, each other’s mothers, transsexuals, serial killers, and ambiguously “retarded” people. It’s hard to fault a show for going to far when that’s exactly what it’s aspiring too – and succeeding.

9. Bands on the Run (VH1, 2001)

You probably haven’t even heard of this one, but I’ve got to pay respect to this little-known reality series, even if it did only last a single season. VH1 invited four undiscovered bands to embark on a cross-country tour to sell the most tickets and merchandise. Fortunately, the competition was secondary to the personalities and antics of the bands. There was Harlow, the goth chick band; Josh Dodes Band, the nerd band; Soulcracker, the fratty industrious band who’d do anything to succeed; and Flickerstick, the hedonistic, lazy band who succeeded effortlessly. The show was always entertaining, featuring binge drinking, groupies, rivalry, sabotage, adultery, and tour bus crashes. Extra points to VH1 for initially trying to tie its reality programming to something music-related before abandoning the network’s premise entirely for D-list celebrity shows.

8. South Park (Comedy Central, 1997-present)

Sure, the show debuted to adolescent praise in the 1990s, but it was still finding its footing in its initial seasons. South Park has matured (which I concede is a strange thing to say about a foul-mouthed show) into one of the most thought-provoking shows on television. When it wants to be juvenile, South Park can be one of the most absurd shows around, but when it wants to be intelligent, it far exceeds shows with twice the reputation. Leaving no social, religious, or political issue unscathed, I can think of no better contemporary satire on television. Plus, just when you think you have a handle on what the message of the episode is, the show does a 180 and demonstrates a contrasting viewpoint – often convincingly. In a sense, it’s more fair and balanced than Fox News could ever be. Now suck my balls.

7. Glee (Fox, 2009-present)

Though it may seem premature to select a baby of a series, Glee has been nothing short of a delight. With smart humor, fast plotlines, and entertaining musical numbers, I’m enamored with the series about a high school glee club. While the show can be a bit hokey, it definitely knows it’s cheesy and owns its cheesiness, with delicious results. The characters are funny and lovable in spite of their faults; Jane Lynch’s sharp-tongued antagonist Sue might go down in history as one of television’s funniest characters. I am willing to admit with the critics that the show is strikingly similar to the 1999 film Election, but as that is one of my favorite movies of all time, I have no problem. Who wouldn’t want to be able to watch new installments of their favorite movie each week? So far, I’m hooked.

6. Six Feet Under (HBO, 2001-2005)

It’s understandable that a family who operates a funeral parlor out of its home would become desensitized and emotionless. In the premiere, however, this detachment is put to the test when the family’s patriarch dies. From there, we watch the characters grow and see their ups and downs – there’s far more of the latter. Often dramatic and occasionally intensely funny, we become so engrossed in the family’s struggles that we begin to care about the characters as if they were our own family. The show’s five seasons are quite tumultuous, and if you stick with it until the end, the finale will have you sobbing – I guarantee it.

5. Lost (ABC, 2004-present)

Part soap opera, part science fiction series, Lost has caught the attention of millions. After a plane crash strands an ensemble cast on what can best be described as a magical island, the survivors encounter an unending sequence of mysteries and coincidences that are too relevant to all be coincidental. Ultimately, the show’s secret formula is to offer more questions than answers, keeping the viewers coming back for more. Sometimes I feel like a sucker for having devoted so many hours of my life to a show that only complicates things further each episode, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the ride. The proof is in the pudding: at each cliffhanger, I emit a sound of shock, which is quite a feat for a show that attempts to surprise each week. I’m still surprised, so I still care, and I’m excited to see how things wrap up this spring.

4. Survivor (CBS, 2000-present)

It’s a simple enough premise: put a group of people on a deserted island and have them vote each other out until only one remains. In its early years, the show was a cultural phenomenon, and though its popularity has waned, its entertainment value has not. The format allows for unlimited possibilities, and with each new group of castaways comes new choices and outcomes. As contestants grapple with issues of strategy and morality, they must attempt to find ways to follow the show’s motto: “outwit, outplay, outlast.” I’ve stuck with this show for all of its nineteen seasons and it’s always paid off.

3. The Office (NBC, 2005-present)

Unpopular opinion alert: I like the American version better than its British predecessor! The cubicle exploits of employees at a paper company are hilarious. Boss Michael Scott is so irritating that we feel the employees’ frustrations as strongly as if we worked for the company as well. The series does a good job of advancing storylines and changing relationships so that it doesn’t get monotonous. Though the primary players are all comical and well acted, what really makes this show awesome is the host of secondary characters. Though the office is packed with so many secondary characters that their one-liners might be their only line of an episode, bit players like Creed, Kelly, Kevin, Angela, Phyllis, Stanley, and Toby make the show so watchable.

2. Mad Men (AMC, 2007-present)

Television dramas are rarely well written, but this one is so meticulously crafted that I’m hooked. Following the lives of workers at a Madison Avenue ad agency in the 60s, Mad Men takes us to a world that is simultaneously cool yet tragic. Without getting preachy, the show explores a lot of social issues that are as relevant today as they were 40 years ago. The pace of the show can be slow, but the pay-offs are so monumental that it always feels worth the wait. The characters are rich and show notable growth; Mad Men has the distinction of having a supporting cast that is as complex and captivating as the leads. After a new episode, I’ll often smack my couch to emphasize what a good hour of television I’ve just witnessed.

1. Arrested Development (Fox, 2003-2006)

Hands down, Arrested Development is the funniest and, dare I say, best show on television ever. How this show never found an audience is a mystery, since everyone I have introduced it to has fallen for its unmistakable charms. Michael Bluth, the show’s protagonist and moral center, must take over the family business after his father goes to jail. The only problem is that he must now deal with his cruel mother, delusional magician illusionist brother, vain sister, and over-educated yet under-common-sensed brother on a regular basis. What strikes me most about this show is that every single detail is intentional. Everything is self-referential and it requires keen attention to even grasp half of the jokes. I’ve watched some episodes as many as ten times, and I always find several new elements to laugh at that previously went unnoticed. Perhaps it’s best that this show died prematurely before descending into less clever fare, but I’m so confident in the job the creators were doing that I somehow doubt they’d ever let us down.

And there you have it, my favorite ten television shows of the 00s. What do you think? What were your favorite shows of the decade? Give me your thoughts and feedback in the comments.

*Honorable mentions go to: The Daily Show with John Stewart, True Blood, Cash Cab, 30 Rock, Weeds, The Soup, Reno 911!, The Amazing Race.

Ditto

I respect industrious people who work hard to succeed, I really do.

But if I ever hit it big, you know, find fame and fortune, it'll most likely be for my creativity and smart-ass nature more than my effort.

Which is precisely why I like this photo that Lisa shared with me:
You know all the neighbors get more enjoyment from the house on the right than Mr. Show-Off next door.

A Day at the Liberry

A month ago, I locked myself out of my house. I remember having a quick thought of "oh I don't need my keys because I'm walking" and before I knew it, I had l left without my keys. At first I was upset, but since this was at a point when there wasn't any furniture in my house, I realized it wasn't too much of an inconvenience. I could just walk to the public liberry and read something to kill time. Plus, there would be a place to sit there.

If for no other reason, I love the liberry for the people watching. For a building filled with books, the liberry has a surprisingly large amount of illiterate folks. In all three towns that I've lived in throughout my life, I thought that I had nice, normal communities, but when I spent time in the liberries, I am always astonished by the riff-raff and wonder how I see these people there and nowhere else locally. It's not a bad thing, just a strange thing.

On this particular day, I finally saw a cliche in action. Until that point, I had never seen a liberrian actually shushing people. Periodically, she would approach patrons and angrily quiet them. I wasn't sure whether or not I admired how seriously she took her job until her next interaction with a visitor.

A woman wearing oversized headphones approached the liberrian sitting at the information desk. She had several DVDs in her hand and wanted to know if she had grabbed all of the Tyler Perry movies available. She also wanted to know which of the films were the best. Taste level aside, she clearly wasn't completely there mentally from the way she spoke. The liberrian, who was not familiar with Tyler Perry, took the task seriously and found all of the Tyler Perry movies and began giving plot summaries. She was momentarily excited when she found out Maya Angelou made a cameo in one of the films, but the patron was no more familiar with the poet than the liberrian was familiar with Tyler Perry so it was a useless detail.

I was jealous that if this woman was going to get all the Tyler Perry movies before I could; a Tyler Perry movie marathon sounds like heaven - if heaven is full of cross-dressing racial stereotypes. The liberrian reminded the crazy patron that she could only check out 3 DVDs at a time and gave her the chronology of their release dates, which was probably a good suggestion. I mean, you can't just watch Madea go to jail before seeing her family reunion. Fortunately, the somewhat-off patron had a backup plan - a child. Her son, who seemed surprisingly normal, ran up to her with a few books. Mom made him check out three of the DVDs under his account to get around the system, and he told her that they looked stupid. Yup, the son is already more astute than his mom.

Without anyone to assist, the liberrian found more people to shush, before breaking the peace again herself with an announcement that a free art class for kids would be starting in the adjacent room in five minutes. Once the class began, she began talking smack about the visiting art instructor to one of the parents. Apparently, he likes to have the kids tear construction paper rather than use scissors, or so she told the parent in a completely condescending manner before adding, "But I guess that's what makes him an artist." Yeah, and you have fifteen minute conversations about Tyler Perry with imbalanced people... why not take your own advice and "SHHHHH!"?

At a later point, there was an eighty-something-year-old woman in the liberry who was deranged. Probably hard of hearing, she was shouting everything she said to her twenty-year-old caretaker who seemed fairly embarrassed. Because she was old as fuck and not with it, no one intervened and asked the woman to shut up. I certainly wasn't going to, because what she said was a riot.

"PEOPLE DON'T LIKE THIS MAN. HE SAYS THINGS THAT PEOPLE DON'T LIKE. THE RELIGIOUS PEOPLE DON'T LIKE HIM BECAUSE HE SAYS WE COME FROM MONKEYS, NOT GOD. BUT WE CAME FROM MONKEYS! WE STAND UP AND WE'RE HAIRY, GET OVER IT." Then she laughed maniacally to herself. Everyone was staring uncomfortably, so the caretaker did her best to escort the loud woman out of the building as quickly as possible. As she passed, I smiled at her. She might be crazy, but she's harmless, plus it was refreshing to see someone so old share - even loudly - some liberal views.

Seeing my smile, she took a few steps toward me to show me her book titled Darwin. "DO YOU LIKE DARWIN?" "I do like Darwin," I told her, still smiling. I walked toward the door to help her flustered caretaker move the woman outdoors. I wanted to engage with her more, but I wasn't sure at what level I could carry on a conversation.

Once outside, she became distracted by a skateboarder with dyed pink bright hair. "IS THAT REAL?" she asked the punk kid. "Yup," said the skateboarder's smart-ass friend. "He was born with that?" "OH!" she said. She's not taken in by creationism, but she did believe that? I wanted to make a joke about pink hair is an evolutionary trait, but I realized it would probably go over everyone's head and just decided to finally walk home to meet my housemate who was kind enough to stop home and let me in.

Still, I love the liberry. I might start locking myself out more often.

Scandals

"Both parties have scandals. But a Democratic scandal is a guy cheating on his wife. A Republican scandal is a guy cheating on his wife with a seven-year-old boy." - Dan

The Haunted House

When I traveled to Ben & Jocelyn’s wedding in Kentucky, their families were kind enough to spring for a guesthouse for us largely un(der)employed twenty-something guests to stay at, making the whole trip significantly more affordable. The home was just down the street from Ben’s childhood home and conveniently walking distance from restaurants, bars, and the site of the wedding. Given those details, I would have been happy if the house was a shack with yoga mats to sleep on, but I was pleasantly surprised at how amazing the accommodations were.

Before I give you the wrong impression, this house was no playboy mansion. It was a large place for sure, but not the vacation destination that young people would normally choose. Instead, this house was a grandmother’s paradise – literally. The house had belonged to a recently deceased octogenarian woman, pictured here.

When I first entered, I excitedly sprinted around the house screeching “Oh my gosh!” as if I was first touring a posh pad for The Real World. Just about everyone else had a different reaction, however: they found it creepy and believed it to be haunted. To quash the haunted rumors, Ben’s mom told us that the woman had not died in the house. But the woman was practically homebound, so of course she died in the house, this was a lie meant to placate.

It was huge. There were enough beds to sleep about twenty people, and even though we were never even close to being at capacity, people still wound up passing out on the floor or in broken wicker chairs. What can I say, it was that kind of week.

If I didn’t love the house enough, I loved it even more when I found out the deceased woman had raised about a million kids in the house, but now lived alone. Well, practically alone. One and a half people, really. It was just her and a quadriplegic living there. Since her house was so big, some quadriplegic stayed there, too, and they shared a caretaker. If you didn’t know, I am obsessed with quadriplegics and for all the wrong reasons. Well, I’m not really sure what the right reasons would be, but I digress. Lose one limb, that sucks. Lose them all, and DAMN. How can I not gawk and be fascinated? It didn’t matter that that guy moved (or was moved rather, hahaha) when the homeowner died, just being there was fantastic enough.

I know people thought the artwork was hideous, but I rather liked it.

And this boy is ridiculous. A mirror hung on the wall opposite from him, so it was like he was perpetually looking at his reflection and responding with surprise.

I liked him so much, I made him say bacon.

Here’s the entrance.

The house also had a nice porch. Look at Jenna enjoy the porch.

While we’re on the subject, ask Jenna about how she didn’t know that the phrase “porch monkey” is considered a racial slur. Good times.

Most of the guests were thrown by the chotskies, finding them absurd and tacky.

Needless to say, I find them awesome, not "creepy." I do understand why, when one guest woke up in the night feeling "watched" and realized there was a painted woman looking at her, she was spooked.

I don't get the fear surrounding the doll room. Having a room full of dolls is peculiar, but not dangerous. Some people found the dolls so eery that they wouldn't even step foot in it.

On the other hand, I enjoyed the dolls' company.

And here's the room that scared people the most. Though every room was furnished, this one room had nothing in it but a chair. Apparently, this is "scary." Again, it's peculiar - the explanation was that the dead woman was on an oxygen tank and she liked a quiet private room to do that in - but it's not frightening.

I was dared to spend ten minutes alone in the room, which I accepted. And guess what: Nothing happened!

I can get pretty scared, but when other people get scared around me, I tend to find it silly and employ logic instead to remove the fear, and step up as the brave one. Consequently, I was the one to always go check on random noises, explore new rooms first with a flashlight, etc. I got a thrill from it. After a while, I got a bit cocky with my brave status. One night, I boasted that I would go explore down in a vent located on the floor.

I had anticipated that there would be a crawl space down there, but this suspicion proved untrue. It might have been for the best, because if I actually ended up crawling around down there by myself, I would have actually been terrified. Improvising with the situation, I suggested that people put the grate back over me, call someone else into the room, and have me pop out to terrify them. (Note: this all happened in the pitch dark, but the flash illuminates it for us.)

It worked well, look at Stephanie's surprise.

Actually, it worked too well. Despite freaking out, she still took an extra step forward, causing her to start falling into the hole and landing on the ground.

Ha, that was great. Maybe this house is haunted... by me!

I know most people were happy to get out of that place, but I would honestly stay in that house on a vacation again. What can I say, I love the decorating style of recently deceased elderly women. If no one wants to go with me, maybe I can invite the quadriplegic to visit his old home. We could contact the dead woman by having a seance. Well, maybe not a seance since we couldn't hold hands, but I'm sure we'd find some fun non-appendage-requiring activities like looking at dolls or something.

The Flamer

A month ago, I had a temporary job with a production company. I wish I could share the specifics of that experience because it yielded some hilarious stories, but a confidentiality agreement prevents me from doing so. Fortunately, I can share a tale that is inconsequential to the production itself.

During the shoot, someone from the crew had a birthday. To celebrate, craft services baked a cake. Busy with work, I missed the singing and cutting of the cake, which I regretted not because I couldn't support Simon* - I didn't even know Simon - but because I wanted a piece of cake.

Fortunately, my interminably peppy coworker Alana* waltzed into the room I was stationed in with several plates of cake. "Who wants caaaakkkeee?!" Alana announced in a singsong voice. Several of us eagerly reached for the plates; the cake was marbled with such bright colors that it appeared to be tye-dyed.

"It's pretty," someone commented. "Yeah!" Alana responded proudly. "Rob* said it's a rainbow cake because Simon's a big flamer!"

Instantaneously, the crowd went silent, except for some awkward laughter and an exasperated coworker saying, "Alana!" Realizing she made a faux pas of some sort, Alana asked, "What? What did I do? What did I say?"

The most offended coworker stepped in to explain that "flamer" was a derogatory term for a gay man. Alana's eyes went wide and she covered her mouth. "Why would he say that to me then?" "He probably didn't think you'd repeat it to a whole room of people," the coworker countered.

"I didn't know!" Alana said innocently. "I thought flamer meant he did stuff with fire behind-the-scenes." She paused and reflected. "We have a lot of flamers here, don't we?... Oh, wait, I'm not supposed to say that!"

Happy belated birthday, Simon. Good luck with the pyrotechnics.

And because I live to post parallel Arrested Development clips these days:

Black Friday Redux

Another Black Friday has came and passed. No one died this time around, so I’m not as inspired to compose a rant as I was last year. Of course, the media already planned to devote a lot of time and attention to the event, so they followed through with the stories regardless. Perhaps the most reported story from the day was a riot at the Wal-Mart in Upland, California. Even though the store had been open all night to prevent any trampling deaths, that didn’t stop costumers from fighting, tearing open off-limits merchandise, and being unruly/trying to break back in when everyone was kicked out of the store. Nice.

What I find most crazy about this incident is that that was my local Wal-Mart – under five minutes from my home – for the previous six years of my life. It’s one thing to read these stories and be like, “Oh, people can be crazy,” but it’s another when these shoppers turn out to be your neighbors.

Despite my proximity, I never shopped at that store. By that point in my life, I was pretty anti-Wal-Mart. The corporation deserves every negative criticism thrown its way; in addition to demolishing local economies, it treats its employees like crap and finds shifty ways to underpay them. Although I never shopped there, I did enter the store once, but under some pretty unusual circumstances.

I participated in what is known as a Whirl-Mart demonstration. About twenty-five of us college students and as many adult anarchists who were in town for a conference gathered in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. We entered the store in small numbers, each pushing a shopping cart. For several minutes, we walked around with blank expressions, paying no attention to the merchandise. After time had passed, however, we began to clump together. When you saw another person participating, you got in line behind them until, after a while, all fifty of us had formed one continuous single-file line of empty shopping carts maneuvering around the store, zigging and zagging through the aisles. Alone, no one paid attention to us, but it was impossible to ignore so many people moving in unison yet buying nothing.

It was a silent protest, so we didn’t really say much. When employees and shoppers would ask what we were up to, someone would slip them a piece of paper that had startling facts about Wal-Mart’s employee mistreatment and data showing the impressive profit margins of the corporation and how the basic-level employees were among the most poorly compensated in the country, with all of the money going straight to the top. In one biweekly paycheck, the CEO of Wal-Mart earns what its average worker makes in an entire lifetime. And when they’re screwed in terms of insurance and made to work only 39 hours (or worse, only write down 39 hours) to avoid having to pay them full-time wages, this lifetime income is one of struggle.

Some of the store’s managers starting getting flustered, but didn’t know how to handle the situation. We didn’t stop anyone from shopping, we merely educated the people who were curious about our cause. After enough time had passed, we broke up from our line and one-by-one exited the store with our empty carts to end the protest. I’m not sure how successful the event was or whether we changed anyone’s views on the corporation, but it was nice to at least give it a try.

It’s a little sad to see that our minor disruption doesn’t even compare to this past Friday’s events. Evidently, it’s easier for over-eager consumerists to shut down a store for all the wrong reasons than a bunch of well-meaning protesters for the right ones. Sigh. Maybe people get what they deserve.

The Rape Whistle

When Melinda worked for a production of the Vagina Monologues, she received a black t-shirt with pink text reading "Vagina Friendly." Since she is antagonistic toward female genitalia, she thought it would be funny to gift the shirt to me. I'll wear it around the house occasionally, but I'm not brazen enough to wear it out in public. I accidentally brought it with me while camping this past summer after forgetting that I was wearing it beneath a sweatshirt. Without a change of clothes, I found myself in a jam when our camp site was literally ten feet from a group of Girl Scouts and their mothers and I worried that I'd be arrested for general lechery.

Because of this incident, I am careful as to when I wear the Vagina Friendly shirt. After showering on Friday afternoon, I slipped on the shirt on a temporary basis before deciding what I would ultimately wear when going out that night. Earlier than I was anticipating, however, Terri, Lady Garza, RJ, Wes, Andrew, and Alice arrived at my house and we began to chat and play board games. Soon after, Stacy and Stacy's mom (like the song - except that she's more of a conservative churchwoman) showed up and I found myself feeling uncomfortably in my Vagina Friendly attire. After playing host for a few minutes, I excused myself to my room and changed into my referee shirt for a change of pace. I wanted something loud to hopefully overpower any previous impressions I might have given and it worked.

Someone joked that I needed a whistle to match my ref shirt and I lamented not having one. Excitedly, Alice reached in her purse and handed me one. "Is that for rapes?" I asked.

Stacy's mom made a surprised expression, so I tried to cover up by explaining my line of reasoning. People carry rape whistles around for protection. In fact, we all were given one on our first day of college. We were also warned that you could be fined if you blew the whistle in the case of a non-emergency. I gambled that I was more likely to goof around with the whistle than be raped and decided to preemptively remove the temptation by smashing the whistle with a hammer. Once the whistle was broken, I could blow into it to my heart's content and it barely emitted a sound - certainly not one that would help save me from harm.

Look, this is not a unique problem, even Arrested Development's Buster can't help but have fun blowing his rape whistle:


In the subsequent season, the rape whistle is upgraded to a rape horn, as seen and heard here. Unfortunately, that quick clip leaves off Buster's hilarious retort, "Yeah, like anyone would want to 'R' her!"

My mention of the rape whistle incited a whole conversation about rape and the sexual safety talk delivered during orientation. They warned of a girl who was joking around by blowing her whistle and then watching helplessly as her boyfriend was beaten up by a pack of protective jocks. In order to hold their attention, they also apparently went to pains to explain how men can be raped, too, like some former student who was sodomized by two women with a beer bottle. Despite it being "mandatory," I skipped this meeting because both of my roommates did and I didn't want to be "uncool" by going to the sexual assault talk. I had only known them for 24 hours and I would later learn they were both just as dorky as anybody at school, but it was a funny first way to be peer-pressured in college. Afterwards, I was so nervous about being caught for not attending, I asked my dorm-neighbor Shannon a lot of questions about the event so if I were questioned, I could recite facts as if I had been there. This proved to be unnecessary paranoia on my part, but my over-eager interrogation of Shannon on the issues of rape prompted her to say, "Dude, you're creeping me out," and walk away. Consequently, I spent the next few weeks trying to demonstrate to her that I was not some psycho rapist before finally earning her friendship.

We all continued to share these rape-related stories for an inordinate amount of time even if we hadn't been trying to censor ourselves around of Stacy's mom, so I'm not sure how we managed to let that awkward conversation go on for so long. As Stacy would later ask me, "You couldn't wait more than a couple of minutes for my mom to get comfortable with the situation before bringing up rape?" It was a legitimate gripe, but I can say I honestly tried to avoid the awkwardness by changing my shirt in the first place. Inappropriateness just seems to follow me.

Thankfulness

Quit being modest! For what it's worth, the remote really did land there and she really was proud. Ecstatic even.

5 Great Lindsay Twitter-Thingies

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Helping on the Holiday

It's Thanksgiving. But you probably already knew that. You never let me deliver the good news.

I "volunteered" today for an organization serving meals to the homeless in the park. I put the word in quotation marks because I don't really feel that I helped much. I was initially excited to participate, since this is the same park I used to eat my lunch in four years ago and had to actively avoid homeless people taking/eating my food, so finally being able to share food seemed like an important cycle to fulfill.

The problem with this holiday meal was that it was too well organized. I know that sounds like a funny complaint, but there were at least two volunteers for every diner, which was wholly unnecessary. When I give my time, I'd prefer to be useful to standing around awkwardly trying to find some way to assist. I'd honestly have felt better if the place was mismanaged and needed me to run around to make things happen.

Now I know that volunteering shouldn't be all about me and what I prefer. It shouldn't be about what made a better experience for me, but the homeless people, and I understand that. But when you have so many people there trying to be useful, it can be counterproductive. Take the clean-up process for example: it started an hour before it was supposed to just because of the eager workforce. Hundreds of people were steal eating their meals, but so many people wanted to be of use that any chair not being sat on was stacked and moved and any plate that looked done was snagged off the table. I helped in this process, despite feeling uncomfortable. We were taking these things from right beside people who were still eating, and I felt like I was being rude and rushing them, which wasn't really the intent, but definitely the end result. There was also a surplus of food left over, so they kept trying to get people to take more, all while making it seem like the feast was over.

Oh well, it just motivates me to volunteer again soon in a setting where I am not a nuisance.

In the meantime, enjoy the holiday with this amazing clip from Addams Family Values that the funny Lewis reminded me of.


Oh Christina Ricci. So creepy yet attractive in your youth.

Wedding Advice

I don’t much like going out for drinks in Los Angeles. Sure, there’s “atmosphere,” but when the price of two drinks is equivalent to a whole handle or twenty-four pack, it’s hard to justify the cost. On my trip to Kentucky, however, I found the bars to be amazing. First, they stay open until four a.m. Second, they are a short walk from one’s home (granted, that is probably not true for everyone, but it was true in my case, so perfect!) Third, even on weekend nights they sell beer for $1.25 and well drinks for $2.50, making drinking affordable. Fourth, you meet some interesting people.

I met an older woman, “Cindy,” at a bar when we both went to use the jukebox at the same time. We decided to collaborate on song choice (generally I just conceded to her preferences since our tastes didn’t align) and struck up a lengthy conversation from there. Her sister was the “designated driver” (a drunk one at that) and was ready to leave. Cindy, however wasn’t done drinking and listening to her songs yet. Her sister ran out of the bar in a huff. Cindy told me she would run out to stop her sister, but she received a public intoxication citation outside this bar recently, so she’d rather stay indoors. She explained that her sister was just moody because she was in the process of getting divorced, but that things would probably work out with her husband since no one else could stand to be with them and they’d realize that soon enough.

I thought Cindy was flirting with me, but after half an hour she mentioned her own husband. Speaking of which, as a married woman, she had some advice she wanted to give me to the bride before she walks down the aisle. It wasn’t advice so much as a drunken rant. She rambled about the problems she has with her husband, but how that doesn’t matter, because as long as they’re married, she will never be lonely. Cindy doesn’t love her husband, the only person she loves in this world is her six-year-old daughter, but she still needs a partner like a husband, even if they aren’t speaking to each other. The reason she married her husband was because she knows that he is the one person in the world that will never divorce her, never leave her. Cindy can be difficult sometimes, and she knows most people wouldn’t put up with that, but her husband is a pushover that will not leave, and that makes him the best partner. And that’s what I should tell my friends! Tell them to pick someone who will never leave, it doesn’t have to be about love, but it should be about commitment. She actually made me promise to tell Jocelyn and Ben this before the wedding. I promised, but I kept it to myself. I’m not even saying this woman is wrong entirely, but these are, at best, words of wisdom to be given at lower points in the marriage, not in the romantic early phases. How this would make their big day any more special is preposterous.

Finally, Cindy’s sister came back. “I thought you left!” “I could never leave my sister!” They kissed each other on the lips, each had one more drink “for the road,” and then offered me some marijuana, which I declined. She then took my phone number and immediately text messaged me the name of the chicken shack that she works at that she suggested I stop by to see her at before I left the state. I never did that, but it was a nice gesture, anyway. On her way out, Cindy handed one of my friends a huge nugget of weed without saying a word.

When we left for the night, my friend took the weed to give a family member of the wedding party who he knew would appreciate the drugs. From his drunken hazy memory, he remembers delivering the substance. When this exchange was discussed the next morning, the relative denied being given the drug, meaning that somewhere, someone had lost a large amount of drugs. There were two rules in the guesthouse we were staying at: no drinking and no smoking. The drinking rule was blatantly disregarded, but there was no reason not to just take any cigarettes (or other smoking devices) outside. There was an intense search for the weed, but it never turned up. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when the stuffy guesthouse owners find a lump of drugs in their house and flip out. I’d also love to be a fly on the wall in Cindy’s house, watching the dynamics of her perfectly loveless marriage in action. That woman is a riot.

My 1,000th Post

WOOOOOOOOO! Kevin Babbles is now 1,000 posts old. It's taken a lot of work to get this far. A lot of work indeed. In fact, it's the only job I've got going.

I am unemployed. It's not awful because the government provides me with some financial assistance. Then again, the government's action/inaction/dumbassery is at least partially responsible for the lack of jobs, so I'm not too thankful either. I'd rather be doing something than doing nothing, so let me know if you have any employment leads that might suit me. Also, I could always write things for you! Yes you, friends and random internet strangers alike. Just email me.

In the meantime, I'm consistently looking for opportunities, which are sadly limited, and writing countless cover letters that seem to go unread. Sigh. A couple of people have advised me to move out of Los Angeles if I want to find work. Check out this map to see the nation's unemployment trends. (Seriously, click the link - it's good for a laugh if you enjoy chuckling at tragic things.) Looks like I'd be screwed everywhere. Except perhaps the midwest, but I concur with Lucille Bluth's sage words:



Nowadays, I can't even give a job to get a job, if you know what i mean. Help a blogger out.

Performance Art: So Much Nudity

Performance art has quite a reputation for being ridiculous and pointless. I haven’t seen too much of it myself, and though I figure a great deal of it is absurd, I’ve believed that its reputation was somewhat exaggerated. Last weekend, however, I attended a performance art show and was horrified at, if not scarred by, the sick, outrageous things I saw. These things included nudity, bodily-harm, butt-plugs, pooping, and an adult man having his diaper changed. Disgusted yet?

Let’s start at the beginning. While making plans for the evening, Terri mentioned that she had met a man at a bar the previous night who dresses up as the baby Jesus and nails himself to a vagina. She wasn’t willing to give him her phone number, but she would gladly accept the flyer to his event. I wasn’t sure that it would be a good show, but I figured it would be an experience of some sort. Stacy agreed that this guy’s shtick would at least be entertaining. Though we were put off by the fifteen-dollar tickets, Terri argued that it would either be the best or worst fifteen bucks we’ve ever spent, so we accepted the gamble and went to the show.

Upon entering the performance space, a man dressed as a female nurse approached me and asked if I would like a “crotch shot.” I wasn’t sure what that was, but I was the designated driver and not interested in drinking alcohol, so I declined. The “nurse” told me I was missing out and proceeded to find someone else to participate. Curious, I watched the crotch shot in action. As it turned out, there was no alcohol involved, just some strange thing that involved the nurse placing his head between the volunteers’ legs and nuzzling his face against their crotches. After seeing that, I was glad I didn’t agree to participate; I can only imagine what would have happened if I had thought I was receiving a drink and was sexually harassed instead.

But that was just the pre-show entertainment. Soon after, we were moved to a large room for the show; there were no seats so most people just took a seat on the floor. The first act was some sort of skit with three men wearing elaborate pumpkin-monster costumes. There was almost no dialogue, but a lot of exaggerated crying and dying amongst the characters. With a lack of narrative and deeper meaning, it was like watching third graders perform a skit. Plus, the damned thing dragged on for nearly fifteen minutes. As I asked myself “why is this still happening and what is going on?” I decided to calculate what percentage of my weekly income I had spent on this ticket. In essence, people could do anything on a stage and call it “art” and these people were taking full advantage of this fact.

The next act was a pair of men, one wearing a robe and one in nothing but his underwear, with a variety of props. They used half a roll of packing tape to attach a sharp blade to the microphone and I winced the whole time at the possibilities. If they were going to sing and talk into the mike (which they did plenty of), there was a good possibility of slicing their faces open. I guess the real reason for the blade was to create some excitement. There was a box, taped shut, attached to the ceiling. One of the guys held up the microphone stand from the bottom and used it to try to cut open the box. Slicing the box open proved difficult, requiring literally dozens of attempts, including a couple botched attempts in which the guy would lose control of the mike stand and it would start falling – blade first toward us sitting in the audience. If the objective was to terrify me, it worked: I was pretty sure someone was going to be impaled. Finally the box opened, and about fifty bouncy balls fell from the sky. It was exciting, but the anticipation of what was in the box (as well as potential bodily harm) outweighed the actual event.

From there, the men did whatever they felt like. Bouncing balls, eating bagels, singing metal songs. Periodically, they would mention that we had paid a lot for these tickets and rhetorically asked if we felt like they were giving us our money’s worth. It was like they were thumbing their noses at us, laughing at the fact that we agreed to give them artistic license to do whatever. They also made reference to the fact that it cost a lot to have this show because the clean-up costs alone are astronomical since blood and shit stains are hard to get out. Unfortunately, I don’t think this was a joke. The guys continued to do random activities, most notably the one in just underwear fried an egg on a hot plate, then afterwards put his own head on the hot plate, which was still operational. I’m not sure what he was trying to prove. Though I didn’t notice it myself, Terri later claimed he became visibly aroused while doing that, so maybe it was a sadomasochism thing.

We were moved to another room for the next piece, which had mazes of upside down golf tees set up all over the floor. These props were secondary to the toilet in the center filled to the brim with fertilizer and a naked man in the back corner pooping into a bucket. A butch woman came out and spoke about the maltreatment of people afflicted with mental health conditions while plunging the “soiled” (get it?) toilet. She mentioned some kerfuffle of a schizophrenic with a police officer than resulted in pain and passed around the evidence in a ziplocked plastic bag. When I was handed it, it looked like hair and blood, and I decided I didn’t even want to know for sure what was inside, so I passed it along quickly. This story was supposed to make us mad, apparently, and the main performer (as opposed to the man pooping on the bucket – still pooping on the bucket, might I add) encouraged us to pick up a golf tee and chuck it at the wall whenever we got mad during the piece and she showed us by example. Not one person throughout the piece threw a tee; I’m not sure I was ever “mad” as much as I was disturbed.

Anyway, there was more of the same for a while, but here’s where things really got weird. The woman got bare-ass to correspond with the pooping man and the two of them took pieces of floss that had books tied to one end and stick it in their teeth, leaving the books dangling from their mouths. They then got down on their hands and knees and very slowly crawled toward us in the audience, knocking over the golf tees in their wake. I grew uncomfortable as they approached me, trying to shift backward into the audience so that they wouldn’t end up brushing against me. Still, nothing was quite as disturbing as when they passed by me. It wasn’t until then that I realized that each performer had a butt plug in his or her bare ass. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. They pair continued to crawl toward the door, which had a dozen rolls of toilet paper sitting in front of it. I figured something dramatic would happen once they reached the paper, but instead they just pushed passed it and proceeded to exit through the door and crawl around outside.

Right next door to this performance space is a more traditional gallery that was hosting its own opening. It featured nice, traditional paintings and a lot of people showed up, many of whom were standing just outdoors to smoke, drink wine, and have conversations. They were most likely unaware of what was occurring next door… that is until two naked people with butt plugs crawled outdoors. Fortunately, there were windows in the room that allowed us to peek outside and watch all of this unfold. It’s one thing to know you’re going to watch a non-traditional show and another thing to have the non-traditional show ambush you. Watching the art-goers oblivious smiles turn into horrified expressions once they noticed the naked duo was immensely enjoyable. Terri said that this part was worth the price of admission alone, but I’m not sure I’d go that far. Still, that was my favorite moment of the night. I guess the point of this piece was to make sure to take better care of people with mental health conditions… or they’ll put on this show for you!

I should probably mention that I openly laughed pretty frequently during all of the acts. No one else was doing it, but if you’re going to put weird shit out for me to interpret on my own and not offer an explanation, if I find it funny, I’m going to laugh and not apologize. Put your genitals away and make sense if you feel differently. The rest of the audience was largely artsy unaffected twenty-or-thirty-somethings that stared emotionless as if they see this sort of thing all the time. Maybe they do and maybe that’s why they’ve been rendered emotionless. My favorite person in the audience, however, was a middle-aged woman who was most definitely a mom that did not ever go to these types of events. From the beginning, her jaw was wide open in shock at what was occurring around her. It was often horrifying, so I didn’t blame her. But by the end of the show, she was just laughing. I think she finally realized what a joke all of this was and just let loose, openly laughing at it instead. I loved watching her transformation more than the actual art.

From there, we moved back to the first room, now cleaned of all props, and saw a nude woman standing in the center. Again with the nudity. On one wrist she had a handcuff with about one hundred pieces of paper attached. She began telling a story about how her dad raped her and she is now a lesbian, but then stopped. The rest of the story was written on the pieces of paper attached to her handcuff. She walked around the audience and we were all to tear off a sheet of paper and read the bits of story aloud to make it more interactive. The order wasn’t important, and the voices could read simultaneously. Afterwards, we had all been provided with markers. She invited us to come up and write on her skin. Only one person did. I actually wanted to go and write on her naked body for the novelty of it – like behind her knee or somewhere tame – but since no one else was doing it, I felt weird being that guy. I don’t know that the piece was successful since the audience did not participate in the way she expected, but at least I understood what the greater symbolism (we, too, could “rape” her body) and feelings she was trying to convey. Still, it was weird.

And then finally the night ends with the Jesus guy. The lights go up and there is an obese man wearing nothing but a diaper. He is made to look like Jesus and is crucified on a nine-foot tall vagina. A band in the corner, costumed as Roman soldiers, begins to play and Jesus sings cover songs like some sort of lounge act. Eventually, he breaks free of his vagina crucifixion and gives us party favors – baby rattles and pacifiers. We shake the rattles as he sings and explains that this piece is about a breakup – a breakup with his mother. It’s clear that at least Jesus is not taking this as seriously as everyone else and is having fun with it. Nevertheless, he’s making people uncomfortable as he crawls and ambles around. He had greased himself thoroughly with baby oil, so whenever he would brush against someone, they would essentially be slimed with the stuff.

He sang to us for a while and then laid on a makeshift changing table just feet away. One of the Roman soldiers came and changed his diaper, providing us with a full, naked view. There was a whole lot of baby powder utilized, which then wafted in the air. Though it smelled pleasant, I knew that that powder had just bounced against his naked butt and I didn’t like the particles falling all around me. The previous night, this man had told Terri that he had waxed his entire body for the role – including his asshole – because there was a “diaper change” in the act. We interpreted this to mean a costume change of some sort, not a real live diaper change.

And so concluded the night. There were actually two acts listed on the program, but apparently the artist involved pulled out of the show after the previous night. In some ways, I was thankful, because I really don’t know how much of this I could have handled. But one of the acts was to feature someone eating dirt, while the other involved someone submerging himself in a vat full of Gatorade. They seemed a bit funnier in concept than some of the other acts, so I do regret missing out on them a bit, but as I figure, they’d probably find a way to make those gratuitous and un-watchable too, so it was perhaps better to just get out of there.

I can’t un-see what I’ve seen, but I can make a point not to experiment with experimentation again. This night might have ruined art for me – not just performance art, but water colors and ceramics, too. It’s all art and it’s all disturbing. One thing is for sure: I will probably never have a reason to see anything even resembling these acts again, and that I can be thankful for.

Take care. And beware performance art.

Mr. Yoko Ono

Priscilla: I made you a mix CD.
Eric: (pretending) Oh, it's the Starbucks collection! It has all my favorite artists: John Legend... John Mayer... John Mellencamp.... uh...
Corey: Jon Bon Jovi.
Kevin: Johnny Rzeznik from the Goo Goo Dolls. He'd be on there.
(pause)
Erica: Oh come on, there's a lot more singers named John. Like how about John Lennon?
Kevin: John Lennon? Who's that?
Adrian: Any relation to Julian Lennon?
Kevin: He's not that guy that ruined Yoko Ono, is he?
Eric: Yeah, I think he broke up the Plastic Ono Band.
Adrian: Ugh, he's awful.
Kevin: Someone should shoot him.

Photo Booth Phun

One of my favorite things at Jocelyn & Ben's wedding was the photo booth at the reception. It was a fun diversion for the guests and provides some amazing keepsake photos.

Cute.

I love Erika's narrative.

So much fun!

With some quick maneuvering, everyone has facial hair.

And once Jocelyn leaves for her honeymoon, Erika tries on her dress. Shh!

Even the lady paid to pour wine slipped in for some fun.

But this one is my absolute favorite. I've been told I make good, animated facial expressions, and seeing this spread, I actually believe it.

1. Sexy but earnest

2. Surprised

3. Picking my nose with my hook, yet still maintaining eye contact

And 4... Keeping a smile in spite of the pain.

No really, the key to the fourth photo is the close-up. Stephanie suggested, "Let's kiss Kevin," which sounded great in my book, so I flashed a huge smile and then Jenna decided to elevate the photo to the next level and chomp on my cheek. Can you see how much of my skin is between her teeth?!

It was a few seconds between the pose/bite and the camera's flash, but I stayed committed to the happy expression, because that's what a professional, dedicated model I am. After the flash, however, I yelped in pain and pushed her. But I'll be damned if I wasn't going to pull out a good photo first.

A Socksy Dream

Some people sleepwalk, some people sleep-talk, and I just take things several steps further. I thought that calling someone on the phone while sleeping once might be as weird as it got, but last night I actually acted out what I was dreaming and found the evidence to prove it this morning.

First, allow me to briefly explain the dream. Apparently, there was some massacre occurring. Some opposition party was killing everyone except for people who surrendered, which people indicated by displaying a white flag. I didn't want to surrender, but I didn't want to die. The next thing I knew I was being woken up (still in a dream state) by a man with a machine gun screaming at me that I was about to die. Terrified, I told him that I had surrendered. He told me that only people who were displaying white flags were considered to have surrendered. Thinking quick, I improvised a solution: I took my white sock off my foot and waved it around to indicate surrender. I then hung it on my wall. The militant man accepted this gesture as surrender and let me live. More importantly, I got to go back to sleep.

When I woke up (for real) in the morning, I remembered having the dream, it seemed especially vivid as far as my dreams go, so I tried to determine what it was all about. As I pondered, I noticed that I was only wearing one sock. While it's not unusual for me to remove my socks during the night, it is strange to take off just one - the lack of equilibrium isn't comfortable. Did I really take off a sock when I dreamt I took off a sock?, I wondered. I looked under my sheets to see if I could find the missing sock to no avail.

I did finally find the sock, however. A few feet above where I rest my head in bed, there is a poster taped to the wall. My sock was partially tucked behind this poster with most of it left dangling. Evidently, in the night, I had actually taken my sock off and hung it up as a "white flag" in an effort to save my life. There's no way a sock could possibly accidentally end up there. I'm going to assume that there wasn't actually a man with a machine gun in my room, but it's still crazy that unconsciously through the influence of a dream, I took those actions.

How to Really Love Your Child

One of my favorite new blogs, Awful Library Books, featured the book How to Really Love Your Teenager today. I immediately recognized it as a sequel to a book I own, How to REALLY Love Your Child, and I was inspired to revisit this gem. I picked this book up from a discard pile, mainly because the title made me laugh. While I comprehend the intent of the book, when they emphasize the “really” part by putting the word in a different color, it’s difficult not to think that the book might be championing incestuous pedophilia.

Though I brought home the book with that joke in mind, I figured it would be tame and banal at best. I did not actually believe that author Dr. Ross Campbell would advocate anything inappropriate. And yet, as I skimmed through the book, I found that sometimes his suggestions were seriously disturbing. Take these three paragraphs from the book. I initially abbreviated them, but then decided to just put them unedited so that you can see I’m not manipulating the text or taking it out of context. Just read this and see if the described behavior between father and daughter seems not only healthy but beneficial to you:

A girl gets her sexual identity at that age primarily from her father, as long as he is living and especially if he is in the home. If a father is dead or otherwise removed from relating to his daughter, a girl must find other paternal figures to fill these needs. But when a father has any viable relationship with her, he is the primary person who can help his daughter be prepared in this particular way for adolescence. What a great responsibility!

A father helps his daughter to approve of herself by showing her that he himself approves of her. He does this by applying the principles we have discussed thus far—unconditional love, eye contact, and physical contact, as well as focused attention. A daughter’s need for her father to do this begins as early as two years of age. This need, although important at younger ages, becomes greater as the girl grows older and approaches that almost magic age of thirteen.

One problem is our society is that as a girl grows older, a father usually feels increasingly uncomfortable about giving his daughter the affection she needs, especially when she becomes pre-adolescent (about 10 or 11 years old). So as a daughter arrives at the age when she needs her father’s affection the most, a father feels more awkward and uncomfortable, especially with physical contact. This is extremely unfortunate. Fathers, we must ignore our discomfort and give our daughters what is vital to them for their entire lives.

That’s right, fathers! It might seem wrong to affectionately touch with your daughters, but you’re doing it for the betterment of them! And what about the sons, you might ask? Well Dr. Campbell’s got that covered:

The first example is drawn from Rusty, a very dear friend of mine who is mean, tough, “all man,” and a drill instructor in the U.S. Marine Corps. He and his wonderfully warm sensitive wife have four boys, “stair steps.” Rusty decided his boys were going to be like him, tough and rugged men. He treated them like Marine recruits with strict and rigid discipline, no affection, unquestioned obedience, and no questions.

The last time I saw these boys each one was extremely effeminate. Their mannerisms, speech, and appearance were those of girls. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. I see it every day. Boys with rejecting, harsh, non-affectionate fathers generally become effeminate.

You think that molesting your kids is a homosexual act? Well maybe it is on a temporary level, but if you don’t do it, they’re bound to be homosexuals forever. And that’d be awful! I wonder if Dr. Campbell’s “very dear friend” Rusty appreciates this representation of his children.

To Dr. Campbell’s credit, he does think there is an excessive extent to which someone can, uh, touch his kids:

A seven-year-old girl was seen at a psychiatric clinic for frequent masturbation and poor school performance. The evaluation disclosed that the child spent much time fantasizing (day-dreaming) her mother’s death and living alone with her father. It was also noted that her father spent much time holding the child, caressing and fondling her in such a way that seemed to bring sensual enjoyment to both father and child. When these facts were gently shared with the father, his response was, “Oh my word! I just realized that when I wash the soap off of her when we’re showering together, she reacts like a mature woman.”

I would pay good money to witness a man suddenly reaching the realization that his daughter responds like a “mature woman” when he touches her in the shower. You should really love your child, but maybe not really really love her.

Still, the absolute best part of this book can actually be found on the back cover, which features a photo of Dr. Campbell’s family. Pay close attention to the caption:

Perhaps this book should be re-titled How to Really Love Your Child… Unless She Has an Intellectual Disability, in Which Case Get Rid of Her. They can’t go visit poor Cathy and take a picture with her? It’s not prison – or, well, it shouldn’t be a prison anyway. As far as I’m concerned, even if this book were filled with decent advice rather than nonsense, this photo gaff is enough to entirely discredit the contents. It sounds like Dr. Campbell needs a lesson in sensitivity from one of my other favorite books, My Brother Steven Is Retarded.

New Couch #2

Most of the furniture in my house is gone. That's a long story in itself, so for simplicity's sake, let's just say I was robbed at gunpoint and move on.

Anyway, my housemate, Dan, and I found ourselves without so much as a place to sit. My temporary solution was going to be to borrow lawn chairs to fill the empty space and have a slightly more comfortable and significantly more hilarious living environment until we had the opportunity to replace the furniture. Dan was a bit more practical about the situation and quickly found a couch on Craigslist that the owner said we could pick up for free. She had promised it to some other Craigslister first, but whoever it was bailed, so we had next dibs. Dan specifically asked about the moving conditions and the lady suggested that he bring someone to assist since the couch needed to be moved down the stairs. Considering how much fun I had picking up a free couch the last time [that's one of my first blog posts ever!], I was game to help.

So we rented a U-Haul which is always a nightmare to drive. They're just a little too big and unwieldy to feel comfortable operating, especially on the freeway. I still think the most impressive high speed chase I ever watched (they're practically a daily televised event in California) is the woman who stole a U-Haul and weaved it through traffic and across medians to evade capture. How did she do it?



After a twenty minute drive, we finally located the street of the couch owner. The house was located on a street that was steep even by Los Angeles standards. At the bottom of the hill (which looked like a full-on mountain) were three signs: one cautioned us to proceed at only 10 mph, another told us the road was windy, and a third warned us that there were no turn-arounds on the street. That sounded like a recipe for disaster to try to bring a U-Haul up, so we just parked at the bottom of the hill and began walking up to the address. It was practically a workout going up that street, treadmills can't even provide you with that kind of incline. We passed a few sporadic houses on the way, but we were still hundreds of numbers away according to the address provided. It would be a nightmare to try and carry a couch down that hill for that long of a distance, so we chose the other nightmarish scenario of returning to the U-Haul and driving it up the hill.

No joke, it was terrifying and the only redeeming element was the idea that it would become a funny story a year later about the time we crashed a U-Haul off of a cliff, or perhaps even sooner when shared at our respective funerals. It might have been nice had the owner warned us that it would be nearly impossible to bring a U-Haul up that hill, but whatever.

Finally we found the house and there was no room to wiggle around. Dan executed what he called a "twenty point turn," which meant inching forward and backward repeatedly until the large vehicle was finally turned around.

The house was huge and fancy; it was apparent that the family we were taking the couch from was quite affluent. This was good because the couch was in great condition, as opposed to most free furniture you'd find on the internet. The family was upgrading to a nicer couch because they could afford to, not out of necessity, and we reaped the benefits.

Well, sort of. First we had to get the couch down the stairs. Never did the owners specify how difficult a task this would be. In this fancy house, it wasn't just a normal case of stairs, it was narrow and wound around with a landing in the middle. Squeezing it through would be no easy feat in itself, but that the owners threw in another obstacle: "Oh, and if you could make sure the couch doesn't touch the walls, we just had them painted last week." There was maybe a few inches of clearance for the couch with the space allowed as it was, how were we amateur movers going to be perfect. There was a point while lifting the couch over the banister where we came close to accidentally dropping it through the hole and watch it crash two stories down to the ground, but fortunately that didn't happen.

On our way out, I made a passive aggressive comment about how difficult the road was to maneuver on, but the couch's previous owner just said "yeah, and there's lots of deers (sic) that jump out, so watch out for that." Great. Driving back down the hill, we did not encounter "deers," but the drive wasn't much easier. We speculate that the first people who came to pick up the couch bailed because they realized it wasn't worth the effort. Suckers! Fifty dollars in U-Haul rental and a couple of near-death experiences later, we now own a "free" couch! It is nice to have a place to sit in your own home. Plus, it's way more comfortable when you've worked so hard for it.

Ostrich Enchilada

I ate ostrich tonight. An ostrich enchilada, to be exact. When you live in Southern California, you're bound to eat Mexican food at least twice a week, so I took the opportunity to mix it up and have a new twist on an old classic.

One of my friends asked if I was an adventurous eater, which is not the case - I'm definitely pickier than most.

Another friend asked if it tasted like chicken and although that's a cliche question, I have to say it sort of did. Maybe a bit more like turkey. It tasted like a bird at any rate, which makes complete sense.

A third friend asked why I ordered ostrich. I think what it ultimately boiled down to is that I was asserting my dominance on the food chain. That's just one more of God's creatures that I have destroyed by devouring. Besides, ostriches had it coming: they don't fly, their eggs are too large for one person to eat, and they spend their days with their heads underground. Maybe if they weren't so lame, I'd give them a pass. As it is, they deserve little more than to be eaten.

Please do not send this link to PETA.

Fingers Crossed

When I was at Ben's childhood home, [Ben is perhaps best known in these parts for his smashing smooshing skills], I found an amazing piece of artwork than Ben made especially for his mother. Oh, adolescent insecurity:


Now there's a kid who knows that nothing, not even love, should be unconditional.

Baby, You Paralyze Me

"He looks like a stroke victim... in a hot way." - Allison

This was Allison's critique of Logan, the token cute guy, while watching Project Runway tonight. Both she and Melinda seem to think that one side of Logan's face, as well as the corresponding eye, droops. Rest assured, they both still find it attractive. I've heard of some interesting fetishes, but stroke victim... well, there just may be hope for us all!

I looked for the Logan's reported droopiness, but I don't really see it. To be fair, however, I am sort of oblivious to these things. A few weeks ago, I was at a fabric store. (I was there while a friend shopped for a Halloween costume - I don't want to mislead people into thinking I'm some sort of seamster now that I watch Project Runway and go to fabric stores; I still can't reattach buttons to my pants when they fall off.) While browsing the shelves, I came across the book Quilt with Confidence. In addition to finding the title amusing, I was taken aback by author Nancy Zieman's facial expression on the cover. It was a pretty unflattering photo, so why wouldn't they just use another shot in which she didn't look as though she were simultaneously farting and coping with the smell?

I took a picture of the book, but it didn't come out too well, so I'd tried Google searching to see if I could find a clean copy of it. The image search revealed something I honestly hadn't anticipated: Zieman's face looks similar in every photo of her. Here I thought it was funny because I had assumed someone had made a bad design choice for the book's cover art, but as it turned out, I had been mocking someone afflicted with Bell's palsy. Nice one, douche!

Deservedly, I felt like an asshole, and I probably wouldn't have even shared this story with anyone, except that now I know that paralysis is considered "hot" by some. For all I know, someone might be masturbating (with confidence) to Zieman's book cover. After all, beauty is in the lazy eye of the beholder.

Palindromes

I love palindromes! Forward or backward, they read the same!

Initially, I chalked up my love of palindromes to my mild dyslexia, but I can actually trace it back to the moment I was first enamored. In first grade, my teacher taught us what palindromes are. As an example, she pointed out that the then current year, 1991, is a palindrome. Then she challenged us to figure out when the next palindrome year would be, which we determined to be 2002. According to my teacher, we were very lucky because that meant we would be alive during two palindromic years, because many people don't get a chance to see a single one, let alone two. Prior to 1991, the previous palindrome year was 1881, and the next one after 2002 would be 2112. They only happen about every 100 years, except at the turn of the millennium. How lucky I was, indeed! Suddenly, I loved palindromes!

In 2002, I was a college freshmen. During that year, I would periodically remember that although it was early in my life, this was my last palindrome year alive. As 2002 neared an end, I panicked that I hadn't properly celebrated the occasion, so I enlisted my new friends to throw a party on 11/11 2002, seven years ago today. Not just any party, but a Party Trap. (It's a palindrome, see?) We made flyers for the event, which began at 10:01 pm (also a palindrome!) and we promised snacks, music, and, most importantly, words that could be read both forward and backward!

One friend, Ginny, had two people in town at the time that we agreed to make the Party Trap's special guests: her MOM and her boyfriend, MIKE KIM. To my recollection, neither of them actually showed up to the Party Trap, but we honored them for their palindromic names anyway. We also listened to palindrome-themed songs (like the They Might Be Giants tune available at the end of this post) and made a giant poster to illustrate our favorite palindromes. Here are some of the drawings from the poster:

And to think, that last palindrome came before Arrested Development and the genius Banana Grabber characters were ever conceived!

If you didn't celebrate 2002 appropriately, you better look at these pictures, choose some favorites, and repent, as you probably won't live to see 2112, barring any advances in modern medicine. Then again maybe LONELY TYLENOL will stretch our mortality to see a third palindromic year!

"I Palindrome I" - They Might Be Giants

Bus Stopped

Did you watch the premiere of George Lopez's new talk show last night? I didn't, and I had five people practically beg me to watch it.

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking away from Chicago's Navy Pier. The last time I visited this spot, it was mobbed with people, but as it was a cold, rainy day, I had the sidewalk to myself. Suddenly, a woman stepped off a bus and asked if I would be interested in coming on the bus. She promised snacks. If I were a kid, that'd sound like a recipe for molestation, but seeing as I was cold and wet, I figured why not.

Upon entering, I noticed that everything inside was decorated with pictures of George Lopez. I had walked onto some sort of promotional tool, but since I wasn't in a rush to be anywhere, I decided to hear out the pitch.

"Are you hungry? Can I interest you in some snacks?"
"Okay," I said. There was an array of choices: chips, pretzels, popcorn, candy, even Red Bull, and each package was labelled specially with George Lopez's face; I was encouraged to take whatever I liked. After I put several snacks in my backpack, the employees pounced on me. There were five employees on the bus and I was the only visitor, so I was bombarded by questions from all directions.

"Do you like TV?"
"Sure."
"Do you have cable?"
"Yes..." I neglected to mention that we technically steal the cable, but whatever.
"Do you know who George Lopez is?"
"Yes, he's... a comedian," I said. I almost said that "he's funny," but that was disingenuous, so I edited on the fly.

The questioning continued. Did I know that George Lopez was going to have a hilarious late night talk show on TBS that I should totally watch? That there would be celebrities and comedy and that I would love it? I wasn't aware, I said.

I stopped short of promising to watch the show, but I did indicate that my visit to the bus had heightened my interest. They were satisfied, so I began exiting the bus. "Tell your friends!" one employee shouted. In my head, I thought, of course I will, you've given me a water bottle with George Lopez's face on it, so I'm bound to make fun of it to them, but I only said "I will!" as a reply.

I had quite a stash of snacks, most of which I gave to panhandling homeless people I passed on my way to a train station. I would have directed them to the bus itself, but experience tells me that "non-TV viewers" would not be given complimentary food.

The Matchbook Girl

I have a friend, who we'll call Nina, who has some magic powers. She is a force to be reckoned with - when she lets loose, there is no ignoring it. All of this is a delicate way of saying she has some devastatingly stinky farts. Nina can clear a room without even trying. She's aware of it though, owning up to her odors, as well as attempting to find ways to limit its potency against others.

Nina and I were recently guests at Jocelyn and Ben's wedding in Kentucky. We stayed with many of the other twenty-somethings of dubious employment statuses in a communal guest house. I had never previously met one of the fellow guests and guest house dwellers, Stephanie. Stephanie was remarkably funny and also had the distinction of being the wedding's flower girl. When I asked her how someone in her mid-20s was granted the role of flower girl, she retorted, "I'm the most retarded of all of Ben and Jocelyn's friends." She had a point.

Stephanie and Nina hit it off, but Stephanie was taken aback one night when Nina's flatulence made an especially grand entrance, for which Nina apologized. Despite being in a large house, she couldn't find matches anywhere, which were generally one of NIna's best weapons in harnessing her odors, so she vowed to buy some.

Later than that, Nina stopped at Walgreens to buy some matches - more for everyone else's sake than her own. Amusingly, the smallest amount of matches she could buy was fifty books, or 1000 matches. Though it cost only a little over two dollars, that was a lot of matches for a weekend vacation, even for Nina. She joked that she could eat whatever she wanted with that many matches in hand.

Although Nina solved one problem by being able to mask unpleasant scents by lighting matches, she now had a new comical problem: what to do with fifty matchbooks? I'm pretty sure trying to bring dozens of matchbooks back home on an airplane constitutes terrorism. We brainstormed uses for that many matches, but all of the initial plans involved a lot of fire and, hence, danger.

Ultimately, however, I think I came up with the perfect solution: if there could be a grown flower girl, why not add Nina into the wedding procession as well? Start a new tradition: the Matchbook Girl. At some point before the bride takes her walk, Nina could toss books of matches out to the adoring crowd. The guests fortunate enough to catch a book could then light a match during the ceremony in solidarity with the couple as a symbol of their love. We wouldn't have to tell anyone that the matches were originally bought to cover up the smell of feces.

I offered to pay Nina a lot of money - or, well, enough money to buy 2000 matches - if she would go through with the plan. It'd be even better if Nina didn't seek permission, but just took it upon herself to jump into the line at the last minute and throw matches around as if it were an appropriate gesture, much to the befuddlement of others. She'd be the talk of the reception, and we could just tell the Kentucky rubes that it was a "Jewish custom" or something... you know how they love their Menorahs and all.

Alas, Nina didn't go through with it, but the mental picture is enough to make me laugh still. If I ever get married, you can bet I'm going to have a Matchbook Girl as part of the ceremony.

Broommates

Looking back, I was destined to be a writer. In first grade, we had centers we had to rotate between, some fun and some academic. Whenever we had a free choice, I would choose the writing center. I was the only one who ever willingly selected writing over coloring or playing with blocks, but I enjoyed writing little stories by myself.

I was always encouraged and complimented on my stories at the time, but as I read them back nearly twenty years later, I am embarrassed. I mean VERY embarrassed. I mean SUPER very embarrassed.

Here's a story I wrote in second grade. Should I be concerned that my teacher couldn't spell "adoreable" (sic)? I didn't know the difference between "to" and "too" still, so it probably didn't matter much.

(click the "essay" to enlarge)

I mean, I mean, I mean. I meant a lot of things apparently. Also, it's quite clear that this story had no real point and I just ultimately wanted to tell a joke that I must have found funny at the time.

If I were to rewrite this story today, there is a lot I would change: grammar, character development, incorporating some sort of actual plot, etc. But if Today Kevin could only edit one thing about Little Kevin's story, it would obviously be the punch line to the joke:
Q. What do you call two witchs that live together?
A. Dykes.

NOW it's ready to be published in The New Yorker.

Mole Station

While having a conversation with a friend about celebrity couples with large age discrepancies, we disagreed over whether we would enter a relationship with someone of a radically different age. I couldn't see myself doing it, but my friend wouldn't rule it out for herself.

"Love is love. I don't think age should matter. I could find love with someone way older than me," she said. "Like they say, age ain't nothing but a number."
"You sound like someone who's been molested," I joked.
"Actually... I was," she confessed.
"I, uh, uh, really?" I stuttered.
"Yeah," she said. In response, I made nine million facial expressions at once.
"Awkward," said a third friend, present in the room, who had incidentally been privy to the secret.

I had known and been close to her for years, but this was a new revelation. I would have never guessed, which just goes to show that I am walking a dangerous line when I make offensive jokes to people because I figure it won't actually hit close to home. I tend to assume that my current friends had common childhood experiences: playing Little League, coloring books, watching Ninja Turtles, and not being molested. I mean, I know it happens to some kids, but it didn't happen to me, and I'd like to think I was cute enough at that age!

Anyway, starting now, I'm probably going to lay off the molestation jokes for fear of repeating that mistake. Just because people aren't actively twitching in their twenties from the effects of sexual abuse doesn't mean it didn't happen.

That said, I do have a molestation joke idol, Tig Notaro. She manages to address the subject matter in a hilarious yet inoffensive manner. I'm taking notes and I recommend you do the same: