Sophisticated Things

So Long, Betty Harris

2011-02-06T10:50:00.000-08:00

It was a beautiful day for a memorial service. David stared out the window. He willed the clouds to roll in. This is a sad day, dammit. 74 and a light offshore breeze is just poor taste. Why don't you cry? He directed his thoughts at the sky with clenched fists, all too aware of the futility of his aggression.

His mother's death had not been a long time coming. One day she was healthy, the next day she was sick, and the next day she was gone. Or so it seemed. He could apply a similar formula to his entire life. One day he was born, the next day he graduated from college, and the next day he turned 36 years old. None of it mattered, or would ever matter again. His mind condensed history into a brief, easy-to-process abstract of a lifetime, and he desperately wanted to read the full text. It was difficult to remember his mother.

Why was it so difficult to remember? Time stretched before him as an impossible, treacherous uphill climb with no indication of a finish line, yet the treacherous, uphill climb behind him now appeared as a casual stroll down the block. So much happened, though! Thirty-six years, and so much if it lost to the careless catalog of time. She was alive, and now she was dead. His memories of those thirty-six years, and the twenty-eight before them, were now nothing more than a greatest hits collection to be paraded in front of yet another group of people who took for granted the stability of a life not yet lost.

Sorting through those captured memories felt like constructing a resume, a detailed yet highly-biased profile designed to convince the world of his mother's perfection. She wasn't perfect, of course, but it becomes necessary to cover one's blemishes when they aren't able to answer for them. There were dozens of pictures in which his mother appeared genuinely unhappy, and he often recalled her as a genuinely unhappy person. Those pictures were shuffled into boxes that quite possibly would never be opened again, and the world would soon forget that Betty Harris rarely displayed her authentic, impromptu, gleaming grin.

Why was she so unhappy? It was the question with an answer he'd never understand, and he felt compelled by protocol to force it out of his mind. The dead were happy to be alive, and it was best to remember them that way. If death is the ultimate sadness, then the trivial sadness of life must be forgotten.

And so the collage was smaller than originally planned. Betty Harris's life became a series of disconnected smiles that somehow constructed a happy person, and no one dare question aloud their significance to the bigger picture. David wanted so badly to question their significance, but who would understand? He missed his mother because she was his mother, and this woman on the looped slide-show was not his mother. Mom was gone and buried for three weeks now, and with her she took any possibility for an accurate biography.

So there God was, providing his own contribution to the charade. 74 and a light offshore breeze, and not a cloud in sight. David prepared himself for the parade of sympathizers and well wishers who would comment on the fitting weather, on how Betty Harris so loved the sun, and how it was God's way of letting them all know she was in a better place. Celebrate her life by forgetting her life. Just pick and choose the parts you like best, David. It's so much easier that way. So long, Betty Harris. It was a great ride.

Left, Right. Right, Left.

2010-09-25T14:25:00.000-07:00

I’m trying to keep it all straight in my head.

James drives an El Camino, and it’s green with a white racing stripe. Alvin is the bartender at Simon’s, and he’s taken it upon himself to learn my drink. I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. My mother has been dead for seven years. She died on my thirteenth birthday. I am twenty-two years old. Somehow that last part doesn’t add up.

Last I checked I was definitely in the United States, yet it appears everyone is driving on the left side of the road. Their steering wheels are still on the left side of the car. I stare down at my feet. Which one goes first? I feel like either will do, yet I really want to be sure. Left, right? Right, left? I’m going to try left, right and assume I’ll eventually take so many steps I won’t remember where I began. It’s not the best solution, but it’s a solution. What was the problem again?

I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH.” How does one push again? I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH”. I’m stuck. I stand, staring at the handle and its accompanying sign for a few seconds before the door swings inward. A patron exits the establishment. Weren’t they just pulling? Isn’t that what I was doing? Or was that a push? Was I right, and is the door broken or is the sign mistaken? I decide to slip in before the door notices I haven’t provided the proper input.

“Welcome back, chief” James says from behind the bar. There is a picture of a white El Camino with a green racing stripe on the wall. Isn’t the bartender Alvin? I think so, but this is definitely James. Or is it Alvin? I certainly can’t use his name, because I’m not exactly sure what his name is. It’s either Alvin or it’s James. Still, there’s a large margin of error.

“Makers and coke, right chief?” Alvin or James says, scooping ice into a highball glass. Makers and coke? What the hell is Makers? I’m pretty sure that’s not my drink. This must be James, because Alvin took the time to learn my drink. I can’t remember what my drink is, but Alvin learned it, and it’s not Makers and coke.

“Boy, I swear you drink more of those than any man your age should in his entire lifetime!” a bar patron says as they eye me from their swiveling barstool. Is that Alvin? Is that James? Maybe that is my drink. I apparently drink a lot of them. I approach the bar to pay for my drink. I go with right, left this time, but it takes my brain a second to catch up.

“Sorry for the hassle, chief, but I need to see your ID. For the security cameras, you know. The PD has been really riding us about it, threatening to take away our licenses and what not.” The PD? Doesn’t the FD handle those kinds of things? Which is the one that handles crime? I reach into my front pocket for my wallet. It’s not there.

My heart races. Or does it slow down? Which is the one that means you’re panicking? I pat myself down and feel a bulge in my back pocket. My wallet is there. Don’t I usually keep it in my front pocket? Don’t people usually keep their wallets in their front pockets? Is this my wallet? This wallet is brown. My wallet is green.
I open the wallet in my possession. A picture of me is inserted in the front plastic sleeve. I guess this is my wallet. I withdraw my ID and stop cold. My address is listed as “312 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 4279.” I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. Apartment 4279 would be technically on the fifth floor. Do I live on the technical fifth floor?

“It’s nice of you to do that little song and dance for the police, Ethan,” the bar patron says to the bartender. Ethan? Who the hell is Ethan?

Like a Damn Child

2010-09-25T14:23:00.000-07:00

“It's not that you can't have it, it's just that....I don't want you to have it. Does that sound bad?” Kelly did her best to look as though the answer mattered.

“Hell yes, it sounds bad! Look, Kelly, I'm a grown man, and I can eat whatever I want.” Joe once again picked up the apple fritter that he'd generously slathered with a pat of butter (capped with a heaping glob of marmalade as the cherry on top) and prepared to indulge. Kelly placed her hand on his arm.

“Oh yes. You are a grown man, at least according to your age, height, salary, and especially that waistline of yours. I was under the impression, and of course I could be wrong, that grown men knew how to take care of themselves, and sometimes I think if I just disappeared you'd be dead within' the week.” She felt her face muscles contracting to show the early onset of heartbreak as Joe sank his teeth into the pastry.

Joe laughed. “I'm not going to die eating an apple fritter, Kelly-”

“Topped with butter and marmalade, no less.”

“Topped with whatever the hell I want to top it with, yes. It's just one apple fritter. You want I chase it with an actual apple?”

Kelly sighed. “I just wish you understood that I love you, and I'm going to be really angry at you if you leave me because you couldn't control yourself with those damn sweets, that's all.”

Joe thrust the apple fritter down onto the plate in disgust. “Dammit, Kelly, now I can't even enjoy it. I swear you treat me like a child. Like a damn child. It's just not fair, you know that? Everybody else gets to eat whatever they want, whenever they want, and here you got me eating asparagus and arugula and whatever other god-forsaken 'A' vegetables you can get your hands on, and the only 'A' I want right now is a god damn apple fritter!”

Kelly's eyes narrowed and she spoke clearly and deliberately. “I treat you like a damn child because you're acting like a damn child. Just listen to yourself.”

“I don't care. That's the beauty. I don't have to care. Right now I want to eat this because it tastes good, and in the grand scheme of things, what is it going to matter? It's just one apple fritter.”

“You're right, Joe. It is just one apple fritter. It's just one apple fritter to go with the Moon Pie wrappers I found under your seat to go with the entire package of Double Stuffed Oreos that disappeared from the freezer last week (although that's partially my fault for having them around in the first place). Oh, and I hope you've at least had the sense to sign up for the rewards program at the Shake Shack, because the beauty of a joint checking account is that I now know you are among their best and most frequent customers! So yes, it's just one apple fritter. Otherwise, you're a damn saint.”

Joe avoided Kelly's eyes. He stared down at the table and muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” Kelly asked.

“Like a damn child,” Joe muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table.

“You poor, misunderstood man,” Kelly replied as she ran her hands through his hair. She always found his retreats strangely endearing. “Let's go, tough guy. It's about time to check your blood pressure, anyway.”

Joe used the metal, three pronged cane to steady himself as he eased up from the table. Kelly had, on multiple occasions, appealed to him to get used to relying on both legs to get him where he needed to go, but all the same he continued to favor the one with the fleshy appendage at its end to the one capped in plastic. His bad leg made him feel “like a damn robot,” he was fond of saying. Joe fancied himself a calls-it-like-he-sees-it type, but when it came to himself he was anything but.

The Picture House

2010-09-25T14:20:00.000-07:00

“I thought it was just great.”

“Of course you did,” Bert said. He couldn't remember the last time Ethel hadn't liked a movie. The theater opened in 1925, back when your standard movie house had one screen and one showing a week. The McClintocks owned it then, the McClintocks owned it now, and it still only had one screen.

“This popcorn machine stinks,” Joshua said, as he continued to search for the perfect ratio of kernels to oil that didn't threaten to burn the building down. He'd worked at the theater for the better part of his senior year now and, for the most part, being there just depressed him.

“Take it outside, Pistol,” Gerald McClintock said with a point, avoiding eye contact as he descended from the projection booth.

“Aw, dammit,” Pistol said, as he squished a lit Marlboro Red into the overstuffed ashtray Joshua hadn't emptied in over a week. The theater used to allow smoking inside, but hadn't done so for decades now, and Pistol, claiming victim of his growing dementia, made it his daily ritual to try to sneak one in. Gerald would have none of it.

Bert and Ethel gave a nod to Joshua as they shuffled out of the dim lobby. Bert carried a paper bag from the local Stop & Save.

“You went grocery shopping before the movie?” Joshua asked. The scent of burnt kernels permeated the air.

“Naturally,” Ethel said, “Otherwise we'd have to backtrack.” The Stop & Save had a long standing deal with the McClintock's to offer discounts on movie tickets with grocery purchases on the day of the show. The discount remained firmly at ten cents, and Bert & Ethel were, to the best of anyone's knowledge, the only two theater patrons who took advantage.

“Can I borrow this?” Jake asked as he stood at the counter and reached for the pen next to the register.

“Seriously? You know we gotta buy those, and when you borrow them, we don't get them back.” Jake had a habit of loaning out his already borrowed pens to his schoolmates, creating a complicated supply train of which few returned.

“I need it for school. Hey, you know it smells in here?”

“Just take it and go.” Joshua knew he'd probably never see the pen again.

Gerald McClintock sat at his desk, which was wedged in the space not occupied by the mop and mop-bucket near the back of the storage room. He knew that when the theater opened it cost a nickel to get in, and as it stood the price had inflated all the way to just under a dollar. He was forced to contemplate a price increase. He crunched the numbers with his always finely sharpened number two.

The phone rang. “You gonna get that?” he called out to Joshua.

“You know it's for you.”

“Just get it.”

He heard Joshua's muffled voice mumble a greeting into the phone. “It's for you.”

Gerald picked up the receiver on his end. Joshua dumped the scorched popcorn into the trash bag. He opened a new bag of kernels and a new bottle of oil and prepared again to attempt popcorn perfection.

Gerald wandered into the lobby. “We're getting a new picture.”

“Finally. What's it gonna be?”

“Rush Hour 3.” The theater had never shown the first two.

The Long Way Home

2010-09-25T14:18:00.000-07:00

“And that's exactly why we moved away from Pleasanton. Like my mom always says, 'Pleasanton will always be Pleasanton!', and you know what? She's right. When my first husband and I got divorced and I moved back in with her, mother had some grand idea to set me up with Stevie Detweiller who used to live down the street when we were kids. 'Little Stevie Detweiller is all grown up and handsome as can be, according to Ruth Detweiller, and I told her how beautiful you were, and according to the two of us it's just about a match made in heaven!' According to Ruth Detweiller, her son was about as handsome as he could be, and I guess that was right: he certainly wasn't getting any handsomer. Ha! Can you believe that? Short, bald, beer gut, and some seriously iffy hygiene. But Pleasanton would always be Pleasanton, and to be honest, dear, the pickings were slim, so I married him too.”

Jesus Christ, how long has she been talking? Chris had just happened to sit next to her on the bus, he'd just happened to respond when she'd mentioned what a lovely day it was, and even though he didn't particularly agree, he didn't want to be rude and in acknowledging her presence had locked himself in a conversation, nay, a lecture with someone with no apparent ability to read social cues. He also found it rather suspicious that she got off at the same stop, even though she didn't seem in a particular hurry to go anywhere at all. Was this even her stop?

He'd already learned more about this person than he could ever want to know. That threshold was reached at around the five minute mark, but here they were, minute forty-five, and the hits just kept on coming. He now felt himself qualified to write a multiple volume biography on this person, except for the fact that he knew everything about her but her name. She'd given it, sure, but he assumed their interactions would terminate almost immediately, so he hadn't chosen to remember it. Now that they were slowly but surely creeping in to her transition to middle age, it was far too late to ask.

“So Stevie came home one day and just said, 'I quit.' And I said, 'You quit?' He says, 'I quit.' Now I'm thinkin', what'd he quit? Is he quitting us? His job? His gym membership. Ha, gym membership. The man was positively allergic to exercise. Of course he was talking about his job. He used to come home everyday and bitch and moan about this thing and that thing, and I'd just sit there and say, 'Yes, dear.' 'I'm sorry, dear.' 'Maybe you should tell them, dear.' But no, his solution was just to turn heel and run away from it. I said, 'What are we gonna do for money?' and he just said, 'We'll figure it out.' Wouldn't you know, it wasn't more than a week later I find him layin' on the couch, deader than a doornail. Of course he'd die after he quit his job, so there goes the life insurance money, and there go I, movin' back in with mother.”

Chris was starting to panic. Her story was less a survey of her life and more of a re-creation, and he could just tell that they weren't even close to the end yet. He didn't even know what time it was, and though his instincts told him not to look at his watch for fear of being rude, maybe it was time to be rude. He tuned out her story momentarily and mentally prepared himself to lift the watch to his eyes. Maybe this would give her the signal that he'd had his fill of her life, and it was time for them to part ways forever. It had to work, didn't it? He slowly raised his left arm towards his face, giving plenty of time for Chatty Cathy to notice, but as he did she began to stare off into space, waxing philosophical about her life so far.

“I says to mother, 'How did I get here? How did my life come to this?' I've been good to people. I've always tried to be nice to people. I was a good wife. Thrice I was a good wife. Oh, we haven't even gotten to Hank yet. We'll get there, but suffice it to say I've been good to all my husbands. Anyway, mother says we can't always control the things to happen to us, and she says she just gotta believe everything happens for a reason, and I guess I agree with that, but boy...I sure wish life were easier sometimes.”

She'd completely missed the watch gesture. He'd even let it linger there for a few seconds, but after a while it looked pretty inorganic and he just felt stupid, so he lowered it down. Almost on cue her eyes shifted back to him, and he knew she had no intention of slowing down. He became frustrated, and then he became angry, and suddenly he blurted out, “Well, it was really nice talking to you, but I have to go!”

She stared at him, startled. He'd interrupted her mid-sentence. “Well, ok, but aren't you going this way?” She pointed in the direction they'd walked when they first got off the bus.

“Well, yes, but....no, I'm not.” He turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes following him as his pace quickened. He hated taking the long way home.

Risen: Part 2

2010-08-08T10:04:00.000-07:00

Jesus' fitful,drunken slumber was interrupted by the sensation of cold steel against his forehead. He opened his eyes to find himself staring up at the underside of a double-barreled shotgun. He panicked. His heart raced. He was not prepared to die again, at least not so soon, and he felt genuinely afraid until he realized who was on the other end of the shotgun. He relaxed.
“A bit dramatic, wouldn't you say?” he said to the scantly clad woman as she lowered the weapon.
“I had to be sure it was you,” Mary Magdalene said.
“I called you, didn't I?”
“It could have been a trap.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed, “That's some gun you've got there.”
She laughed. “You didn't notice it mounted above the front desk? It's an old-timey prairie dog blaster of some sort. The guy down there doesn't even know if it even fires anymore, but it's most certainly not loaded. He let me borrow it. I figured it was at least a little threatening.”
“A little. You didn't sleep with him, did you?”
“I did what I had to do.”
Jesus sighed. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. He saw her eyes glance towards the burgundy stain and the torn out pages shoddily arranged in an attempt to soak up the mess. “Party last night? You should have invited me.”
“I did. You're here, aren't you. I guess you were just fashionably late.”
“Speaking of fashion...you're looking good.” He was wearing the tattered robe the motel had included as a “luxury item”. He didn't remember putting it on.
“It's comfortable, and I spilled on my other clothes.”
“Nice. Infallible indeed.”
“Look, I've got a lot of shit I want to get done today, and I'm going to need your help. Are you going to help me?” He had a raging headache.
“I wouldn't waste my time coming to this hellhole if I wasn't going to help. No need to get testy.”
“Fine. I'm sorry,” he said. He meant it.
“Don't worry about it. You're in better spirits than I 'd expected. Who's first on the list?”
“Judas Iscariot. You know where he is?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“How long is he going to be there?”
“I'd say you've got a while.”
“Take me there.”
“Alright, but I don't think you're going to like it very much.”

* * *

The sun was out, and a steady breeze blew throughout the cliff-side cemetery. Jesus stood staring at the lonely, unremarkable grave that housed his ultimate betrayer. The wind blew his unkempt hair in front of his face, and despite the comfortable temperature he was sweating. He was angry, he was sad, and he was confused.
“Who did it?” he asked Mary, who sat on the ground next to him, playing with blades of grass.
“He did. He was dead before you were.”
“Coward,” Jesus said as he spit upon the cracked cement. It quickly dried. “Miserable coward.”
“Yes, but you can at least cross him off your list. It doesn't matter how or why he's dead, it just matters that he is dead, right?”
“I think you're missing the point of revenge. It absolutely does matter.”
“What, and you were going to kill him?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Alright, Tiger, I'll believe that when I see it.”
“You will.”
“Is that a promise?”
“That's a promise.”
“Ok. What now?”
“I'm hungry. I'm a stress eater.”
“Then let's eat.”
“Take me somewhere.”
Jesus' reached into the hideous motel bathrobe and pulled out the rusty dagger he'd planned to plunge into Iscariot's neck and drove it into the ground, directly in front of the grave. He didn't need it anymore.
They walked in silence back to Mary Magdalene's motorcycle. It was a Japanese model, and Jesus had turned his nose up at it slightly when he'd first seen it, and he found he enjoyed riding it even less. The hum of the engine was terribly obnoxious, and it's zippyness was simply a feeble attempt to make up for what it lacked in horsepower.
As they sped down the two-lane highway he noticed a giant billboard advertising the local “Lebowski Fest” the following month, with Jeff Bridges clothed in a robe similar to the one he was wearing.
“Hey, he kind of looks like you.”
“I think that's kind of the point.”
“Oh yeah, I guess I never got that.” It seemed like she never got a lot of things.
They pulled into the dusty parking lot of one of those stand alone diners Jesus thought only existed in movies. He slunk into the first available booth. He needed a drink to get rid of his hangover.
“Jack. Straight up,” he said as the waitress approached.
She laughed as though he'd joked. “Coffee, tea, milk, OJ, soda. That's all we got.”
“Water, please,” he said, disappointed. Looks like he was going to be making more of his patented witches' brew.
He ordered a Denver omelette with a heaping side of bacon. He also asked for an English muffin and some fresh jam, but all they had were those little packets. He hated those little packets. Nevertheless, he ate like someone who hadn't eaten in quite some time. He hadn't eaten in quite some time.
He and Mary didn't say much of anything to each other during the meal, but they didn't really have to. He was happy to see her again, and she him. He had business to attend to, but he was glad she was along for the ride. She smiled at him, and he attempted to smile back, even though his mouth was almost constantly stuffed with food. At the end of the meal, her face turned serious.
“Jesus?”
“Mm?”
“Do you have any money?”
As they sped off down the highway, satisfied that they'd both completed their first successful dine and ditch, Jesus felt a sense of optimism, something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Maybe everything was going to be alright.

Risen: Part 1

2010-04-14T11:49:00.000-07:00

The clouds rolled in like tumbleweeds, at times completely obscuring the ominous orange moon that stained the otherwise picturesque midnight sky. It was cold and the air was stale, and the shadows that mirrored the movement of the clouds cast a foreboding pall on the pastoral setting. The two men dressed in black did their best to travel unnoticed. They stopped briefly at the top of the ravine. They glanced at each other uneasily, neither one having any desire to move first.

Finally Simon spoke. “Let's go.” They carefully navigated the steep path down the hill, and though the on again, off again moonlight made it difficult to see the ground before them, they reached the floor unscathed. Aaron shuddered, clutching his arms to his chest and shuffling back and forth uneasily.

“I've got a bad feeling about this.”
“He's dead. You've got nothing to worry about.”
“Then why are we going to see him?”
“We're grave robbers. Naturally, we're going to rob his grave.”
“Are you sure we should be robbing this grave?”
“Of course I'm sure. Whatever you've got, you can't take it with you, so why shouldn't it go to someone more deserving? Someone breathing?”

The rock was still in place, lodged in a narrow opening and nearly impossible to move by one man alone. It was not so impossible for two men, though they knew the consequences for doing so would be severe. They would move the rock, verify the deceased, and meticulously return the rock to its proper place. No one would ever know they were there.

Simon braced himself against the outer wall of the cave and prepared to push. He looked to Aaron expectantly, but Aaron hung back. “Look,” Simon said calmly, “Just help me move the rock, and I'll go in and check. You can stay out here.” Aaron thought for a second, sighed heavily, and joined Simon on the far side of the rock.

They pushed hard. The rock was lodged tight in the opening, but once it started to give a little things became much easier. Eventually, the boulder tumbled to the side, teetering a bit before collapsing in a cloud of dust. Aaron stepped away from the opening and looked at Simon, inviting him to keep to his word.

“Alright, alright, just keep an eye out. I'll make this quick. Give me the flashlight”

Aaron reached into his belt and pulled out the industrial flashlight he'd been saving for a place where it was sure to go unseen and handed it to Simon. He watched Simon vanish into the pitch black cave opening. He saw the glow of the flashlight dart around quickly, disappear, and a second later Simon was back at the entrance, empty handed. Aaron didn't like the look on his face.

“And?” Aaron said nervously.
“There's nothing there.”
“No gold? No jewels?”
“Well no, no gold and no jewels. But no body either.”
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“I know it doesn't. But I'm telling you, there's nobody, dead or alive, inside that cave. You're more than welcome to take a second survey if you'd like.”
“No. I'm not going in there. Let's just forget it. Let's put the rock back and get out of here.”

A hand came to rest on Simon's shoulder. Aaron's too. They both felt warm, and the sensation that accompanied the comforting touch was pure sublimity. They were paralyzed, not from any lack of physical control over their bodies but from sense of purity that neither had any desire to depart.

A thin, finely sharpened blade pierced the back of both men's necks simultaneously. They were killed instantly, and their bodies were lowered to the ground with great care. The corpses were left as decoration, and the rock remained in its place a few meters from the cave entrance. He wanted them all to know he was up, and he wanted them to know he was pissed.

* * *

Jesus inserted the rusty key into the rusty lock and opened the door to the dingy motel room. He'd made a comment when he checked in about the management not springing for key card locks, but the clerk either didn't get it or didn't think it was very funny. The key was attached a cylindrical wooden rod about a foot long, as though it were some gas station bathroom key and the giant tether was meant to deter someone from driving off with it and leaving other bladder beaten patrons to share the women's room. Was he supposed to take this stupid thing with him everywhere he went? Luckily he'd only planned to stay one night.

He was tired. The bedspread was a ghastly floral pattern, and even the busy décor didn't do much to camouflage the various stains that contributed to the overall ambiance of the place. Hopefully they've been washed recently, he thought.

He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the sink. The faucet gurgled for a few seconds, spit out some putrid brown sludge, and eventually clear water began to flow. Jesus cupped his hands under the faucet and watched them overflow. He raised the water to his lips and gulped it down. It wasn't good, but it was the first sip of anything he'd had in a long time. He splashed water on his face and studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked good for a dead guy.

He pulled the stopper on the sink and watched the cold water slowly rise. He turned the faucet off and placed his index finger into the water. It changed from clear to opaque and from pallid gray to deep crimson. He went to the nightstand and unwrapped one of the disposable cups from inside the ice bucket the motel had generously included as a “perk”. He scooped some of the red liquid and tasted it. He made a face. It wasn't a bad skill to have, but he'd never been very good at it. Oh well, he thought. It would get him drunk.

He realized he'd need a little more than that puny cup to do any serious drinking, so he ladled the rest of his concoction into the ice bucket and sat it on the nightstand. He scooted himself back against the headboard and placed the ice bucket in between his legs. He used the remote control to turn the TV on and flipped through the channels. There were six.

The first channel he stopped on was a series of motorcycle montages set to classic heavy metal music. He recognized the intro to Bon Jovi's “Wanted Dead or Alive” instantly. He always liked that song. His mood turned sour when the lyrics started. It was a cover. He quickly changed the channel in disgust. Next was some televangelist program, the kind of thing he knew was popular around these parts. Jesus knew instantly that the man was talking about him, or at least the man thought he was talking about Jesus. People were falling down all over the place, the blind were magically able to see, and several women were babbling in what he assumed was being passed off as “speaking in tongues.” An advertisement for the man's book scrolled pervasively across the bottom of the screen. Jesus laughed.

“Assholes.” He turned off the TV.

He chugged some of his wretched brew, which he thought was probably only marginally better than prison wine. It had been a while since he'd had anything to eat, and the haze was strong and it came quick. He tried to set the ice bucket on the nightstand, but he placed it too close to the edge. It tumbled to the floor, spilling homemade wine all over the floor.

“Shit,” Jesus said. The motel was almost certainly going to charge him for that. He leaned over and opened the drawer to the nightstand. He took out the Gideon's Bible, opened it, turned towards the back, and tore out several pages. He placed them carefully over the wet floor, and in doing so he realized he was already too drunk to clean this mess up tonight. He'd take care of it in the morning.

As he lay in bed and slowly drifted off into an inebriated slumber, he thought of what at the time seemed like the greatest idea he'd ever had. If he could turn water into wine, what was to stop him from going the other way? It'd certainly save him a lot of work. He couldn't wait to try it out.

His dreams were vivid. He saw the faces of the men he'd already killed and the faces of those men he was going to kill. They all deserved to die, and he vowed to treat them with the same consideration they'd shown him.

Kate

2010-03-23T19:14:00.001-07:00

Kate studied the gun on the table. She picked it up, ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and disengaged the safety. She'd done this every five minutes for the last two hours, worried she missed some important step that would render the pistol inoperable when she really needed it. What worried her more was that she didn't know anything about guns. It had been given to her by an ex-boyfriend when she lived in an inner city neighborhood, and despite her protests he insisted she keep it. She hated guns, hated this gun, but somehow this gun had traveled with her through every new stage of her tumultuous journey through adulthood. It was the most stable thing in her life, and now she depended on it more than ever. It had never been fired.

Kate wondered if she should fire the gun, just to make sure. Maybe she'd fire it at the wall or at the stained bottle of balsamic vinegar on the kitchen counter. It didn't really matter what she shot, Kate supposed, but there was always the risk that someone would hear. If the gun did manage to fire, it would probably fire again, and if someone who wasn't supposed to hear heard it, Kate would just have to trust herself enough to shoot straight. She was waiting for someone, and she just had to stay alive long enough for him to get there. She didn't know for sure whether he was coming, but a promise was a promise. Once he was there she wouldn't need the gun anymore.

Suddenly Kate's attention was drawn to the shrill shriek emanating from the tiny black and white TV in the living room. It had been the only way to get news, and some stone-faced salt & pepper anchorman had solemnly remained at his post like the captain of the Titanic, providing unverifiable updates about casualty counts and safe zones to an unverifiable audience. Kate had spent the last five days in earshot of the television, but she'd long since stopped listening to the words. It was just comforting to know that someone else was out there. She sometimes laughed as she glanced at the TV and saw the anchorman backlit by a waving American flag graphic accompanied by patriotic hymns. Every captain needs a band to play him out, she thought.

The stone-faced salt & pepper anchorman was gone now, replaced by a test pattern and those familiar loud beeps. Why those were considered preferable to silence she'd never know. She hadn't heard him sign off, and she wondered if he'd even had time to sign off. The TV station was operated out of one of the tallest buildings in the city, and she couldn't imagine it being ignored for long. She pushed the thought out of her mind, picked up the pistol, aimed for the balsamic vinegar, and pulled the trigger.

It was so much louder than she'd imagined. She dropped the gun and immediately covered her ears. When she looked up, the kitchen was in a sorry state. Black liquid covered a good portion of the available surface area, and the shattered tile behind the stove now adorned the floor like an experimental mosaic. She didn't care about the mess. She only cared that the gun had done what it was supposed to do. Now she'd have to wait to see if she'd need to fire it again. She decided it best not to sit in the eye-line of the window. She picked up the gun and huddled against the wall of the dining room. She wondered if she should turn the TV off, as the incessant beeps were compounding the headache given to her by the sound of the gun, but she found them strangely comforting. Lifeless or not, they connected her to the world she knew.

She began to regret the decision to shoot the bottle of balsamic vinegar. The stuff smelled awful, and any thoughts she'd had of how novel an exploding bottle would look as a bullet passed through it were mulled when she'd dropped the gun in anguish. She'd missed the whole thing. She felt miserable, truly miserable for the first time since this whole thing began. She hated the gun more than ever. She held it tighter.

As she waited she began to relax. No one had heard the gun, and if they had they probably didn't want to find out who fired it. She heard gunfire and shouts in the distance, and it's entirely possible her shot had blended in with the others. She hadn't been outside in five days. She had no idea what was going out there, but all she knew was that she needed to stay the hell away from it. From the TV she'd gleaned that millions were dead, and that was, at best, a rough estimate. Her parents were probably dead, her friends were probably dead, and for all she knew he was probably dead, and she was wasting her time waiting for him. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.

She crawled through the dining room and into the living room for a better view of her surroundings. She was thankful her parents had installed that sunroom years before, as it provided a panoramic view of the hillside. In the distance she could see that the trees were burning, and the line of multi-million dollar homes that adorned the top of the ridge were now skeletal and black. Fire, ash, and orange were all she could see. She crawled back to the center of the living room and settled in next to the television. She placed the gun next to her head. She was exhausted, and the test pattern beeps lulled her to sleep. She dreamed of blackness, pure, perfect blackness, and it was the best sleep she'd had in years.

She awoke suddenly, grabbed the gun and sat up straight, pointing it into the darkness. Her head hurt again, and the overpowering stench of balsamic vinegar blanketed what had just that morning smelled of burnt musk. It was night, and the blanket of city lights that usually masked the infinite abyss had been replaced by a thick, orange glow. It was eerily silent. The beeps had stopped. The TV was still on, but the broadcast had ended. She didn't like the way it felt. The low battery LED-light blinked unceremoniously towards the bottom of the TV. She had no idea what she'd ever need the batteries for again, but her old compulsions forced her to rotate the volume knob counter-clockwise until she heard the familiar, satisfying click. The light faded. She ejected the clip, checked to make sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She was bored.

She sometimes felt stupid waiting for him. If he wasn't coming, she could easily use the gun on herself and that would be that. It's not like she wanted to live in what was to be left of the world, anyway. She also knew she wasn't going to pull any of that Romeo & Juliet crap either, offing herself just seconds before he arrived. Despite the circumstances, she'd defiantly convinced herself she wasn't living in a tragedy, and she would wait as long as she had to for him to show up.

She stood up for the first time in 18 hours. Her body ached and she twisted and turned to loosen up. Her foot immediately fell asleep. She and the gun hobbled their way down the hallway and into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror and laughed. She looked awful. Her hair was matted and her face looked as though it hadn't been washed in days. It hadn't been washed in days. She grabbed the gun and walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the three-quarters-full bottle of water from the counter. It smelled awful in there. She headed back down the hall and into what was once her bedroom and began to search through the drawers. She found a dried up stick of mascara, some far too rosy blush, and some glittery blue eye shadow. She sighed. It was better than nothing, but she really wished she'd remembered her own makeup bag.

She headed back into the bathroom. She set the gun down on the back of the toilet and looked in the mirror again. She didn't want to look like that when he got there. She screwed the top off of the water bottle and took three sips. It tasted old and warm. She poured some into her hands and rubbed the dirt off of her face. The dirt streaked down her cheeks, and her attempts to clean them up with toilet paper left her with soggy white patches all over her face. She might have felt frustrated, but it kept her busy. She dipped the mascara brush into the small reservoir of water that had collected in the sink, replaced the cap, and shook vigorously. She applied the clumpy mascara to her eye lashes and was moderately pleased with the results, considering the circumstances.

She opened the blush and looked at it. She never wore blush, but she figured she should use what was available to her. She didn't have a brush. She took the cap off the mascara again and dipped the brush in the water. With her fingers she squeezed the clumps off the brush until the sink was filled with black water, and then she ran the brush along the inside of the blush container. The mascara brush felt rough against her cheeks and she couldn't tell if the red she was seeing was from the blush or the irritation. She tried to smooth it out with toilet paper, but it still made her look kind of juvenile. She decided to skip the eye shadow.

She picked up the gun, walked into her parent's room and sat down at her mom's vanity. She glanced out the window and into the backyard. The tangerine tree was on fire, and she knew the un-watered grass would provide ample kindling to keep the blaze going. She still felt like she had some time. She opened the top drawer, pulled out one of her mother's old hairbrushes, and began to work through her matted hair. She winced as she encountered tangle after tangle, but she didn't stop until she felt like she had semi-conquered the beast. She looked in the mirror. It wasn't the ideal way to go out, but it would have to do.

Kate took the gun and went back to the living room. She switched the tv on. Still silence. She switched it off. She sat down on the floor, ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She sat and looked at it for a while, and she flicked the safety on and off for what seemed like an hour. She looked out the sunroom window at the backyard. The tangerine tree fire had spread to the lemon tree, and it slowly made it's way down the slender trunk. She scanned the hills. The mansions were no longer visible, obscured by a thick, smokey haze. If he was coming, he'd better get there soon.

Daylight slowly crept in, but it wasn't much different than night. The sky was a slightly more dull orange, and a round, almost fully engulfed glowing disc hung above. Kate sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, gripping the pistol tight and shifting her nervous gaze from the growing backyard blaze to the front door. She heard gunshots. They were close.

She ran to the dining room window and crouched towards the lower panels, aiming the gun out the window. She quickly ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She flicked the safety on and off for good measure. She heard more shots, this time from a much bigger gun, and lots of shouting. Her stomach churned. She ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She heard an explosion, and a pillar of smoke rose urgently above the line of trees just beyond her gravel driveway. The gunshots stopped. The shouting stopped.

Kate sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the gravel driveway and the trees beyond. Smoke began wafting from below the treeline, and she held the gun tighter than she'd held anything before. A person was a lot different than a bottle of balsamic vinegar, and she suddenly felt very unsure of herself. She didn't even know how to shoot a gun properly, and the only time she'd fired it she'd dropped it. She assumed she'd miss the first time, and if she dropped the gun, she was dead. She had seven bullets in the clip and one in the chamber. She at least knew that much. What if she needed all of them for just one guy? God help her if there were two. Maybe it would be better to just shoot herself and save them the trouble and the satisfaction. She was frozen.

A figure appeared in the haze. He limped slowly through the smoke, coughing as he struggled up the gravel driveway. Kate had the drop on him, and she raised the pistol and aimed it, her hand steady and her grip tight. She didn't think she'd miss. He dropped to one knee and coughed gingerly, struggled back to his feet and continued towards the house. Kate started to squeeze the trigger and stopped.

The closer he got, the clearer the figure was in the smoke and the haze. She instantly recognized the blonde hair, even through all the ash. He looked like shit, but somehow Kate regarded him as the most magnificent thing she'd ever seen. His half-tucked button down shirt was stained with blood, and he struggled to maintain his balance as he attempted to navigate the stairs to the porch. Suddenly, he saw her through the dining room window, staring at him down the barrel of a gun. He smiled, and it was the first time his blue eyes were visible through all the dirt and grime.

She set the gun down on the table and ran to the front door. The doorknob was hot from the heat of the flames, but she ignored the pain and flung the door open. He stood there, looking up at her from halfway down the stairs, as the bloodstain on his shirt spread. He smiled again.

“Hey there,” he said. She smiled.

Dead Hooker(s) in the Trunk

2010-03-21T16:04:00.000-07:00

"Damnit", I sighed. There was a dead hooker in the trunk. I'd had a feeling there was, but part of me was really hoping there wasn't. It wasn't my first, and something told me it probably wasn't going to be my last. It was, in fact, my fourth dead hooker in the trunk.

Before you start accusing me, I didn't put her there. I never put them there. I wouldn't even know where to find a hooker if you asked me, but somehow they always end up in my trunk. Actually, not my trunk. I don't even own a car. I rent. More often than not, I'll rent a car and there'll be a dead hooker in the trunk. Lately I'd been checking the trunk before I drive the car off the lot, and it's actually really cut down on the incidences of trunk hookers, but I suppose you could say I got careless.

How long had she been in there? I'd been driving the car for three days now, so it would have to be longer than that. That's not good. I was only alerted to the possibility of some extra cargo by the funk that had drifted into the cabin. God, it's been really hot lately, too. It was going to be a closed casket for sure.

You might think I'd be worried about the police. The first time I discovered a dead hooker in the trunk, I was definitely worried. You'd be surprised about how casually they approached the situation. I remember my fingers trembling as I dialed 911 from the rusty payphone outside the Desert Sands motel,convinced my life was over but prepared to give my side of the story. After the dispatch operator answered, I choked out the words, "I found a dead hooker in my trunk." There was a long pause, which probably seemed longer because my anxiety had reached a boiling point, and finally she responded in a droll monotone, "Sir, 911 is to be used for emergencies only. Please call the non-emergency dispatch line tomorrow between the hours of 9am-12pm and 1pm-5pm and someone will be happy to help you with your problem" *click*.

The rest of that first "dead hooker in the trunk" incident is pretty uneventful. I shut the trunk, checked into the Desert Sands, and waited till the next afternoon to call it in. "Do you need help disposing of the dead hooker, sir?" I did, and a couple of grumpy deputies begrudgingly made their way out to the Desert Sands, and the three of us wrapped the dead hooker in a hotel blanket (I'm sure it'd touched worse) and rolled her down a ravine across the highway. I found it odd that the deputies were betting on whether or not she'd roll all the way down or get stopped up by a rock or plant along the way, but whatever.

I'd called the rental car company after I found the first dead hooker in the trunk, and they seemed even less surprised than the police. "Sir, our policy is to provide a one time credit of one free rental day, minus gas and insurance, to any customer who finds a dead hooker in the trunk of one of our cars. We've recently changed our terms and conditions to include dead hookers in the trunk as part of our pre-inspection release of liability, so in the future please check your vehicles trunk for dead hookers before leaving one of our authorized rental locations." Though they provided me with that free rental day, they also made me pay a $39.99 "clean up" fee because I hadn't popped for the extended rental insurance they pushed for when I rented the thing.

The second dead hooker in the trunk was discovered during a trip to Chicago. I'd taken my grandfather to Costco, and as we returned to the car burdened by our hefty take, I popped the trunk. We both stood silent for a minute. "Charlie, there's a dead hooker in your trunk." "There certainly is, Papa." "Well, you'd better call 911." Luckily I'd learned my lesson. It was Saturday, so I knew we'd have to wait till Monday to call it in, so as not to disturb the officer's weekend. On the way home we stopped by a gas station and bought a couple of bags of ice and tossed them on our friend and tried our best to forget about her.

Two days later I called the non-emergency dispatch line and was told it would be two more days before anyone could come out and assess the situation. I was, needless to say, a little irritated. "Two days? I have other things I need to put in the trunk, you know." The dispatch operator had obviously heard this complaint before. "Sir, you're not the only person with a dead hooker in the trunk that needs help." I couldn't really argue with that.

Two days later a grumpy old-timer rumbled his way up my grandfather's gravel driveway and approached the front door, clipboard in hand. He asked to see the dead hooker in the trunk, and as I popped the trunk he exclaimed, "You got yourself a good one there!" I didn't really get the humor. Then he asked "Did you kill the hooker in your trunk, son?" I raised my eyebrows. Maybe this old-timer meant business. "It doesn't really matter, I just need to check the appropriate box on my form here for department tax purposes. If you killed the hooker, we're gonna have to send you a 10-99 form at the end of the year so you can pay taxes on the disposal cost, but if you just found her in your trunk like that, it's on us." I told him I hadn't killed the hooker, he checked the appropriate box on his form there, and he and my grandfather got caught up talking about the war. An hour and a half later I asked him, "So what do we do about the dead hooker in my trunk?" "Ah, yes, well what say we head out to Lake Michigan and try to sink her to the bottom, yes? With all the budget cuts lately, the departments been asking us to get creative with our disposal methods. It ain't like it used to be, is it?" He and my grandfather laughed and laughed. I didn't really get it.

I called the rental car company and told them I'd found another dead hooker in the trunk. "Is the dead hooker still in the trunk, sir?" I told him it wasn't. "Without the dead hooker in the trunk, sir, it's hard for us to verify that there was a dead hooker in the trunk." I told him there might be some blood left in the trunk, and he told me he'd need to place me on hold to speak with his supervisor. Several minutes passed. "Hello sir, yes I've just spoken to my supervisor and he says that we will be able to accept blood as a suitable substitute for a body, but we will be unable to provide you with another credit as you've already used you 'dead hooker in the trunk' exemption in the last 18 months." That seemed only fair. They did, however, waive the cleaning fee even though I had again not sprung for the insurance.

The third dead hooker in the trunk was discovered at a customs checkpoint on my way from San Diego to Los Angeles. I had a tail light out and as I tried to cruise my way through the long line of disinterested checkpoint operators, someone took notice. My particular operator, a portly, unkempt woman of about 50 who'd obviously paid the price for a sedentary lifestyle, asked me to pull over for further inspection. As the border patrol deputy rifled through the backseat of my rental car I could sense his boredom. It was nothing but maps, empty Five Hour Energy reservoirs, and a glove compartment full of paperwork that had never been touched. Finally he said, "Sir, please open your trunk for me, and we'll have you on your way." I pulled the release lever and heard, "My God." "Shit," I thought to myself, "there's another dead hooker in the trunk." Suddenly I heard the deputy speak into his radio. "I need backup at the silver Ford Taurus at checkpoint 21754. We got a body here." I leaned my head out the window. "There's a perfectly logical explanation for tha...", I attempted, before being met with the deputies harsh "Keep your hands on the fucking wheel!" I obliged.

Two minutes later I heard the deputy on his radio again, "Checkpoint 21754, I'm gonna need to cancel that call for backup. It's just a hooker in the trunk." He approached my window again, completely relaxed and with a chuckle in his voice. "Boy, you really gave us a scare just now. You know you got a hooker in the trunk?" I told him I didn't. "Yeah, they'll sneak up on you! Listen, we're pretty swamped right now and the Chief is a real tight ass about using department resources for dead hooker in the trunk disposal, so would you mind taking care of this for us?" I asked him what he wanted me to do with it. "Just pretend you killed her and you're trying REAL HARD for us not to find her. What do you do?" That night, as I lodged a brick against the gas pedal and watched the rental car fly off the roadside ledge and explode in a blaze of glory, I was real thankful I got the insurance this time.

Three years later there I was, staring at the ripening hooker in my trunk. "Shit," I thought, "It's Saturday."

"That Was Going to be My Next Answer"

2009-12-04T18:43:00.000-08:00

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

The Art of War

2009-12-02T17:29:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-02T12:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-25T00:40:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-23T10:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-20T08:02:00.000-08:00

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.

She'll Bring You Closer

2009-11-19T19:10:00.000-08:00

Trenita doesn't like working. Or paying for things. Or laid back guys. But she DOES like the Nine Inch Nails. A lot. Play them for her. See what happens.

Oh yeah, she also made the Dean's List in 1979 at Temple University.

What Could Have Been

2009-11-19T10:30:00.000-08:00

"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.

Deidra

2009-11-17T20:55:00.000-08:00

Kids don't give a shit about live TV. Deidra Shores doesn't give a shit about live TV. And that's why Deidra Shores is "The Today Show's" #1 Kid Reporter. She just doesn't give a shit.

Patriotism

2009-11-17T20:17:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-17T16:33:00.000-08:00

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...

The Gopher

2009-03-05T06:56:00.000-08:00

This video is honestly magical. The concept is insanely simple but it really proves the power of silly voices. Now it's time to reach up high and reach up low and watch the video.