The Hardest Job Of My Life

I'm in a room with other people, blowing up balloons. Everybody around me is blowing and blowing and their balloons are growing and then they tie them off and let them go. I'm blowing and blowing as hard as I can and nothing’s happening. I’m watching these people easily inflating these balloons and I’m getting worried why I can't. I’m getting self conscious because I have very few balloons and everybody else seems to have no problem gaining and discarding their balloons. Sure, everybody has one or two balloons they can't inflate, but it seems like every single one of my balloons has been poked by a tiny needle. The air goes in and comes out; the balloon stays limp. I try, and I try and all I’m wasting is time and hot air.

Sometimes I finally get a balloon growing then suddenly it deflates, making that terrible farting noise and everybody looks over at my failure. I’m crushed at what I did wrong. I am obsessing over what I did wrong. I try to recreate the moments before the balloon deflated, but I cannot remember. Now the balloon is no good; sometimes I try to get it going again, but I know it never will. The balloon is useless. And I keep thinking, is it me? Is it my method? Am I not stretching the balloon enough? Am I not providing a constant stream of air? Are my lungs too small? Why is my balloon collection so small?

“It’s not hard!” and “It just happens!” are some of the “nuggets” of advice I’m given by friends and acquaintances. They don’t seem to understand that I just can’t blow up balloons like everyone else. I must be physically incapable. I swear my lungs are too small or my breath is too potent. Everybody talks about their balloons and some people count them and brag; I can do no such thing as my collection is very pathetic. I want to lie and hide my balloons but I can’t. They are just sitting out there as an upsetting testament to my inabilities.

Most of the time I don’t care about my small collection—I just want to have that big, bright, shiny, red balloon. Sure, everybody wants that balloon and some people have it. But here I am digging through the bag and I can't find one. I feel like I’ve been digging forever. I have blue, and green, yellow, orange, pink but I can’t find the red one. Maybe I’ll like the blue or green, I think. Just try it, I tell myself. Sometimes just looking in my bag at all of the colors and opportunities makes me upset. I can’t do it! I want my red balloon! I am getting tired of this constant workshop of balloon inflating. There is no guidance and it is hard work. Every man for himself, I guess.

I hate balloons.

Thanksgiving

When I was little I liked to dip olives in apple juice. I think I remember the taste, and it wasn't that bad, but really, I think it was mostly about the olives. I like olives.

My grandfather was very overweight. My dad or maybe my aunt or maybe both of them would hassle him to try to get him to eat healthier, which didn't make a whole lot of sense to do specifically on the holiday. I know they tried to intervene at other times and had felt that they failed. Maybe they saw it as a chance to approach him together.

My aunt and my dad would usually argue. Sometimes it got bad enough that one of them would leave the dinner table. We kids eventually got our own table - me, my brother and my two cousins. I was the oldest of the bunch. I liked our card table. We didn't fight with each other at all. We even had a good time, joked around.

If my cousins weren't there, my brother and I would go hide in the spare room to avoid the issues of the adults. It was stocked with stuff, piles and piles of it, and none of it particularly exciting. Sure, there was a shoebox or two to rummage through, but they were invariably full of sewing equipment or old musty photos. But there was a TV in a far corner with a working VCR. We'd usually watch Miracle on 34th street or some other black and white classic.

If we weren't stowed back in the spare room, we'd be upstairs in one of the unused bedrooms. These had angled ceilings where the windows cut into the roof line. The entire second story had a sort of miniature quality to it. I remember noting that my grandparents slept in separate beds on the ground floor. Just like on TV.

My mom and dad split when I was five. The first I remember hearing of it was at a Thanksgiving. I was sitting on the stairs up to the second floor, and somebody, maybe my grandmother or my aunt, was asking me questions about it. I know I didn't really understand how significant the divorce would be, but I understood the concept. My dad was going to live somewhere else. "Yes," I said, when they asked me if I knew it wasn't my fault.

From that point on, we would have at least two Thanksgivings. The one I've already described was on my father's side and remained more or less the same through the years. I think that that Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving "A," was more remarkable because there were more people there, and because it was held at my grandmother's house and thus away from my home. But my mom hosted thanksgiving, too. As did my maternal grandmother, before she passed away when I was twelve. Those meals had a different vibe. There were just less people, so it couldn't be quite as festive. And when my mom hosted it was at our house. Sometimes she'd invite a friend in addition to the usual roster of me, my brother, my grandmother and my mother's sister. Sometimes, I think, our upstairs neighbors were involved. Two boys and their single mom. The older, Scott, was at least four or five years ahead of me. The younger, Nicholai, was one year behind. We were pretty tight.

I live now in a place hundreds and hundreds of miles from where any of this happened. None of the houses involved are still in the family. My grandfather has passed and my paternal grandmother now lives in upstate New York. My mom is in Florida. My father and stepmother live in Atlanta, GA. My wife and I have a son, and we've sort of stuck a flag down here in Kansas City. The flag says "home." Or maybe it's just a square of a bold color, like red.

We host Thanksgiving now. My father and stepmother and sister come, every year. My brother makes it when he can. We cook a wide range of vegetarian delights, which initially frightened my relatives, but which they have come to enjoy. They appreciate not being hit by such a hard food coma after the fact, and my wife is an excellent cook. We usually have at least two or three pies, a wide range of sides and my wife's incredible, made from scratch tofu turkey. It's nothing like a Tofurkey, if you've had one of those. Tofurkeys are terrible.

Whenever Thanksgiving approaches, I go through an emotional process. The steps are the same, but the order and timing vary from year to year. Step one is excitement. I more or less only see my dad, stepmom and sister once a year, at Thanksgiving, and so I look forward to it. I love my family.

The second step is less pleasant. At some point, I become painfully aware of how infrequently I see my family, and I start to do some pretty depressing math. I take my father's age, and I subtract it from 80, maybe 90 if I'm feeling generous. Then I multiply that by the number of days they usually spend out here, leading to an estimate of the number of days I will spend in my father's company in his lifetime. The number of days he'll spend playing with my son. That number isn't so large anymore.

Obviously, this is a horribly morbid thought. On its own, it would bear no merit. If I just sat in it and let it color the vibe of the visit, it would bring nothing but shadow to what could be a bright occasion. So last year, I took it upon myself to act. My brother was here, and we hosted a sort of intervention. We insisted that my dad and stepmom meet us for breakfast on the last day before they left, so that we could talk things out.

We had a conversation. We talked about wanting to be more tightly nit, about wanting to feel more like a real family. Basically, about wanting to make the effort to see each other more often. We conceded that nobody would be likely to move any time soon (there are powerful reasons), but we thought that maybe we could take a vacation once a year, together. Just that in itself would double the number I had been calculating in my head. My dad found the conversation difficult to deal with and actually left the table, but my stepmom was enthusiastic and touched. In the end, everyone agreed that this would be a great idea.

Unfortunately, it hasn't happened. The summer came and went. I made phone calls. I made proposals. But in the end, lacking a reciprocal amount of support on any side, I couldn't make it happen. Another year has passed.

So this year, I've already been through steps one and two, before anyone even arrives. I'm already trying to think about how to process my frustration, sadness and disappointment (maybe even resentment), at the distant way my family relates to one-another. I'm hoping, that by writing this, maybe I can move more quickly to step three, which is a sort of resignation and acceptance that allows me to finally enjoy the moment and the time that I have. When they go, I'm always glad they came, and I'm happy to have seen them.

I don't know where the wires got crossed, and when. I don't know how my family got to be the way it is, dispersed across the continent, limited in contact to a few days and phone calls. I've tried to unwind it, but I don't know how. I keep hoping that at some point somebody will be willing to make a sacrifice, that somebody will join us under this flag of ours, or that we'll decide to pick up the flag ourselves and re-plant it somewhere else. But no matter how I slice it up, there just doesn't seem to be an answer that makes sense. There's no solution to the puzzle of needs and requirements.

So we host the holiday and we bake the pies and we go bowling. You know, tradition. It's the best we can do.

Things I Lost In the Fire

I’m missing something. It’s a strange feeling to be missing a part of myself. I’m not missing any limbs or anything physical; I’m missing a feeling. I don’t know when it happened, but it’s a recent occurrence. Suddenly, it seems as if I’m constantly irritated, upset, and sad. I’m unsure if this feeling was love, happiness, or even contentedness—I only know the feeling was positive and, apparently, taken for granted.

I wake up in the morning with nothing to look forward to except the end of the day. I relax without actually relaxing. I spend my free-time laying in bed checking off a mental list of all the different emotions I feel, trying to figure out which feeling I’m missing by process of elimination. I spend the spare moments of my day trying to figure out what I could do which might bring back this feeling, but nothing ever helps.

I’ve tried to get a hobby, but I’m too busy. I’ve tried to exercise, but my excuses don’t stop. I’ve tried purchasing items I don’t need, but they end up disappearing in my unhappy oblivion. I’ve spent numerous evenings with my closest friends, but I only end up craving my bed and hating myself.

What, or Who, was responsible for this feeling? I recently went through a break up. It was mutual, though some days it feels more like I was the one who was dumped. I find the events proceeding the break up to be something like the Universe’s way of acknowledging my “mistake” and rewarding me one more chance but sending me back to Square One to ensure that I’ve learned a life lesson.

But I wasn’t terribly upset with the break up. It was something that I had been wishing for on and off for the previous year. The main reason why it didn’t end before was because I never could instigate a break up as it would be too much of a hassle to split our items and live separate lives in an area that was fit for only one life. I was fine with the split because I could feel free to roam any opportunities that had appeared.

This lost feeling only became apparent about a month ago. I think I know what possibly caused this feeling to disappear. Suddenly, about a month ago, I became aware that I have no possible relationship outlets. Before, I didn’t care if not a single other man found me attractive, granted, it was always nice to get a smile or wink while I was out (barring the drunks I’ve encountered in the liquor aisle at the grocery store). I was finally out of a relationship with the hopes of being a free person that never had to think about anybody else, when it hit me: I’m a strange breed only loved by a very small minority of people who are rarely out in public or alive.

I lost my only relationship potential for an unknown reason. Maybe I’m just the booty call girl, maybe I played it too coy—this debate could continue in my head all day without resolution. Since then, everything seems to be empty and boring. No more flirtations and no more imaginary scenarios that I would concoct to perfection in hopes that it would happen one day. Since this very blunt termination, almost all encounters with this person give me this strange sensation in my chest. I know what I think and feel is unhealthy and unwise, but I can’t stop. It gets to the point where I want to reach into whatever part of my body is creating this sensation (brain, heart, loins, etc.) and viciously rip it out. It is a cancer that lingers and stews until one day, I realize that I have allowed this sensation to resonate and affect my daily activities. I think the only reason why I have allowed it to settle deep in my skin is because my current lost emotion theory involves my lost relationship potential. I felt my nameless feeling before the explicit halt and the feeling left sometime after; if I worm my way back into that corner of the man that wanted to be with me, maybe that feeling will return and all will be well.

Could it be possible that this feeling I now feel is heartbreak? Can one be heartbroken without truly ever feeling “love”? I don’t think it’s fair for me to say that I’ve been heartbroken by one or even two men, but instead, I’ve been heartbroken by the world. The world has let me down. No more can my active imagination wander freely and lust after whomever. Wherever my mind goes, my heart will follow. The world has put up yellow tape around my universe, either to keep me in or keep others out Is it fair that I can wander around aimlessly without notice?

So this is why it seems as if this cancerous love/hate that brews in my veins has replaced this positive feeling. It’s hard for me to understand why I don’t have any control over my feelings. It’s hard for me to understand how I could lose track of a nameless emotion that apparently affects me so viciously. I just want to be back to where I was before. In the meantime, I don’t know what to do. I think it’s a matter of working through the pain and finding something that might distract from the feeling or recreate the lost feeling.

Chutes and Ladders

Once in the early days of the internet I made the mistake of using Yahoo Maps to find the Grog Shop in Cleveland, Ohio. Andy and I were driving to Cleveland from Pittsburgh on a Tuesday to see Cinerama, an obscure british band that I loved. It was a cool night in early spring and we watched the sun set on the road as we listened to Doolittle in the car. Andy was soft spoken and had long curly hair. We didn't talk a lot. He smoked a cigarette or two as he drove his old Civic north-west on 76. He was polite and always cracked the window.

The sun set, but we had a few hours yet until the show. As we neared the city, it became clear that our directions were gibberish. We were directed to route numbers instead of street names, and the numbers were not printed on any of the big green signs that we saw. I had been to the Grog Shop once before, but I hadn't driven and I didn't remember the way. We gave up after a while and pulled off past downtown, near the lake.

We pulled into a busy neighborhood street. There were a lot of people walking around. The cars were old and the radios were loud. We didn't recognize any street signs so we parked at the nearest gas station and got out to ask directions. The station was lit from within by bright, cold fluorescent lights. It wasn't part of a chain - not a Shell or an Exxon. I don't remember what it was called. Outside the convenience store, there was a stooped, older man by a pay phone wearing a dirty white hooded sweatshirt and holding a white plastic bag. He was talking to himself about something. We walked inside.

Inside the station there was a man in a black jacket facing the clerk. I couldn't really see the clerk, but I could see that he was behind a wall of bullet-proof glass. The man bellowed, as if the clerk hadn't heard him the first time, "EXCUSE ME, DO YOU HAVE ANY EX-LAX?" That caught my ear. Then I noticed the flies swarming across the ceiling, covering the lights. There were thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands. Somebody behind us said "mayflies." I shot Andy a look. We quickly walked out the door and got in the car and started to drive.

At the next intersection, there was a Target across from an abandoned store with a lot that was empty save for a cop car. Andy pulled in next to the cop with the cruiser on my side. I rolled down the window and asked for directions. Thankfully, the cop knew where we needed to go. He got out of his car and started to explain as the radio in the cruiser began to crackle. Just as he finished giving us instructions, his partner said something and he said "sorry guys, we gotta go. Somebody set something on fire in the Target." The cop got in the passenger side of the cruiser, and they lit up their lights and siren. Then they peeled out through the intersection, crossed the street and pulled into the Target that had been less than 100 yards away.

The directions we got were good. We ended up at the show without further complication and enjoyed our evening. But I couldn't help but feel that somehow, I had been playing Chutes and Ladders. I had rolled a one, hit a chute and ended up somewhere else, in a different world maybe. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in that world, with the mayflies and loud radios and the fires at the Target. I'm sure if you lived there, it would all seem normal and fine - comfortable.

When I was a younger I would ride trains from time to time. Sometimes the trains would be elevated above street level. My favorite thing to do was to look down and out at the passing houses - wooden and brick, orange and green and blue or brown, all weathered and worn - and imagine time stopping. With time stopped, I would have explored each and every house, every apartment, every store. I imagined the people being gone, or being frozen in place. I would have looked out every window and in every drawer and read every slip of paper on every kitchen table. How many worlds were there, out there? How could there be so many lives, so many stories taking place at once, and how is it that we can possibly know so little of them all?

I drove home yesterday in a light rain. It was one of the first cold nights of fall after daylight savings time had ended. I wondered where all of the pairs of red tail lights were going. How many drivers were stressed, in a hurry to get home? How many had had bad days, how many good? Which songs were playing, and how many people were listening to Nada Surf, like me?

Later that night, my wife and I shared a bottle of red wine at dinner. By the time we left, I was sleepy. As we walked out to the street, the cars seemed to be moving too fast. I was momentarily taken aback by their speed. My pace had changed, and I couldn't keep up. I walked to the driver's side door and felt the rush of cool, moist air as the cars passed me by. I imagined standing at the mouth of an exit ramp on the highway, looking at the cars coming on at 50, 60, 80 miles an hour. Some whizzed past me, rocketing down the freeway. Others swerved to exit. I imagined how terrifying it would be, standing there at that fork. I would know that the cars would not hit me, that they would either turn off the road or pass, but as they came on at such tremendous speed, how could I not be afraid? It would only take one mistake, one slip, for a car to not turn quite enough and plow right into me.

Later in the evening, we went bowling at Pin-up bowl, a fancy bowling alley in a fancy outlet mall on the west side of town. The alley was empty save for one other couple seven or eight lanes down. The vacancy wasn't surprising on a cold, wet Monday night. Games were only $2, on special. The normal, non-fancy alley on Mission drive would have been packed tonight, and more expensive. It was league night, there. As I bowled, I thought again of how I was out of time and out of step simply because I was out on a Monday, rather than a Friday or Saturday. How much easier it all was, and how solitary. The TVs were playing cartoons from my childhood: Voltron and Batman. The animation was terrible. How could it have looked so good, so exciting to me, once?

On the lawn of the Nelson-Atkins, there is a large statue that sort of resembles a donut. You can walk through it. When I've been there with friends, walking at night, I always call it the dimensional portal. I stress, with urgency, the importance of all of us passing through it, or of none passing through it. We can't take different paths, or we'll be out of phase with each-other. We'll be in different dimensions, never to be reunited again. And if we all pass through the portal on our way to wherever we're going, we must also pass through it on the way back, lest we forever be lost from our original world. I don't really believe it all, but I do. One night, somebody didn't play along, and it made me uncomfortable. I do not think it's a coincidence that I can't remember who it was.

When I was a kid, the cartoon Dungeons and Dragons haunted and captivated me. In the show, a group of teenagers get sucked through a dimensional portal when they ride a roller coaster. They end up in a land of swords, wizards and dragons - exciting! - but they spend every episode trying to get home. Once, some of them managed to make it, but one of them didn't, or maybe he had the head of a boar or something and needed a wizard to cure him. In any case, they never made it back all at once, and they would never abandon each-other, which allowed the series to continue indefinitely. I always wondered what had happened to their parents, to their brothers and sisters, to their friends. Were they missed back in the real world? Had time stopped? What was happening, while they were stuck in this parallel world?

Andy recently found me on Facebook. Maybe that's what reminded me of the trip to Cleveland and the mayflies, though I had never forgotten them. I don't know yet where he's been, and what he's been doing. He lives in NYC now and is going to grad school at Columbia - a different world, twice removed from my midwestern life and corporate day job, and he's single - three times removed from my marriage and child. I suppose it's possible that we didn't both make it out of that neighborhood. Maybe when we both walked out of the car and went into that convenience store, one of us left the wrong way. Maybe we got out of phase. Maybe I compounded things some night when I went through the dimensional portal on the lawn of the Nelson one too many times.

But the trick is, I don't think the portals and the chutes are as obvious as a brightly lit gas station or a fire at the Target. I think sometimes they sneak up on you. Maybe you went a different way when you didn't make that elevator, when you chose to go out alone, when you decided to talk to that person out of the blue who caught your eye. Maybe the most we can hope for with anyone is a short amount of time when we're in synch, an episode or two when we're in the same plane, on the same page.

Election Day Advice!

Dear Greta,

I'm a first time voter and I'm bewildered by all of the political propaganda! McCain reminds me of oatmeal and I think Obama is hot and all, but is it really OK to vote for a socialist terrorist arab muslim crack-dealing half-breed? Personally, I'd like him to have more experience in professional sports, or acting! Greta, come Tuesday when you're in that cutey little changing booth, who are you going to vote for?

Readers,

Okay, whoa, hold those sweet little unicorns back here for just one second. Elections season is here already? Jesus, I was wondered why everyone was so concerned with Muslims again. So, hold up, let’s get our ducks straight. We have a choice between three candidates: Dean McCain, Brak Obama, and Olympia Dukakis. Personally, I don’t trust Dean McCain; after all, he did play Scott Peterson in that TV movie (but who could forget his memorable stint as TV’s Superman?). And it’s nice to see that Olympia Dukakis hasn’t given up her dream of becoming president but, really, who wants an old whore like that to be president? Not this old whore! So, I guess that leaves me with Mr. Brak Obama. I trust cartoon characters with my life (plus, his little friend Zorak makes me a little humid in the nether regions).

My name is Greta Derwinklestein and I support Brak Obama!

Greta's Great Grains of Guidance

Greetings and salutations, readers! I'm about ready to jump for some joy up in here! I can't believe that someone actually has given me a forum to discuss my vast knowledge of all things life-related. I was actually surprised it didn't happen sooner, but I guess that's what happens when every newspaper on earth hires dirty whores for columnists (take that, Dear Margo, whoever the fuck you are!) So, thank you Jesse and Laurie for allowing me to share! Here we go! Don't forget that if you want me to answer your problems write me here: http://www.lunarium.com/advice/contact_greta.html

Dear Greta,

Apparently, several years ago I impregnated a woman. I thought I killed her in a rage, but it turns out that she gave birth to not one child but two. Twins! My boss says I have to turn them to the dark side, but I'd rather cut them both in half with my laser sword. In today's economy, how much is job security worth? My boss made me what I am but his wrinkly ass is getting on my nerves and I'd like to make a change.


Want To Cleave Kids And Go But Worried By Wall Street

Dear WTCKAGBWBWS,

Holy Balls! Looks like you won the Fuck Up of the Year contest! First of all, I know how you feel; Wall Street is just a big, fat, puss-oozing third nipple on the map of America! I mean, don’t ya know, I was at the grocer’s the other day and I just had to use a coupon for my name brand Brillo Pads (they just work so much better than that generic shit!) and that bitch, Jennifer, behind the counter just looked at me like I was dirtier than Lindsey Lohan’s firecrotch! And then she said to me, to Greta VanWinklestein, “Um, this is expired, m’am,” Can you believe that shit? So you know what I said to her? I said, “Little Miss Hot Shit, I know your momma and if you heard the filth comin’ right out of that pretty little pucker of yours, she’d slap you all the way to China!” And you know what? I never got to use that damned coupon!

So, my advice to you, mister, is to march straight up to your wrinkly boss and tell him what’s what. If you want to cleave your children with your fancy laser sword then go ahead and do it! Shit can rain on your boss, for all I care; and if he gives you trouble, use that fancy laser sword on him!

Truthfully yours,

Greta

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Dear Greta,


I sure hope you can help me because I don’t think my friends would understand! If a man farts on your entrée, does that mean you shouldn’t go down on him on the first date? I’m so confused!

Does Entrée Farting Mean Love?

Dear DEFML,

Oh honey, honey, honey. I’m so glad someone finally grew some nards and came out and asked me this. Now, you won’t find this in Miss Manners-Emily Post’s diary, I can guaran-fucking-tee that! Now see back in 1973, one Mr. Richard Dreyfuss pulled a similar stint with me. We were out on a lovely date when he slipped me some good old fashioned angel dust and don’t ya know, I was trippin’ balls all evening! And I did what every good Christian girl is not supposed to do; I went down. I went downtown. Get it? I went down to his Chinatown. And what do ya know? It was amazing. I mean, we had all types of orgasms.

So, here’s my advice to you, sweetiekins. Just do it. If you like him, then why not? I mean unless it’ just a really rank fart—you know, the kind that resonates in the back of your throat causing you to dry heave for thirty minutes. Also, you need to be thinking, How would I feel about a Dutch Oven? Because you know that if you get near a man that farts on your entrée, he’s going to pin you under his comforter and let a real big one rip and let you stew in it.

Truthfully yours,

Greta

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OMG Greta! I’m so glad I’ve found you! When you said you would give me truth or I can shove it in my pooper I KNEW you were the advice writer for me! Greta let me tell you that I am obsessed with BON JOVI. I just discovered his new music video “Living Like a Prayer” and I simply must must MUST smell him. I am obsessed with this man and his smell! How do you think I can recreate it? I want to make teddles, my teddy bear, smell like BON JOVI so I can sleep in his scent all night long and dream about him. Can you help me?


MUST SMELL MUSK

Dear MSM,

OMG? What is this shit? I’m not a nurse, I don’t know your cutesy little shorthand. Now, I must admit, I didn’t know who Mr. Jovi was at first, then I realized, he’s that cute man from that show Ally McBeal! Whatever happened to that show, by the way? My neighbor Saundra and I would watch it with a big bowl of Newman’s Popcorn. That man knows his corn! *Editor’s Note: Ms. Derwinklestein sends her condolences to the Newmans.*

Well, with the help of my nephew KYLE, I searched through the Internets and found that Mr. Jovi is from New Jersey and Italy! Tres exotic! So let’s brainstorm here: Italians, pizza, mozzarella cheese, tomato sauce, boots, Lamborginis, lasagna, meatball subs. Okay, so for the Italian part of him, you’ll need to find some tomato sauce and leather. Let us move on to New Jersey: trash, wet dog, hypodermic needles, broken condoms, funnel cakes. So for the New Jersey side you should find some old, sweaty socks and latex and maybe a dash of cinnamon. Ok, mix that up with some water and pour that into your finest glass jar and let it sit under a heat lamp for a month. After that month, you can douse your precious Teddles in Eau de Jovi!
Or, you could go to Kenneth Cole’s website, because apparently, Mr. Jovi has already created his own fragrance R.S.V.P. (Per Entertainment Tonight http://www.etonline.com/fashion/news/2007/01/38577/ )

Truthfully yours,


Greta
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Greta,

I hope it feels good to be out there, telling everyone what's best (just like you always do.) But we who know you know what you're really about. We know how you take and take and take and never give in return. It's just not RIGHT, Greta. The world can be your oyster and you can still SHARE it with somebody. I want my charlie cactus and I would really like my Byrds LPs. Maybe we could meet somewhere to talk it over, perhaps over breakfast at the usual place? I miss you.

- Daryl

Daryl,

Jesus cheeses! Readers, let me explain, I HAVE to put this letter here because Daryl will not let me ignore him! Once, he sent me a UPS package and inside was a dead bird and a note attached that said, “Wanna trade?” Are you shitting me, Daryl? A dead bird, really? I don’t even wanna know what he would trade for his Charlie Cactus. So here is the long and dry of it, Daryl, I will meet you at the usual place and I will bring your Byrds LP but I will be bringing some protection, you hear?

Your big sister,

Greta

P.S. Charlie Cactus is dead.

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Greeting Greta,


I rahul "paul" delnabi from reublic quatar. I find you on internets. Send me the sexy pictures plz. With the peanut butters, hello?

I don’t really know where to start with this one. I’m not really very fluent in foreigner. But I did make out peanut butter, which reminds me of a picture my niece sent me of her baby! So adorable, this kid. And he’s smarter than a whip. Or so I think he will be. Enjoy!

Down Homey Advice from Gary Greebles

Hello Putnam City!

How exciting! My assistant Susan informed me today that we are now being syndicated on the World Wide Web! I've always been excited about the web, ever since I read Charlotte's Web when I was in middle school. I only hope that I can be the wise, motherly spider to the people of the World that Charlotte was to that little girl in that darling, darling book! I love Charlotte's Web! Gary Recommends!

Things have been downright exciting here at the Pugilist. Susan brought in a cactus! It's so prickley! She tells me not to touch it but it's just so different - I've never felt such a spiney plant! I am running out of band-aids, but the novelty is impossible to resist. Ouch! I did it again. Ouch! Susan calls it our "love" cactus. I don't know about that, Susan (we are professional associates!), but it sure is adorable! And prickley, like I said! Gary Recommends!

Now, I had an exciting batch of letters this week. Some of them arrived by Electronic Mail! Can you guess which ones? Here's a hint - the ones with the little snaily looking guy (@) in them are from the Web! Why a snail? Don't ask Gary. My business is down homey business. I don't know what these city-folk do! Welp, on to the letters! Let me put on my advising hat! [And tie! - Susan]





Gary,

I have terrible body odor. My mother tells me it's because I eat too much cheese. Is that true?

- BO B NO?

Dear BO,

Unfortunately, dairy can cause your pores to secrete an odor-causing substance known as Pwep. Now, I don't want to gross you out, BO, but Pwep also comes out of your hiney when you toot! (When you "break wind" as the Red-Man says.) Pwep is known to build up on the walls and surfaces of our homes and vehicles. The only way to take care of it is with a good old fashioned feather duster! (They don't call them feather Pwepsters to avoid offending the gentler sex!) But make sure your duster has got real feathers on it - preferably from a large-beaked bird like an Ostrich! Whatever you do - don't settle for cheap plastic feathers made by the China-Man - they don't have the natural Pwep-removing power of an Ostrich, whatever the China-Men say!

So get that duster, BO, then rub it all over your body and soon that cow-like odor will be gone! You can eat all the cheese you like and ice cream too - just dust yourself after each and every meal for that fresh, Pwep-free feeling. And don't forget to dust where the sun don't shine!


From: Frankthetank@hotmail.com via Electronic Mail to Gary Greebles

Dear Gary,
Last night I got in a fight with my houseplant Saundra and kicked her. Now I feel terrible. How can I make it up to her?

Signed,
Franklin the furious fir abuser

Franky,

Thank you for having the courage to step forward to talk about this DANGEROUS problem. Anger is a drug, Franky - just like "uppers" and "downwards" and "the roofer" - and you can get hooked on it! We all have to do our best not to kick plants, and Saundra is a plant, Franky! A living, breathing, seeing, feeling plant that loves you and will sit patiently in a pot by your side and send you good planty vibes until your DYING DAY, Franky,or until it dies, whichever comes first. (I'm an advice-writer, not a sooth-seer! [Thank goodness! Get thee behind me, Satan! - Susan])

The best advice I can give you, Frank, is that when you feel that urge to kick, go outside and kick something with a more stalwart sense of self than a plant. Like a curb! Or little Johnny Owens, my paper boy! That pimply little pipsqueak could use a good kick in the seat-of-the-pants!



From: cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com via Electronic Mail to Gary Greebles

Gary,
I have a big problem! This weekend, I cat-sat for my big sister, I'll call her "Susie." Well, "Susie's" cat "Fuzzhead" doesn't get along with my cat "Snookles". I thought if I locked up "Fuzzhead" and "Snookles" in a closet together, they would get along. BIG mistake! My precious "Snookles" massacred "Fuzzhead" beyond belief! AND, my party dress for my sister "Susie's" son's Bar Mitzvah is covered in cat blood and urine! What do I do?!


Oh my goodness cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com - if that IS your real name *WINK* *LOL* *ROFL* 8-) >-p :) :q @ @ @ !! - you sent me my very first piece of Electronic Mail! I am so overwhelmed, but I will try to focus on your problem. Hmmm. This one's a toughy! Before I answer your question, though, cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com, I have to respond with a query of my own: what in a hoedown hootenanny is a Bar Mitzvah? Is it some sort of machine? I see the z in there, which makes me think perhaps it is an apparatus assembled in Europe [probably Belgium - Susan].

My advice, cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com, is to stop messing around with strange machines you don't understand! Who knows, maybe it was this so-called "Bar Mitzvah" (are you spelling that right?) that made the cats get so ornery with each-other in the first place! It sounds like this machine makes people (or at least kitty-cats) ANGRY, cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com, and there's plenty of anger in the world already! Just see my response to Frank, above, to get a sense of what I mean! That pinko kicked a plant when he could have kicked a teen!




Dear whatever your name is,

I've recently moved to your fine town because of my new job. I love it so much! The people are friendly and the rent is cheap. But I have one problem. I don't know what the hell anybody is saying. How can I learn to understand you? It's really starting to piss me off!

- What the F***?

Dear ****,

Whoa nelly! It looks like somebody has a problem with potty talk! Let's keep that language in the boys' locker room, where it belongs with all of the other Pwep!

Now, asides from your potty-talkin', which could be causing you all kinds of problems in the friendly communication department of the grocery store of interpersonal relations, I will say that the Oklahoma twang can take quite a bit of getting used to! Whereinparts did you move here from, anywhoozle, leetle mizzy? (Ha!) Here at the Pugilist, we try to avoid writing with "local color" (especially with the advent of Electronic communications like Electronic Mail, which offer up our humble, down-homey typings to people in homes and trailers all over the free world!! [Praise Jesus! - Susan])

All I can suggest is that you tough it out. Go hang out at the Lonestar Steak House on Northeast Expressway for a couple days. Aw shuckazucks, maybe you should do a line dance or two as well! A few twirls and maybe a roll in the hayloft with a local boy if you're a girl, or with a girl if you're a boy (I didn't catch your gender, but we're not very flexible in these parts about the pecker and the bearded clam!) and you'll be mouthing off like a pugileesta in no time!





Dear Gary,

Once when I was just a little girl, i asked my mother "what will i be?" Will I be pretty, will i be rich? She never answered me. Can you help me out with this very important dilemma?

Why Does Mommy Hate Me?

Your momma doesn't hate you, Why Does Mommy Hate Me. She's just trying to avoid hurting your feelings! Chances are, your breasts just aren't big enough. There's nothing like a good old set of implants to spruce up an otherwise barren wasteland of a chest! [There ain't nothing sweeter than a good pair of peaches! - Susan]

Here in Oklahoma, we like our land flat, but not our women! So run, honey, don't walk, to the nearest plastic surgery depot and get yourself measured up! If you make 'em big enough, you'll catch you an oil tycoon in your cleavage in no time, just like a honey fly to a pile o' honey. And you'll not only be rich, Why Does Momma Hate Me?, but you'll have a bust that'll bust the dang eyes off all the boys at the Outback! Gary Recommends!


Welp my Pugilats, that's all I've got time for this month. Susan wants to give me a back rub. Maybe y'all can help Gary out with the protocol on this one! In today's modern workplace, is a back rub out of line? I am trying to keep up with the Electronic Age, but everything's so blinkey and shiney and it makes my eyes tired!

As the China-Man would say, Sigh-on-arra!

Gary Greebles

Welcome Gary & Greta

Great news!

We have added two new writers to the 435 Loop! Gary Greebles and Greta DerWinklestein!

Both run exceptional advice columns out of their regional papers. Gary specializes in down-homey wisdom, and if you need help in the love department (or are a celebrity) Greta is your gal!

Now, typically, we don't allow non-KC writers to participate in the loop, but when we read what Greta and Gary have to offer, we just couldn't resist! So from time to time, they'll be publishing the letters they receive, and their responses, here on the loop.

Both Gary and Greta are here to help. If you have an issue, don't be shy!

The Kind of Crap Wiretappers Have to Listen to

      "Hey, girl, I just got your message! How was the big date?” Jennifer excitedly asked her friend Julie.
      “It was great. It was good. Tim’s a great guy!” Julie started to gush.
      “Oh that’s great! So, what is this whole terrorist thing then? By the sounds of your voicemail, I thought you were in bin Ladin’s cave!” Jennifer said.
      “I didn’t mean a real terrorist, just a kind of, like, a food terrorist.”
“Okay, you’re going to have to explain this. I’m not following!” Jennifer paused. “Wait a minute; does this mean you won’t want to double date?” She asked.
      “Well—“ Julie hesitated.
      “No! No, no, no, no! You do this every time!” Jennifer sounded upset and frustrated.
      “See—“ Julie started.
      “No. I won’t hear it. Food terrorist or not, you’re going on this double date! I’m tired of you always finding the little things and bitching about them.”
      “But—“
      “No buts! The last guy smelled strangely of baby powder. Before that you had the guy with the pink lunchbox and before that a serial rapist. You need to suck it up! Not every man is perfect.”
      “Well, the serial rapist was kinda sorta a bad thing.” Julie said.
      “Yeah, I can see your point there, but still, he had a great job and loved kids! You don’t find that everywhere!” Jennifer tried to convince her.
      “Will you at least hear me out on this one?” Julie sounded sad, like she didn’t call her best friend to get yelled at.
      “Fine, but I can already tell you what I’m going to say! A food terrorist doesn’t sound so bad, honestly!” Jennifer advised.
      “It’s okay, I just need to talk this out,” Julie said. “See, he picked me up in his fabulous car and then we went to this cute little Italian restaurant. And—“
      “What, did he fart on your entrée?” Jennifer interrupted.
      “Not quite,” Julie said. “Well, I ordered the chicken parmesan—“
      “Like usual!” the two girls said together.
      “And he ordered the chicken marsala,” Julie started back into her story only to be interrupted again.
      “Oh, God, he’s not a wino is he?” Jennifer said disgustingly.
      “I don’t really know,” She thought. “Why? Is that a bad thing?” Julie had never heard anything bad about wine lovers.
      “Oh, yeah! You know what they say about winos!”
      “No. Can I finish my story?” Julie was getting irritated.
      “Yeah, sure,” Jennifer felt bad. “Tiny penis,” she muttered.
      “Okay, so he got the chicken—wait, what about penises?”
      “Nothing, just wino’s have small wangs. Really, small wangs. The end.”
     “Really?”
      “Yeah, totally. Google that shit. Google don’t lie, baby!”
      “Oh, okay, I guess if Google says it,” Julie said, “Anyways, he ordered his dish and I ordered mine. And we were sharing a basket of bread. I ate that shit up.”
      “The bread is my favorite part of Italian restaurants,” Jennifer said.
      “Really? Mine are the Bellinis. They’re so good,”
      “Well, that’s because you’re a fucking lush,”
      “True,” Julie said. “So we’re sitting there under the beautiful candlelight and I’m wearing that gorgeous red dress—“
      “That you borrowed from me, by the way,”
      “Yes, I was wearing your gorgeous red dress, and he was telling me that I’m beautiful and blah, blah, blah. And I’m thinking that I’m totally going to go home with this guy when suddenly, out of nowhere—“
      “Oh, don’t say that, nothing is ever out of nowhere for you. You probably weren’t paying attention.”
      “No, I’m fairly certain that I was paying attention.” Julie sounded confident.
      “So, what happened?” Jennifer was curious.
      “Well, see the waitress brought over our food,” Julie started.
      “Did he hit on the waitress?” Jennifer interrupted again.
      “No, he—“
      “Did he talk with his mouth full?”
      “No, he did the strangest thing—“ Julie started to finish her sentence.
      “He farted on your entrée!” Jennifer exclaimed.
      “NO!” Julie shouted. “He did not fart on my entrée!” She said sternly.
      “Well, then I don’t know what you’re bitching about!” Jennifer sounded like she was going to give up.
      “If you would listen to me I’ll fucking tell you! Shit!” Most of Jennifer and Julie’s conversations ended up like this.
      “Jesus Christ, cuntmeister, just spit it out! Tell me what God-awful thing this poor boy did!”
      “He threw his food!” Julie said surprisingly.
      “Like, he threw his food at you?” Jennifer inquired.
      “No, like he was half way through his meal and he picked up his plate and threw it at the wall behind me!”
      “Just like that? Did he say anything?”
      “Yeah, he said, ‘I’m done.’ and threw his plate at the wall behind me! It was like a giant food bomb exploding in the interior of DeGiantes! It was awful! He is a terror, a holy food terror! I don’t know what happened! Suddenly there were mushrooms flying past my head! He’s, like, a food terrorist!”
      “Was he mad? Did you say something to anger him?” Jennifer sounded concerned.
      “No, I don’t think so. He was finished eating, I guess.” Julie sounded confused. “He just said it. He wasn’t mad sounding or happy sounding. He was just talking, like it’s normal to throw your food at a fucking wall.”
      After a brief moment of silence Jennifer said, “So, next week do you want to go on a double date?”
      “With Tim?!” Julie shrieked. “No way! I’m not getting kicked out of another restaurant.”
      “It’s not that bad. So he threw a little spaghetti. Big deal.”
      “They had to call security on us!” Julie was screaming.
      “I bet that’s never happened on a date before.” Jennifer snidely remarked.
      “He broke the owner’s favorite framed picture on the wall! She started to cry!”
      “So, you had a little adventure. It’ll be a story to tell your grandkids!”
      “Why me? Why do all the freaks like me?!” Julie started to cry.
      “No, it’s not you,” Jennifer sighed. “You have to kiss a lot of frogs to get to a prince.”
      “I know, I know,” Julie sniffled into the phone. “But why is everybody else finding princes? Where the fuck is mine?!”
      “How do you know Tim’s not a prince?”
      “He threw a fucking plate past my head! That’s how I know!” Julie started to shriek again.
      “That’s normal, everybody does it,” Jennifer lied.
      “No, they don’t!” Julie cried.
      “Yeah, sure, that’s why I can’t go back to Buca di Beppos.” Jennifer stated.
      “I thought it was because you fucked some waiter there,” Julie questioned.
      “Well, that and I threw a plate last time. And a glass. And my napkin.” Jennifer sounded convincing.
      “Oh, why didn’t you tell me?” Julie sounded sad.
      “Well, clearly, you would freak out!” Jennifer laughed.
      “So, really? You think Tim could be the one?” Julie started to cheer up again.
      “Yeah, definitely; he sounds smart, friendly, and certainly interesting.” Jennifer sounded like she was reading off of a script.
      “I guess it doesn’t hurt to give him another chance,” Julie forfeited.
      “Unless he hits you in the face with a plate of hot enchiladas,” Jennifer laughed.
      “Would he do that?” Julie panicked.
      “Nah,” Jennifer sounded annoyed and distracted.
      “I guess it’s not so strange. Lot’s of people throw things,” Julie told herself.
      “Yeah, sure. Look, don’t think about it anymore. Let’s set up a double date.” Jennifer said impatiently.
      “Okay, I guess that’ll be fine. It’s not too soon to double date is it?” Julie sounded concerned again.
      “NO!” Jennifer shouted. “Just call me when it’s set up,” Jennifer demanded.
      “Sure,” Julie said. “I’ll get started on it,”
      “Hey, someone’s on my other line,” Jennifer lied. “Can I call you back?”
      “Yeah, definitely,”
      “Okay, talk to you then,” Jennifer said.
      “Bye!”

Exquisite Corpse

I'm working on a larger piece at the moment, and it's not quite ready for the light of day. However, rules are rules, and I must publish something within a week of my precursor, the Chatty Bandit. So tonight, on my weekly date with my wife, we jointly wrote this poem in the exquisite corpse style over a cup of hot chocolate and a cup of tea, respectively. I'm not claiming it's good. However, it is, and so I publish it.

she stocked the closet
with piles of clothes
on shoulders and floors
and a boot
with a steel zipper
at least seven tattoos
that she found on TV
and reminded of moose in the road
a mother and her baby
both lumbering like giant wind-up toys
and elegant in the mist
the picture wondered
what would there be to see
next year, when the snows melt
we'll wander back
and pick the sugar-sweet onions
while a young girl from the country
asks if they have Arby's where you're from
of course. of course.
and my pretty pink tent
that colors everything inside pink
as if the film in your camera is too old
found four years later and
developed into something else
something you never expected
like a birthday present from your father
a necklace in an envelope
given through the mail
it arrived on the back of your
best man. He would play pool while
honky tonk favorites
rattled the banjos and pedal guitars
as if there were elephants in the room
ones you should introduce
your mom would like them
once she got to know their quirks
she found they were worth keeping in her closet.

[Bad] Poems For Your Week

Poetry. It's not hard, people. Put some intelligent words together, break the lines up--simple. When I mention this idea, "poets" scoff at me like I don't know what I'm talking about. I've read Emily Dickinson, I'm fairly sure I can do that shit. After repeated requests for me to "prove" myself (I still justify I don't need to prove any shit to your mom), I've decided to post a few of my more well known poems. Enjoy.

Poem 1

Red scissors,
Blue stamps,
The way you look at me gives me cramps,
Eye cramps,
Leg cramps,
Heart cramps.
Fuck you.

Poem 2

I shampoo my hair
With shamp-ooo
I wash my face
With face wa-ssh
I eat Pringles
With my left haaa-nd
I strangle hoes
With piano wi-reeeee
This is my story
Of my glory
The greatest woman
To eat Pringles
And strangle hoes
With clean hair
And fresh skin.

Poem 3

Barbeque hands.
They are sticky for my chicken.
One lick
Two licks
I’m still covered.
Red fingerprints
Plague my space
Three licks
Four licks
No visible sauce is left.
Why am I still sticky?
Barbeque hands
Barbeque hands
No one wants to come out and play

With my barbeque hands.
What about you,
Jam hands?
Everyone wants to play with your
Grapeness.
No one wants my tang.

Poem 4

I felt it last night
When you smiled at me.
I felt it after dinner
When you told me I look beautiful.
I felt it during the walk
When you grabbed my hand.
I felt it at the end of the night
When you kissed me goodbye.
Jesus Christ,
I have to poop.

Poem 5

Your chef hat is sexy.
Your hard hat is sexy.
Your bonnet is sexy.
I like hats
They make me sing
They make me wanna call out your name.
But I like vests more.
So deal with it.

SUCK IT, CRITICS.

Gallatin IV

The words sounded alien, like something out of Star Trek or a comic book. But Gallatin IV was the name of a voting district in North Kansas City only ten miles from where I lived. I stood in front of our next house. It was pale green and sat in the center of a cul-de-sac. All the houses around me were shades of olive or beige. The cloudy sky made the colors vivid. It looked like it should have rained hours ago. It was about three o'clock, and the neighborhood was almost deserted. There were no leaves on the young trees planted in the yards. I wore a black fall jacket. I was too cold without it, but too warm with it, and so I was sweating a little in the breeze.

It was election day, 2004. I had taken the day off to volunteer for an organization that targeted unreliable democratic voters and tried to get them to the polls. I had never volunteered before, but I couldn't stand the war. I felt that I already hadn't done enough, that I hadn't really protested, that I had been complicit in a horrible mistake. I didn't think I had any power, but the gesture needed to be made. I was like a kid throwing sand at the waves about to crush his sand castle.

Considering how little distance I'd traveled from home, I felt very out of place. I couldn't understand how anyone could live somewhere without trees or sidewalks. The subdivision must have been built in the 1980s. I'm from the northeast. I grew up in houses from the early part of the 20th century, in neighborhoods where no two houses were alike, where the streets all met at right angles with names that weren't variations on the same developer's theme. We had little town centers with shops that weren't in strip malls. I had sought out a neighborhood like that in Kansas City, too. I lived in Volker, a glorious mess of houses from the 10s adjacent to awful, horrid apartment buildings crammed in during the 1960s or 70s, when the zoning must have changed. The people who live where I live are as mottled as the streets.

The car idled behind me. A white civic. Bob and Elizabeth sat inside. Elizabeth, whose curly hair seemed to reflect the coiled drive within her, had instigated. She had polled our work group looking for volunteers. She sought out people she knew were like-minded. She knew all the right things to say. If you debated her, you didn't stand a chance. Bob was different. He could spot the downsides and upsides in anything. He believed in complexity and in the importance of not simplifying things. He sought well chosen words, and he encouraged debate. He wanted people to make their own, informed choices. When he spoke to the people of Gallatin IV, the people who for some reason weren't at work, maybe because it was too hard for them to face the world every day, or on this day, I felt like it was hard for him to connect. He was just too much for them. Elizabeth had no trouble making her pitch, though I think people agreed with her sometimes just to get her to go away. I was somewhere in the middle. I could see all of the complexity that Bob could, but I couldn't face it. I couldn't analyze it and come out with an answer I was comfortable with. And unlike Elizabeth, I couldn't really support Kerry. I couldn't see how he'd get us out of Iraq, and I didn't think it was right to withdraw before things stabilized. But Bush had started this mess, and I was frightened to see what he could do in four more years. So I came along, but I thanked my lucky stars when my houses said "Kerry," which they usually did, because I was off the hook.

I hopped up the flight of concrete steps to the front door of this olive house and rang the glowing doorbell. Nobody came. The place looked deserted. I waited a few minutes, then left a packet containing a map to the polling place and info on identity requirements, etc. I ran back down to the car, hopped in the back seat and shut the door, but I didn't bother putting on my seat belt. Bob already had the next place picked out. He held a map, a clipboard and a pen in his hands.

Even though we were going door-to-door, we had to drive. It seemed like we had about one target per five blocks. Did that mean that there weren't many democrats in this part of town, or were the rest of them just more reliable? Or was I just seeing the physical manifestation of the reality of American Elections, that only about a third of the people actually vote, with half of those going to either side? All I knew for sure was I was hungry and a little carsick. We left the subdivision and turned on to one of the main surface roads. After a few blocks, Elizabeth pulled up at our next stop.

This house was light blue. It had a white SUV in the drive, and a glass outer door covered with a grate. As I got out of the car, traffic continued to whiz behind me on the two lane road. I felt like a kid on Halloween approaching a house with an ambiguous number of lights on. Did that one porch bulb mean I was welcome, or was I about to get shouted at? I grabbed my pile of papers from the back seat, shut the car door, and started towards the steps. The glass door was closed, but the wooden door behind it was open: odd on a such a dreary day, especially since no breeze was getting through that glass.

I rang the bell. I could see a TV inside, but it was off. A woman came to the door, and I could immediately tell that she had been crying. Her cheeks were puffy, and her eyes were red. "I'm sorry," I said, as she opened the door. "Yes?" she said, wiping her eyes. "I was just here to see if you'd had the chance to vote," I replied, already backing away towards the stairs. "No, I don't think I'm going to do that," she said, her voice breaking, "it's been a bad day." "It's OK," I said, "just take care of yourself." She closed the door, and I went back to the waiting car.

We worked for a few more hours. It was strangely exhausting. I had spent the whole day in the car, climbing stairs here and there, mostly to arrive at empty homes. Finally, we went to a Panera to get some food. I sat down and ate two bagels: an everything with cream cheese, and a cinnamon raisin with nothing on it. I didn't have the stomach for anything more complicated. Elizabeth typed feverishly on her laptop, and Bob sat reading the paper, occasionally commenting on something that caught his eye. Apparently Bush had been leading in Missouri for some time. The Kerry campaign had abandoned the state two weeks earlier. I laid my head on the table and looked at the space under my arms. By my count, I had probably gotten three voters to the polls. I didn't understand how this was supposed to work.

That night, I sat in the Uptown Theater with the rest of the volunteers as we watched the election results come in. It didn't look good. Larry King was saying CNN would have called the election already if it hadn't been for the fiasco in 2000, when Gore won the popular vote but lost the Electoral College.

The Uptown was dark and cavernous. The only real light came from the TV projection. People's voices echoed upwards and bounced back down from the ceiling and alcoves. But as the night wore on, we stopped talking to one-another. We began to dissolve. Suddenly there were fewer people around me, then fewer still. Soon I was one of maybe twenty people in a theater built to seat 2,300. I decided to go home.

I drove down 39th street towards my house, stopping at the stark intersection at Southwest Trafficway to wait for a red light. I didn't have the radio on. I prayed, though I'm not religious.

The next day, at work, nothing was said. Bob was on a conference call. Elizabeth wasn't around. Maybe she called in sick. The sky was still gray, and it still hadn't rained. I sat in the break room by the windows and looked out at the tops of the trees. I sipped a cup of tea. The room was quiet and the air was still. People came and went to get coffee, to wash their hands. I heard the refrigerator kick on. Out the window, the green of the trees was vivid and bold, but I was still on the streets of Gallatin IV, wondering where I was.

Cottage Cheese: A Letter of Passion

Dear Cottage Cheese,

I know it’s been years since we’ve been together but I have a confession. Please do not think that this is presumptuous of me but I can’t hide this any longer. Cottage cheese, I love you. Please forget the years where I claimed to be lactose intolerant; I was a fool. I’ll admit, I didn’t think of you much and I thought you’d be out of my life forever. I just want you to know, I’m glad you’re back.

I saw you this summer for the first time in years. I didn’t think much of you at first, but I was going through a rough patch with food. I chose you basically because I was tired of eating side salads, potato chips, and baked beans. I skimmed off a layer of your creamy goodness and scooped it onto my plate. With the first bite, I knew you were something different, something special. My taste buds erupted with a passion I have experienced only a few times before. I tried to deny my feelings and chalk it up to a one-time fling. The moment was right, you and I were right, but how could I? You’re just a carton of cottage cheese and I‘m just a starving woman! I tried to get you off my mind but my stomach was just so full. One evening at dinner, I caved. I searched through the refrigerator and you were gone. Where did you go? I knew then it would be impossible. I can’t put up with something that leaves me so soon. Even though I was upset, I still couldn’t forget you or our passionate dinner.

I started to add you to my grocery list and then I’d cross you off the list. There’s no way I could eat a whole carton of cottage cheese, I’d think. I would go to the grocery store and pass by the milk, dip, and yogurt aisle. I saw other women shopping you, checking your expiration date. I admit I was a little jealous. That’s probably why I never picked you up. How can I compete with those women?

But tonight, oh the brilliance of tonight! Tonight, when I was least expecting it, you showed up on my dinner table. I thought I was starting to get over you but I knew when I saw you on the dinner table that I would never get over you. You were lounging in your plastic purple and white Belfonte tub, slightly sweating from being left out of the refrigerator for a few minutes. I knew, I just knew that I had to have you. I’m not one to take rejection lightly so I only go after what I know I can have and I knew, oh I knew, you would be mine. During the dinner prayer, I could feel myself salivate as I looked at you, as I thought about what I wanted to do to you. Sweet Jesus, I must have you, I silently prayed.

I’m sorry if I was a bit forward but I couldn’t resist digging my spoon deep into your container and laying you out on my dinner plate. I could tell that you enjoyed it as I noticed that your juices started to ooze across the plate towards my spoon. That’s all it took, mister. My spoon was magnetic to your curds. It took mere seconds for a spoonful of your curds, your milky curds, to be dancing on my taste buds. I could feel your simple, yet elegant, flavor move towards the back of my mouth and down my esophagus as I continued to crave more of you.

I knew that I could inhale all of you if I didn’t take it slow so I decided to move on to the spicy meat that presented itself on my plate. The cayenne pepper that decorated the meat only created a stronger desire to have you inside of me. I immediately shoveled another spoonful of your body into my mouth and the result was positively orgasmic. The spiciness of the meat fighting against your strong milky complexion was enough to send me over the edge. I had never experienced something so powerful in my life and I knew at that very moment that there is something real between us. I no longer lust after you. I love you. I want to devour you.

Of course, like all good things, our dinner-time ecstasy had to end. But I want you to know that I am positive we can make this work. I want to snack on you. I want to feast on you for dinner. I want to eat savory peaches off of your luscious body during breakfast. I want to open my refrigerator and see you happily waiting on the top shelf, anxiously yearning for my spoon to thrust into your carton. I want to see it in your eyes; I want to see you want my spoon.

There’s something magical about our relationship; I only hope you feel the same way about me. So if you love me, let me know. I’m dying to have my feelings reciprocated and to finally push this coyness aside. I love you and that’s what matters. I want you to know that I’m happy to have you in my life again and I hope you never leave. Even if we are only casual friends, I will still praise the gods that you and I have had this once in a lifetime experience.

Yours truly,

L

Interview for an internship

When I was 18 I had my first real job interview. I'm not counting the interviews that I had at places like Arby's or Planet Smoothie, which I aced. At Planet Smoothie, I didn't even have to talk to the manager. My "interview" consisted of the manager asking a friend of mine two questions: 1) "will he show up for shifts?" and 2) "will he steal?" All it took was a "yes" and a "no," respectively, and I had a job. But this was the real deal, now: a summer internship with Delta airlines making web pages. This was the stuff resumes were made of.

I had never made a web page until a week prior when I heard about the internship from an "older" gentleman in my digital art group. Today I wouldn't consider this man old, but at the time, he was ancient: he had a real job doing computer stuff, for one, and I think he might have had a steady girlfriend. His success in both the romantic and professional worlds intimidated me.

I decided to make an impressive, professional web page to wow Delta. So I found a picture of this girl I liked from a japanese cartoon and I stuck her in the background. Then I wrote a bunch of stuff about me, the most interesting subject I could think of. I talked about my work experience (none of which pertained to making web pages) and my intention to become either a creative writer or a musician. Did I really think this content was "on target?" I'd like to think I knew I was sabotaging myself, but I'm not so sure. At the time, I remember earnestly wanting the job, but also feeling that it was hopelessly out of my league.

On the day of the interview, I hopped into my stepmom's Toyota Corolla and began the journey from one side of Atlanta to the other. Delta, being an airline, was located near the airport. My interview was at 8am, and the drive was one hour each way, so I was on the road by about 6:50. As an 18-year old, I objected to the early hour on principle. It was a hot, smoggy, summer morning and the radio in the Corolla was dead, killed supposedly by lightning that struck nearby as my stepmom was driving. So I listened to the growl of the road as I began to sweat and stick to the driver's seat through my ill-fitting dress shirt.

My stepmother is a wonderful woman, but not a fantastic driver. Highways make her nervous, and the Corolla is underpowered which doesn't help. On long drives, she finds a truck and drives about 10 feet behind it the whole way, making for limited scenery (how's my driving?) and a misguided sense of security. It's sort of like a toddler hiding by covering his eyes; if she can't see the road, the road can't see her. When I inherited the car, I also inherited the bottle of Midol in the glove compartment. My friend Kevin used to throw the pills at unhappy looking people from the car window. Maybe a Midol would help. On my drive, I didn't find a truck to hide behind, and I didn't take a Midol, but I didn't drive very aggressively, either. I was a new driver, and the massive Atlanta highways frightened me.

When I finally arrived at the scene of my interview, I was surprised at how nondescript the building was. This was before I learned that corporations often have many offices, and they typically aren't very themed. I didn't know of the sea of beige that waits in most workplaces, and I don't think I even knew the word cubicle. But I went inside and was somehow directed to the interview room.

Once there, I was seated across the table from three Delta employees, none of whom I had ever spoken to. They were wearing light shirts and dark pants in blue tones, classic business casual, and one of them had a briefcase with gold buckles on it. I was immediatley conscious of the fact that my sleeves were too short. To make matters worse, though my friend in the art group had suggested I apply for the job, he was not invovled with the hiring, so nobody would be throwing me softballs or better yet answering the questions for me. I also realized pretty quickly that my connection did not make me a shoe-in for the job. They jumped in, one after the other, piling on like a congressional panel. They asked tough questions, questions I had not foreseen, like "why do you want this job?" and "have you ever coded a web page before?" The real zinger, though, the one that sticks with me to this day, was "why did you choose Carnegie Mellon?"

The man who asked the question sat at the center of the table. I don't know how old he was. At the time, he had the aura, again, of somebody "old" - somebody with their life in order. Somebody with a job and a car of their own, with an apartment and a fridge with their own milk in it and the breakfast cereal of their choice. He looked at me with intensity. I could imagine his leather-soled foot tapping. I had done a terrible job of answering his questions, which might have explained his testy tone. After all, why was I wasting his time?

Why did I choose Carnegie Mellon? The real answers seemed absurd: because I missed snow. Because there were more women there than at Georgia Tech. Because I had fond memories of going places in New York with my grandmother that were named after Carnegie. Because I had a fascination with number-two anythings, with slight underdogs. Carnegie Mellon was probably every bit as good a school as MIT, but it didn't have the name, or the money, or maybe it had a slight inferiority complex and a need to prove itself, like I did. When I visited, I walked to class during a blizzard, and I stayed in a co-ed dorm. I loved the hunger, the passion of students willing to walk through snow to sit in a lecture hall and learn about physics, which I also loved. And I loved the idea of a co-ed dorm half full of incredibly brainy women and half full of guys who wouldn't be more athletic than me. I was sold.

The decision to go to Carnegie Mellon was not an easy one. That place is expensive. My parents objected to the debt I would be taking on, and intially refused to co-sign on my loans, an effective veto over my desire to attend. I wouldn't have had the courage to go had it not been for my 12th grade english teacher, who said, simply and emphatically, "You go, Jesse. You go there and you make yourself indispensable to them." And that's exactly what I did.

But that day, in Atlanta, when asked the question "Why did you choose Carnegie Mellon?," I didn't have a good answer. After a second or so of silence, my interviewer supplied an answer for me. "I guess you wanted to spend a lot of money for no reason," he said.

Needless to say I didn't get the job. But I'd like to think the experience taught me a few things. That one hour was too far to commute, especially in Atlanta. That car stereos are very important, and should be repaired when they break. That in life, the truism "it's not just what you know, but who you know" does actually apply. That corporate buildings are not theme parks, and that some of the people who work in them are bitter enough to snipe at a nervous eighteen year-old in way over his head. But most of all, this interview affirmed a belief that I hold to this day: the belief that things work out the way they're meant to, and that a little self-sabotage can protect you from people, things and places that aren't right for you.

Today, I can shuck and jive. I know how to answer questions to give people the impression that they want so I can get the results I want. I don't talk about my band during job interviews, unless I'm trying to demonstrate my creativity, or my ability to maintain a healhty work-life balance, or unless I'm explaining how I channel my passion towards non-work activities so that I can maintain the expected level of professional detachment in the workplace. I know what to say, and when to say it, but I often wonder if I should bother. After all, in many cases I'm the one asking the questions, now. I'm the one who's had the girlfriend, the apartment, my own box of fruity pebbles. And now it's a wife, a house, a kid and a hot cup of lapsang suchong. But what I envy most, what I miss, what I hunger to recreate is the intuitive sense of self, the audacious confidence and the inate courage that inspired an 18-year old, however subconsciously, to bomb the interview for an on-paper dream job that wasn't right for him, that he just really didn't need.