"That Was Going to be My Next Answer"

Honest mistake, really. Could have happened to anyone. At least it's not like your opponent was...oh.

The Art of War

Johnny studied the words on the back of the cereal box. "Fortified with 8 essential Vitamins and Minerals!" Was 8 enough? How many "essential" vitamins and minerals were there, and was he receiving his fair share? He thought about the number of minerals in the world. Surely there were far more than eight. The same could probably be said for vitamins. Were they all essential? What did they all do? By not receiving more than the mere eight provided by his bland tasting Cheerios, was he careening towards an early grave? Did his mother know about this? "I bet she did, that bitch," Johnny thought contemptuously. Johnny knew his mother's medicine cabinet was filled with all sorts of bottles containing things he couldn't even begin to pronounce, and he figured some of those were precious, life-giving vitamins and minerals she was keeping for herself. She was poisoning him through a careful process of withholding things that would ensure his healthy development and by systematically removing the things that would keep him from rotting from the inside like some deranged Jack-O-Lantern long past Halloween. At that moment he realized how much he hated her. "This cereal doesn't even taste good," he thought, "the least she could do is present me with something that doesn't remind me of chewing through a cardboard box to get to the candy inside, except there is no candy. Only death." His mother came into the room, smiled, and asked him whether or not he was finished with breakfast. She seemed sincere and cheerful enough, yet Johnny could only assume she was a seasoned pro. How many children had she done this to before? Johnny did not speak, but instead looked at his mother, slowly tipped the box towards his bowl and replenished the near empty reservoir that contained only a half an inch of now fortified milk. "No, mother", Johnny thought to himself, "I'm not finished. I haven't even started." Just moments before, as his wretched matriarch assumed her character and prepared to enter the kitchen, Johnny was filled with a sense of resolve, a determination to institute a strict policy of self-preservation that sought to barricade himself from the inevitable decay of malnourishment. By having that second bowl, he was in essence doubling his intake of those eight pathetic vitamins and minerals that his body deemed necessary, and while he knew there was no way it was enough to stave off her wicked plan, it was something. She didn't try to stop him, but instead retreated to the living room, presumably to re-evaluate her strategy should he be willing to go the distance. Johnny choked down his disgusting slop and felt slightly triumphant which, if nothing else, gave him hope. He began to formulate an elaborate scheme in which he would request a bowl of tasteless Cheerios with each meal, followed by late night raids of his mother's medicine cabinet. He figured it mattered not what he ingested, but what didn't kill him would only make him stronger. As his mother read to him that night, he would perform light, almost unnoticeable calisthenics to prevent the destructive onset of arthritis. Did she think he really cared to listen to some nameless drone laboriously saying "Goodnight" to each and every inanimate object in his god-forsaken house? Perhaps she was simply trying to project the same type of insanity upon her son, until Johnny was so mad with delirium he practically begged to be slaughtered. It wouldn't work. He knew better than anyone that it made no sense to to bid farewell to your possessions on a nightly basis. They had no souls and the effort was wasted. He would outwit her psychological warfare, and resist her digestive assaults as long as there was breath left in his sixty pound frame. He knew not how he would escape his prison, but he trusted himself enough that when the time came, he would recognize an opportunity when he saw one. As he stared at the box of Cheerios, he felt overwhelmed by the weight of what loomed before him. It was a lot for a five year old to take in.

No, It Doesn't Sound Silly

There is nothing wrong with someone invigorated about exercise. Society could stand to learn a thing or two from our friend here, and while the rest of us are slaves to sleep and the Sierra Club, she walks the shopping malls. Her heart is filled with song. She is a modern woman, and there's no way she's walking in the rain.

Also, she has a pith helmet.

A Confession

At the time I considered myself a pretty generous guy. I flipped a coin to the occasional homeless man who had the good fortune to extend his hand in my direction. When asked at a cash register if I wanted to donate one dollar to the Make a Wish Foundation, I usually said yes (unless, of course, I'd already donated at that particular location). I even, from time to time, took a carload of my broken or obsolete electronics to the Goodwill, which I'm sure made some poor immigrant family very happy. I imagined they'd make a fort out of my hollowed out TV, or they'd let their kids use my defunct microwave as a pretend Easy Bake Oven. These thoughts made my heart smile. I had a soft spot for the needy, and I made it my mission to help out whenever it was convenient. My heart no longer smiles.

I am a a despicable coward. I ignored a dying man's wish, and in the process sealed my own fate. I am racked with guilt, depressed and with no outlet to expose the heinous nature of my deed. This shall serve as my confession:

I arrived home from the grocery store in a foul mood. Not only did I wait in a much-longer-than-necessary line, but the checker gave me a dirty look when I said I would not like to donate one dollar to the Make a Wish Foundation (I tried to explain to her that I had already donated at that particular Ralphs location, but then I realized she probably didn't go to college and it might be insensitive of me to think she was capable of processing that information). To make matters worse, the Salvation Army Santa Clause diligently ringing his bell near the entrance gave me a splitting headache. That kind of "in your face" solicitation really gets to me. As I prepared myself a cocktail of bottled water and ibuprofen, I thumbed through my mail. As I skimmed past the standard assortment of bills and credit card offers, I came across some delightful address labels that had been prepared and personalized just for me. If I liked the address labels, I was free to keep them, but in return they requested a small donation be made to the American Cancer Society. I'd heard of these kinds of scams before, and there was really no way to guarantee the money would ever make its way near the intended destination. I decided that it would be a shame to waste the truly charming address labels, so I considered it a victory for victims of scam artists everywhere. I fired up my laptop, cruised over to freerice.com (very generous) and played word games until I was convinced I'd filled several small villages with rice. When I got bored of increasing my vocabulary I loaded up my Hotmail, eager to peruse my various social networking notifications and check the status on the Energy Star rebate I'd sent in like three months ago (sometimes it's like, "That's what I get for trying to help the environment!"). Sandwiched between the series of emails inviting me to join a sustainable food initiative (what, so you can send me more emails?) and the emails reminding me that my Peace Corps application from two years ago was still 25% complete, I saw this:

Dear Mr. Charels,
It is with good fortunes that my message reaches you. My name is President Yusef Saraki of Nigeria. The Nigerian government has been overturned. I am presently under house arrest and my assets have been frozen by the new regime. I fear they will soon kill me, and I cannot bear the thought of my childrens' future being taken by the wicked dogs who feast at the coyote's teat. I need to transfer a total sum of US$60M to an offshore non-resident bank account.

In order for me to do so, I need you to sign a document as "next to kin" and pay $200 a day to ensure my safety until the funds can be wire-transferred to your account. To avoid any interruption, dear Charels, I must require a small advancement fee (approximately 30 days worth) until the wire transfer is completed.

Upon completion of the wire transfer to you, I will find a way to escape Nigeria and move to Korea with my family, at which time you will be entitled to 10%, or $6 million, for your troubles. As this is a life or death matter the entire transaction must be completed within two weeks. You must never tell anyone of this transaction, as it is a matter of national security. I have attached a copy of the Bilateral Agreement between myself and the Securities Investor Protection Corporation in Johannesburg, South Africa.

It is with great distress that I ask for your salvation! May God guide us in our transaction.

Your faithful friend,
Yusef Saraki
President of Nigeria

My heart sank. How and why was I being drawn into an international crisis, and why was I responsible for the life of a man far important than I, whom I've never met? I initially approached the email with skepticism, but once I was sure that the attachment was definitely not a computer virus (that was the LAST thing I needed), I looked over his document. It checked out. It contained the information he said it would, and who was I to doubt the legitimacy of international protocol! My mind began to race. Six million dollars! I imagined myself six million dollars richer, attending fancy parties and never again needing to reuse the plastic bottles that housed my Crystal Light. But at what cost?! For weeks I would be responsible for the life of a man whom I might never meet, and my only contribution to his survival would be in monetary form. Was I ready for that kind of responsibility? I thought again of the six million dollars. That was a lot of money. With that kind of money, I wouldn't have a reason to say no to the Make a Wish Foundation (though I could imagine burning through my dollars pretty quickly, so maybe it was best to stick to the original plan). I thought of the Nigerian president, furiously typing a message on his iPhone, beaming it out into cyberspace and hoping desperately that someone found his message in the bottle. Why me? I had so many questions. The six million dollars would be in one lump sum, right? To distract myself, I began looking at flat screen TVs on BestBuy.com (oh man, I'd even be able to pop for the extended warranty) and imagined how my apartment would look with a wall-sized fish tank in the area that once divided the kitchen and living room.

As my mind danced around various scenarios for spending my six million dollars, I thought about the process that would lead to my eventual windfall. Honestly, the whole thing sounded like a lot of work. Assuming Saraki was still alive (the email was a couple days old), would he be able to get to a bank and deposit a check into my account without a hitch? Would he also reimburse my $200 a day in addition to the six million dollars? Was I supposed to write him a thank you note? Was I getting a good deal? I mean 90/10 didn't exactly seem like a fair trade when I could TECHNICALLY keep all of it (once it was in my account, it was MY money). I wouldn't do that, because I was a pretty generous guy, but something along the lines of 60/40 would definitely sweeten the deal. Would I have to make any international phone calls? Those can get pretty expensive. Once I had the six (or twenty-four, depending on whether or not Saraki was a cheapskate) million dollars I guess it really wouldn't matter, but my head began to swirl when I thought about how inconvenient several steps in this process would probably be. I began to resent Saraki for his imposition. Wasn't the UN supposed to handle things like this? Though I'd always heard they were pretty corrupt, I figured there were professionals who were far more equipped to deal with international crises than I. But then they'd get their greedy paws on my six million dollars, and that didn't set well with me at all. Besides, I'd already added the flat screen (with that sweet extended warranty) to my cart, so it was as good as a done deal. Or did I want TWO flat screens? I couldn't wait to talk about those at all my fancy parties.

Still, I wasn't sure that it was worth the trouble. If Saraki decided to low-ball me and stick with the six million dollar figure, I'm assuming a transfer of that kind would come with some pretty hefty taxes, so we were probably talking more like five million dollars. I couldn't imagine myself feeling financially secure with only five million dollars. Saraki and his ungrateful kids would be living it up in Korea while I'd be sitting at home watching my ONE flat screen TV (without the extended warranty, thanks to the deposed miser), and in a sense he'd also be doing a disservice to the Make a Wish Foundation, because I certainly wouldn't be willing to part with too many dollar bills with only five million dollars to my name. I decided to sleep on it.

The next morning I awoke and my decision was made. I deleted the President of Nigeria's email. "God speed, Yusef Saraki," I thought to myself. Still wanting to feel as though I'd done something worthwhile, I headed back to freerice.com (I even have it bookmarked) and played until I got bored. For the next several days, I checked my email often, hoping to receive word from Yusef that he'd found a suitable intermediary with which to secure his escape, and I wondered if maybe he'd attach some pictures of his trip to Korea. I'd never been to Asia, but I assumed it would be nice. That email never came. I can only assume that Saraki and his entire family were killed by the rebels, and that the new government of Nigeria had sixty million dollars with which to re-establish the rule of law in the war torn country. I thought about looking up Saraki to see if there was some word regarding his status, but the thought of what I might discover made me feel icky. Anytime these thoughts crept into my brain, I loaded up freerice.com and immediately felt better. Africa must just be rolling in the rice.

Every once in a while I thought about the Saraki's and felt a brief pang of sadness when I imagined their fates. I also sometimes wondered if they had actually made it to Korea (which usually made me sub-wonder whether or not Korean BBQ was better in Korea than it was here, but I knew that was a ridiculous question. Of course it was), but I considered that unlikely. Rebels tend to be relentless. Mostly, as I stared at the blank, flat screen-less walls and my nonexistent giant fish tank, I thought about how much I would have liked to have six million dollars. I'll always regret passing that up.

My Twilight Fan Fiction

Bella blinked. Where was she? The cold, gray sky matched her cold gray complexion and the dead trees that lined her surroundings matched the deadness she felt inside. It was eerie yet strangely...dare she say it? Beautiful. It was so beautiful, in fact, that she quickly forgot the deadness she felt, if only for a brief moment. As she blinked, her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the midday gray, and her mind began to think about how much high school sucked. And Edward. He was so beautiful. Did he know where she was? Was he thinking about her? Did he think high school sucked too? She blinked furiously, overcome by the thoughts consuming her brain. What a beautiful swirl of emotion.
Suddenly she heard a voice. "Hello, beautiful." The voice was strangely beautiful. She recognized it instantly. It was Edward's. Through her blinks she made out the outline of his intricately messed up quaff, his gray J. Crew thermal (MSRP $99.99, available in gray and gray/black) and, of course, his wounded bad boy attitude. His beauty was almost blinding, and she blinked to keep her eyes in focus. "Hi", she said, looking down and away and covering part of her face with her hair. She was so awkward, but there was beauty in her awkwardness.
Edward pulled Bella to her feet. She now noticed that she was covered in dirt and mud. A thick coat of filth now emblazoned her GAP Jeans (MSRP $49.99, available in assorted rural but hip rural styles). Despite this, she was still beautiful. "Bella," Edward said, "such a beautiful name." Pun intended? Bella thought it would be awkward to ask. Besides, Edward rarely joked. He was too much of a wounded bad boy to see the value in humor. The thought of her and Edward sharing a laugh made her blink. She was almost lost in her blinking when she regained her composure. She spoke. "Edward? You're beautiful." Edward smiled. Or winced. Bella couldn't be certain, but whatever it was reflected the deep wounds he worked so hard to project. His eyes sparkled like glitter, a bright, beautiful glitter that looked like something that had adorned Bella's folder just the year before. As Edward looked into her eyes, she was overcome by the connection she sensed between them. She began to blink.
Her heart fluttered as fast as her eyes. As much as high school sucked, being with Edward made everything better. She felt he found her awkwardness appealing, and his wounded bad boy image made him cool and a little dangerous. Edward spoke. "Your eyes flutter like a beautiful butterfly, looking for a beautiful flower to rest on" he said woundedly. "Your hair resembles a majestic eagle, ready to pluck an eager squirrel from the shade of a tall oak tree," she responded. So awkward. Edward did not react. Instead, he continued to stare into her eyes with his deep eyes that resembled Bella's favorite handbag she got from Abercrombie and Fitch (MSRP $69.99, available online only). The silence was beautiful.
As beautiful as the moment felt, Bella sensed it was getting late. The beautiful sun dipped below the horizon, and Bella blinked as her eyes struggle to adjust to the growing darkness. She wanted to stay forever, but she knew it would be awkward to explain to her parents where she'd been. "Beautiful Edward," she said, "I want to stay forever, but it will be awkward to explain to my parents where I've been." Edward was already gone. She blinked in disbelief. She knew he was fast, but maybe his new Asics trainers (MSRP $119.99, available in assorted grays) gave him that extra speed boost he needed to achieve that competitive edge. Bella began her walk home, which she knew would be awkward because she didn't really know where she was, but something told her she'd get where she needed to go. At least the scenery was beautiful, and its deadness matched the deadness she felt inside. "High school sucks," she sighed awkwardly.

My Years as a King

I was at a point in my life where daytime television fulfilled a void left by years of ambivalence, apathy, and inaction. High school was a distant memory and college was a breeding ground of yuppies and the kind of people whose smug satisfaction would only carry them as far as some corporate shill felt their name on a piece of paper was worth. I myself gleaned some satisfaction from knowing I'd gone against the grain and while my contemporaries slaved away at their nine to five rat race hamster wheel, I was my own boss. Well, kind of my own boss. I worked a different nine to five. PM to AM, to be exact. I was the night maintenance technician at the Yogurt Palace. It was a pretty sweet gig. After the store closed, I would go in, clean the machines, change out the yogurt mixes, and mop the relentlessly sticky floor. I sometimes liked to pretend it was an adult movie theater, which is gross but let me believe I had transferable skills. I had the whole Palace(as I called it) to myself, and for those 9 hours, I was the king. I made myself bottomless yogurt sundaes with whatever mountain of toppings I fancied (no 36 cents an ounce for me!) and sometimes I even held contests with myself to see just how many sundaes I could eat (actually, I only held this contest once. The magic number is 3. It's probably more if you don't count vomiting as disqualification, but since I was both the officiator AND the clean up crew, I found it best not to test my limits again). Yes, I enjoyed my nights at the Palace, and I was never far away from my next dessert, but there was clearly something missing in my life that no amount of New York Cheesecake WowCow yogurt could replace: concerts.
Yes, though my nights were spent in the lap of luxury, I had no time for the Nickelback/Puddle of Mud "Tribute to Creed" Tour or the Kid Rock/Papa Roach "Southern Pride" benefit show. While money was an issue, time was the more prohibitive factor. When you don't start work until nine o'clock at night (the time when most concerts really get going), it doesn't really leave you open for much of a nightlife. Though I couldn't really argue with my salary (slightly above what we in the industry called the "graveyard minimum") and benefits package, which was your typical BOGOHO (Buy One Get One Half Off on Wednesdays before 4pm), I longed for a schedule that afforded me the ability to attend a myriad of musical engagements.
Instead, my nights were filled with yogurt(sweet, delicious yogurt) and my days were filled with television. As my longing for the world beyond (and concerts) swelled into a dramatic crescendo of desperation, I mined the smorgasbord of informative daytime advertisements sandwiched between my small claims court cases and paternity test results. I called personal injury lawyers and asked them how I might go about getting a piece of that $2.2 million settlement money (apparently that guy lost his legs, and I wasn't quite ready to part with those). I called several car insurance companies to find out how I could reap the enormous savings they advertised so convincingly, and was told that without a car I was already saving the maximum amount. I began to sink into despair. This was the life of a king, rich in yogurt but trapped in what society deemed my place, far above the common man but unable to partake in their worldly social gatherings. That day, in my dimly lit studio apartment, bathed only in the warming glow of my 19-incher, as though it were sent from heaven, a sign appeared: "'Hi, two concert tickets please!''Concert tickets? How can you afford to go to a concert!''Hahaha, with my degree from Bryman College, of course! I enrolled in their Dental Assistant program, and after just 9 months I'm working in a dental office and I can do the things I've always wanted to do!'" Concert tickets? The things I've always wanted to do? I couldn't believe it. I immediately called the number on my screen and was connected with an admissions specialist. She seemed very eager to get my application rolling, and she said I'd be a shoe in for the Dental Assistant program (even though I had no experience that would qualify me for "a career in the competitive field of dental assisting", I think she recognized my enormous amount of potential). I headed to the local library to use the internet, set up an email address, and within a few short hours received all the paperwork I'd need to bring me one step closer to a Ticketmaster shopping spree.
Days later, all the pieces were in place, and I was poised to enter the ranks of the elite. Dental Assisting is more expensive than I thought it would be, but they set me up with a pretty hefty loan that I won't need to start paying back until 3 months after I graduate, so I was living large. I couldn't wait to see the looks on my old high school classmates faces when they see me attending college, like some yuppie communist I swore I'd never be! We'll all have a good laugh. I imagined the look on the box office worker's face when I approached, triumphantly declaring, "One ticket to the Nickelback/Puddle of Mud 'Tribute to Creed' Tour, please!". She'll stand, mouth open, wondering how on Earth I could afford or had time to attend a concert! I'll smile, give a wink, and tell her about Bryman, my 9 short months of training and my amazing career working in a dental office! Oh how we'll laugh.
My fantasy was cut short by a sad realization: I would have to bid adieu to the Yogurt Palace. The Palace molded me into the man I am today, inspired me to achieve, and taught me that I have what it takes to make the world a better place, even if just for myself. With sadness I used the library computer to type out my two weeks notice, thanked them for their years of kindness and BOGOHOs, and scrawled my signature onto the freshly printed letter (I believe a tear drop or two may have found their way onto the paper, as well). As I entered the Yogurt Palace through the front door (I had only done this once before, the day I submitted my application), the manager looked up curiously, furled his brow, and went back to his math homework (he was a senior this year, so I could imagine how busy he was). I approached the counter and said, "Blake, sir, I won't waste much of your time. I just want to say that it has been an honor and a pleasure." I bowed my head, extended my right hand, and handed him the letter. I gave a quick salute, turned heel, and walked out the door. That was the last time I saw Blake. I carried out my last two weeks of service diligently, and I do believe that they were the best two weeks of work I've ever given. On my last night in the Palace I revived the sundae challenge. I beat my old record that night, and as I mopped the dried yogurt and fresh vomit from the floor, I knew that I would always remember my years as a king.

What Could Have Been

"Hi there, I'm all alone and looking for some company. You don't have to go out to have a good time, so call me and let's chat!"
Her name was Allison. She was beautiful with a voice to match. Could I really be so lucky, turning on the television at the exact moment she began to make her desperate plea? She wore a loosely buttoned blouse that left little to the imagination (if you know what I mean!) and her makeup was pristine. Such a waste. All dressed up with nowhere to go on a Friday night. She didn't seem particularly interested in going out either, but instead seemed like the type who'd much rather stay in for a night of stimulating, intellectual phone conversation. Her voice said, "All the hottest singles are waiting to talk to you", but I saw right through it. What she was really saying was, "Why would you waste your time on little, lonely old me when you could be out where the real action is?" Those words hit me hard. Such modesty, purity, and selflessness often go unnoticed in this world, and I was ready to be the one who finally saw this ugly duckling for the swan she truly was.
I promptly dialed the phone number she'd conveniently included in her ad (I didn't recognize the area code as being close, but in this modern age of cell phones it's perfectly reasonable to imagine that someone from 900 would make their way to the 310!) and at first thought I had reached her answering machine. "Hi stud (everyone likes to be complimented), you've reached LiveLinks, the hottest party chat line in the world." In the world! I laughed to myself. That was such an Allison thing to do. She obviously had a heightened sense of irony, because despite appearing to be the loneliest girl in town, her telephone number was also the gateway to a world-class social extravaganza. Next I was prompted (still by the recorded voice, which I presumed to be Allison's even though it sounded a little different, but everyone sounds a tad odd on the phone) to enter my credit card number. I found that weird but quickly dismissed the feeling, assuming it was only meant to screen potential suitors for financial stability, which I totally get. The recorded voice was generally polite, saying "Thanks, hot stuff" and informed me that I was "only seconds away from the girl of my dreams", which really ramped up my anticipation. This was really happening. My life was going to be very different after this. The recorded voice began to speak very quickly and quite extensively, but in all honesty I wasn't even listening. I thought about Allison's perfect face and ample bosom (not that I was looking ;-)) that complimented her kind soul and yearning for adventure. Little did she know that her life was also about to change in a big way. I bet her last boyfriend was a real jerk. Does she like pad thai? So many questions ran through my brain, and I hoped she had some great questions for me! I like to think I'm an open book. Suddenly, I heard the words I was waiting for: "If you're ready to get connected, press 1 now. If you do not wish to connect, or are under the age of 18, please press 2 or hang up now." What, were they crazy? I immediately pressed 1, held my breath, and continued holding it until I heard the voice I'd been waiting my whole life to hear.
"Hey stud, this is Jasmine, how can I fulfill your every desire tonight?" "Allison?", I asked cautiously. "You can call me whatever you want." Oh good, it was her! I was afraid there had been a terrible mix-up and somehow I had dialed the wrong number, abandoning my sweet Allison in her time of need. We began with the formalities, I asked where she was from and what brought her to Los Angeles and she told me she was front the land of T&A and was looking for a real man to punish her for the bad girl she was. How playful! At first the whole experience was a little jarring, especially since Allison sounded so different than her commercial AND the recorded voice! Her voice was raspy as though she subsisted on a diet of vodka and unfiltered cigarettes. She sounded older and less engaged than I expected, but I quickly realized that when one spends so many nights alone, yearning for love and looking for it in all the wrong places, they're bound to be a little broken down. There was a subtext of pain and hesitance beneath her coldness, and I did everything I could to break down the barrier between us. I began calling her Ally, Als, AllisOne, and any other cute nickname I could possibly postulate. I could tell by the way she didn't protest that she saw her nicknames as terms of endearment. We were making real progress here. Over the course of the next six hours, I lay the ground work for what was sure to be the most important relationship of our lives. She never really seemed interested in having a conversation, but she also didn't seem to be in a rush to get off the phone, so I knew she was playing hard to get. She also kept bringing the conversation back to sex, and some of the things she said were absolutely shocking. I told her, "I know you're just saying those things because you think men EXPECT you to say them, but I'm not interested in all that. I want to know about the real you." This happened several times, and usually led to her describing herself and what she was doing to herself in graphic terms, and I knew that this was one wounded dove that was going to need more than one night to heal.
When it came time to end our conversation, Allison feigned disinterest, but I wasn't fooled. I knew she didn't want to come off as the desperate woman from the commercial, dressed like a whore but clearly not intending to "be that kind of girl", so I promised her I would call again. She told me that she couldn't guaranteed I'd speak to her the next time I called, but any of the other girls would be more than happy to have me call them Allison. I detected a hint of mental instability in that last statement, but I guess that is to be expected from someone who has spent so much of their adult nights alone. We said our goodbyes (or rather I tried to say goodbye but was abruptly returned to the automated menu), and with heavy heart I retired to bed.
The next day I reflected upon the previous nights endeavor and realized that it wasn't a love connection. I couldn't be the man she wanted me to be, and she clearly had some issues to work out that were beyond the scope of my understanding. I never called back, and the only time our paths crossed again was when my credit card company called to tell me that seven hundred and twenty dollars had been charged to my account by an entity known only as "LiveLinks". They asked if I wanted to dispute the charge, but I smiled to myself and said no. Allison clearly needed the money more than I did, and if my seven hundred and twenty dollars can help propel her towards a better life, then I've done my part as her friend. I still see her from time to time, late at night on fledgling cable stations, wallowing away her Friday nights and looking for love. I wish her the best and think fondly on our star-crossed romance, and wonder what could have been.

Patriotism

It's not often that we have reason to feel patriotic. So much of our political discourse amounts to bickering over social and fiscal issues that often times seem bigger than ourselves. I myself am guilty of not being very proud to be an American at times, especially when we are (in the eyes of the world) to blame for so many of the problems facing the planet. But when I reflect on Francis Scott Key, watching the American flag wave defiantly above the smoke and fire of smoldering ships, I know what it means to love one's country. Today, those feelings came back in a whirlwind of emotion when I heard this stunning rendition of our country's most sacred song. So pure, so delicate, capturing every nuance of the power expressed in the most hallowed of verses. Thank you, dear patriot, for your tribute to Old Glory. (Skip to 00:40 unless you like anticipation)

Romantic Comedies: A Blueprint

At some point in every person's life, they will think to themselves: "I want to write a romantic comedy, but where to begin?!" Fear not, dear friends, for I have taken the guess work out of the process. Here, in its entirety, is a can't fail blueprint on which to base your romantic comedy. I've included notes and commentary to illustrate certain aspects of the genre. Enjoy your millions!

"Prudence Greatperson (your characters' name must make a statement about said character's nature) has the world in her pocket: a great job, great friends and a great live-in boyfriend whom she is sure will propose at any minute(she's almost thirty, and her mom won't get off her about grandchildren! Mom's are sassy). On her way to the gym one day (she's in great shape, and she and her friends even do spin class!), she remembers that she forgot her iPod headphones (iPods are a girl's best friend) and decides to stop home to get them. Upon opening the door, Prudence sees her boyfriend in a very compromising position with Heather from accounting (you may change Heather's first name, but "from accounting" must always remain because it is a commentary on the segmentation of the American workplace). Needless to say, Prudence 's world falls apart. She's going to need the help of her female best friend Sasha (mildly-attractive-comedic-actress-who-seems-like-a-total-slut-but-is-really-just-unlucky-in-love-whose-ribald-dialogue-shows-that-girls-know-how-to-cut-loose-too) and her gay best friend Michael-pronounced Michelle (who at several points will comment on Prudence's fashion sense which sets up the "Outfits Montage" in which the phrase "Oh no, honey" will be overlayed over the song "Everybody Dance Now" or an equivalent upbeat groove)-in order to get her through it. Newly single and ready to mingle, Prudence goes to a dance club and meets a series of weird guys who are just ALL wrong, until she meets Sage Heartofgold. He's a real jerk, but she can tell that underneath that rough exterior is a great guy and a heart of gold. She doesn't want to seem desperate, so Prudence ignores Sage and tries to enjoy her night by having some drinks and cutting loose. Before she knows it, she has had TOO much to drink and is dancing very seductively on a pole (which is way out of character for her!). She looks longingly at Sage as she dances on the pole (even though the audience can tell she's never done this before!) and as she bends backwards, she falls down! She is very drunk (which is so unlike her) and when Sage comes to help her up, she throws up all over him. She starts crying (because she is so embarassed-she never gets this drunk!) and tries to apologize, but her makeup is smeared and there's little chunks of vomit in her hair. She normally is a very beautiful woman, but not tonight! Sage helps her to a cab (Sasha went home with some guy she met on the dance floor, that slut) and she wakes up with SUCH A HEADACHE! Oh man, she is never drinking again. She realizes she is late (because she is so hungover!) and rushes to work where she finds Sasha slumped over her desk and looking a hot mess. What a slut (but she's really a good friend). Sure that she will never see Sage again, she buries herself in her work (she's on the executive fast track and is a bit of a workaholic, girl power!) and of course goes to the gym to work out (fitness is very important in ____[generic metropolitan city]). After her work out she stops into a vintage book shop to browse the new arrivals (she owns many books, but hasn't had time to read them all because she works so hard!) and sees Sage enter the book shop. She tries to hide and backs her way down an aisle to keep out of sight, but wouldn't you know it, she backs right into Sage! Boy is she embarrassed, but she can tell his heart is pure gold (even though he's also very witty and rugged). He asks her to dinner and she says something about how she thinks she is free but will have to check (even though we ALL know she is free!) and then calls him five minutes after he leaves the store to let him know she can go. The hardest part of going on a date is picking out what to wear, so she enlist Sasha and Michael to help pick out the perfect dress (cue outfits montage). Sasha wants her to go with the low cut red dress (which is so inappropriate-she doesn't want him to think she's a slut! That's so Sasha) and many of Prudence's wardrobe items are seriously lacking, but luckily Michael has a trunk full of fancy women's clothes at his disposal and picks out several outfits for Prudence to try on ("Everybody Dance Now!"). Some of them are silly and Prudence comments as such ("I look like a rolled up piece of salami!") and some of them are just not her style ("Honey, that's a Giovanni Merdula 1997, there's no way you can pull that off!") until they arrive at the perfect outfit-a little black dress, not too low cut but not too cocktail party, black heels and some killer earrings. Michael is awestruck ("You look like I did the night of my senior prom!"). Sasha isn't left out in the cold either, as she gets to give Prudence just a little bit of cleavage ("Gotta introduce him to the girls!", but Prudence assures her "He won't be meeting the girls for a long time!" What a classic girl power moment!). When Sage arrives at the door, Sasha says "If you hurt her, I'll cut your balls off and feed them to you." Sage is taken aback, but the audience isn't, as they admire Sasha's protectiveness! When Sage sees Prudence, he says "Wow" to show that he is impressed by Prudence's look (much more impressed than when she threw up on him!) The date goes well (verrrry well) and Prudence thinks she's finally met a man who is worth a damn in this world. Cue dating montage (they are so in love!). Is this too good to be true? One day, Prudence finds Sage's rolodex and it's FILLED with numbers and descriptions of girls he's been with (some of them sex, others even more depraved acts that we won't actually find out, but we can imagine due to Prudence's gasp!). Sage walks in as she's studying the debaucherous catalog. She looks at him, tears streaming down her face, and says "Is that all women are to you?". He says "Prudence, please, let me explain...". "Don't bother. Men are all the same"(I'm sure some women in the audience will relate to THAT statement!) and storms out of the apartment. As soon as she is out of sight, she falls to her knees, sobbing. For the next several days, Sage leaves several voice mail messages ("Hi, Prudence, this is Sage...I know you can hear this, I just need to explain some things to you...call back...") but he HAD his chance. One morning she wakes up and opens the door to get the paper (in the movie world, people still read them!) and she's a small envelope with the words "Dear Prudence" written on the front. She opens the envelope and finds Sage's rolodex card containing her name. It says "Prudence Goodperson: 5'6" (all women are supposed to be 5'6"), flowing blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a kind soul. She's THE ONE." Prudence's heart sinks-in the hysteria that accompanied finding Sage's list of deeds, she had forgotten to look for her own name! Of course! He's made some mistakes in life but those days are behind him. He's ready to settle down and Prudence was the final notch on his bedpost of life. What a heart of gold! She rushes to find him, to apologize to him, to tell him she loves him too. She races to his office, only to be informed by his secretary, "Mr. Heartofgold has left for the airport. He leaves this evening for Africa, where he will cure AIDS for people with AIDS and build a thousand wells for the thirsty." Such a selfless deed! She must catch him before he leaves to tell him she'll wait for him! She tries to hail a taxi but they just speed on by (that's big city living for you!) and finally jumps out in front of one of them. The driver can tell by the look in her eyes she means business and steps on the gas. He weaves in and out of traffic, yelling in a stereotypical South Asian accent and using the phrase "Kwik-E-Mart", but boy can he drive! He arrives at the airport and she hurls way too much cash at him and yells "keep the change!". Because, again, South Asians are only identified as characters from "The Simpsons", cabbie yells "Thank you, come again!" (expect big laughs). Prudence runs straight through airport security, the alarm goes off but she keeps running. TSA officers yell "hey, stop!" but she's already at least five steps in front of them and they figure "I bet she just wants to tell somebody she loves them". "Now boarding, Flight 1784 to Africa" the loudspeaker bellows. Will she make it? Just as Sage is about to board his flight, he hears "SAGGGGGEEEEE!!!!!!" Looks like everyone else heard it too, as the airport falls silent, and through the now still hustle and bustle he sees those beautiful blue eyes calling to him. She runs to him and says, "I thought you were a scoundrel, but you really do love me", to which Sage replies, "I've loved you since you vomited all over me" (now that's TRUE love!). They stare at each other intently, when suddenly an elderly black man with some sass yells, "What are you waiting for?! Kiss her already!" and they kiss. Everyone claps. Roll credits. (KT Tunstall Song)

There you have it: start to finish, the greatest romantic comedy of all time. You can't go wrong as long as you adhere to the blueprint. There are very few liberties you may take (and why would you want to?!), but if it ain't broke don't fix it.

Suddenly I see, this is who I want to be...why the hells it mean so much to me...