Last cigarette

I take a hard seat on a wooden bench just outside the front door, a cup for the day's first customer in my right hand, an unlit cigarette in my left. I don't know what time it is exactly but it's evidently a minute or two past whenever most coffee shops open. While a quick glance at my watch could settle the matter, I can't muster the energy. A dozen blocks behind me is the hospital, my wife and our newborn baby. A dozen blocks in front is our two-year-old, at home, waiting with the sitter. I do nothing for about four seconds - just sit there - holding my coffee and my smoke with my mouth no doubt hanging open just enough, my eyelids the perfect amount of heavy, to paint the picture of a man going on no sleep. When my hard-earned four seconds of rest have passed I proceed to spring into action and light the cigarette in a deliberate, almost ceremonial fashion, one strange to anyone who may have been watching this, up until now, lethargic man from across the street. I take a drag and allow my back to find the bench behind me. . .

I am the father of two little girls. More than anything else that's what I am. In terms of what I do and how I do it, although I may not even be conscious of it while I do it, it's done largely for the little girls. Goals, aspirations, not to mention the inevitable twists and turns that are life, remain, but it's safe to say whatever can be dubbed my legacy is set with these little girls. And today that's a notion that's more fortunate than tragic.

So I am blessed. The last cigarette tastes good and for that I am blessed as well. She had to know. Coming home from work making sure the pack was shoved deep inside the coat pocket, always conscious of the smell on the nights I dared a kiss hello. She knew and she held her tongue - perhaps waiting for the perfect moment of accusation, or perhaps resigning to her husband's supposedly secret vice. Likely the former, but nevertheless I got to hand it to her. She held her tongue because I am a good father, a good husband. Because that's what we do. We hold our tongues. And today that's a notion more fortunate than tragic.

So I am lucky. And this last cigarette tastes fantastic and for that I am lucky as well. For what is a final smoke if not one of whole satisfaction - from suck to blow. Shit. I could have been hit by a car any one of a number of times, from the day long ago when I first dared crossing a street, to the walk from the hospital to this very bench where I've crossed twelve streets if I've crossed one. The cars have all spared me. Death has spared me and led me to this day, this day where I celebrate my little girls with this last cigarette.

I wipe tired tears from my face and stand up. I stretch my neck, my back, close my eyes to the sun and force myself to fight the sleep and open them again. A final look at the smoldering butt in my hand before I let it fall to the sidewalk and kill it with the bottom of my shoe. I debate leaving the rest of the pack on the bench where someone else can claim it but choose the finality that is the gesture of flipping $5 worth of nicotine into the trash can on the corner. As I resume my journey home to tell my daughter that she's a big sister my lungs compensate for the sudden jolt back into action and I can't help but notice that my breaths already feel bigger, cleaner. They puff my chest as I cross the street and I text my wife that I love her and that we are making it on our own.

Shaking babies

It's no surprise that the first several hours after a man's first child is born are a whirlwind of sorts. In retrospect, it's really nothing more than a lot of standing, worrying, not sleeping, and attempting to cherish; but at the time, there's this overarching trepidation that you should be doing more - that you should be able to assist with the breast feeding somehow, that there should be an intelligent question you have for the nurse, that you are currently fucking this up big time and you should know better not to be.

This feeling of utter inadequacy lasts until you get your new family out of the hospital and back to your place - away from the doctors and nurses who have witnessed the bumbling husband a thousand times to the stronghold you've spent months creating; with safety gates strategically placed in the doorways you felt would be both effective and convenient, with the crib you built using your brand new socket wrench.

Of course, before you get back to home base, you don't know this. The hours before wife and baby are discharged are fading fast and you still feel as helpless as the kid whose life depends on you. Luckily there's an instructional video or sorts they make all first time parents watch that has the unintended effect of assuring you things aren't as dire as they seem.

The video is about ten minutes long and can be summed up as follows; DO NOT SHAKE YOUR BABY. It shows a variety of poorly performed reenactments of frustrated fathers ill-equipped to deal with crying newborns. With no other foreseeable course of action they feel compelled to shake their babies until they shut up, presumably via broken necks or irreparable brain damage. As alternatives to attempted murder the video offers numerous suggestions for dealing with impending rage, ranging from exercising to watching television. Perhaps it's because you're sleep deprived, but you'll find this video more hilarious than educational. Hilarious in the same way that a tense situation can be diffused with the perfect inappropriate comment. You may find yourself laughing out loud as all of the sudden the wide spectrum of daddy skills becomes evident and you know for the first time you're not going to totally suck at it. Because while you may very well be in over your head a bit with the breast pumps, blanket wrapping techniques, and the bottle temperature wrist test, at least you're not the guy in the video frantically doing push-ups in front of a blaring television why his newborn daughter screams nearby, in need of a diaper change.

At least not today.

The coin case / Lonnie Banderson

At my folks' place over the holidays I noticed a wooden case sitting on the bookshelf in the family room. It immediately caught my eye, partly due to its shiny mahogany finish and partly because the bookshelf's prior arrangement of Time Life materials, outdated encyclopedia set, and photo albums hadn't been altered in over 20 years. It was a display case, one for coins, with a glass top, and it didn't have much of anything in it. My mom, who has the habit of lingering no more than four feet from me whenever I come to visit, began to offer an explanation before I had a chance to ask for one.

"It's your father's. It's a display case for his state quarters."

"How come there are only three quarters in there?"

To this she sighed, then hesitated, as if debating whether or not to attempt to defend him.

"He ordered it a couple months ago. You get a new gold-plated state park quarter every week in the mail."

"OK."

"He decided after the first few quarters came that he couldn't afford it so he canceled the thing."

"But he already paid for the display case?"

"Yes. I suppose you had to pay for that upfront. He said he decided it wasn't worth it."

"So now you're going to keep this display case on the bookshelf with only three quarters in it?"

"Well. . ."

"Well what?"

"I told him that was ridiculous - that if he ordered it in the first place he should keep the thing going until he gets all the quarters. He said he didn't care - that it cost too much money and he never should have ordered it in the first place. He was done with it. . . So I called the number the other day and restarted the delivery or whatever. We should start getting the rest of the coins next week."

"So he canceled it and you re-ordered it?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell Dad that you did that?"

"Yes. Let's just say he's not very happy about it."

zeroth life lesson: There can be no better bitter reminder of one's own perpetual stinginess, indecisiveness, and wife's constant undermining than a full set of gold-plated state quarters permanently on display on one's bookshelf under glass in a gorgeous mahogany case.

A great new game I made up / Krystal Pepsy

Here's how you play!

1. Scroll through all the contacts in your phone and find people who you've either A: lost touch with or B: talk to very very infrequently.

2. Send each of these people a text message that appears as if it was meant for someone else and contains odd information that begs for further clarification (see examples below).

3. Await their reply. Nine times out of ten it will something along the lines of "Huh?" or "???".

4. Reply with something like, "Sorry, that text was meant for someone else" or "Sent to the wrong person. Kindly disregard."

5. Ignore all further inquiries regarding the nature or circumstances surrounding the message.

6. Relish in the fact that this old acquantience is now, no doubt, enamored with your mysterious doings and can't help but think you lead a life far more interesting than theirs.

Examples:

Case Study #1: Text sent to "Glen" (former roommate - no correspondence in the past 4 months)

Me: But once they hosed off the blood it looked like a legitimate skating rink.
Glen: What?
Me: Sorry. Must've hit a wrong button. Texted wrong person. Crazt smart phones. lol!

{ - }

Case Study #2: Text sent to "Kim" (girl I used to have a crush on - no correspondence in 3+ years)

Me: Sort of. Try flipping over and pumping from on top.

Kim: WTF?

Me: Whoops. That text wasn't meant for you.

Kim: I figured that. How have you been?

{ - }

Case Study #3: Text sent to "Ron" (guy I used to do stand-up comedy with - no correspondence in past 3 month)

Me: So I told her my last name was Davenport. She wrote me a check for 5 hundy before the eulogy was even over.

Ron: OK

Me: Sorry dude. That was sent to the wrong person.

Ron: Well I really enjoyed it!

{ - }

Case Study #4: Text sent to "Paul" (old friend from high school - no correspondence in 5+ years).

Me: I swear. She was a bonafide Eskimo. Wholly snatch and all.
Paul: Huh?
Me: Sorry. That was meant for someone else.
Paul: Who could that possibly have been meant for?
Me: Sorry. Doesn't concern you.
Paul: It concerns me now. Now I want to know about the Eskimo.

{ - }

Case Study #5: Text sent to "Mary" (sister of friend - last correspondence unknown)

Me: Two dolphin calves, a barrel full of carp, and a female manatee. They didn't even check my bag. Where should I keep them?

Mary: ???

Me: Whoopsie. That text wasn't meant for you. Do me a favor and kindly keep this under your hat.

{ - }

Case Study #6: Text sent to "Beth" (friend from college who I heard just had a baby - no correspondence in 2+ years)

Me: So with no other obvious options we hid the body in the garage. We call her Carol to this day.

Beth: Huh?

Me: Whoopsie. That was supposed to do to someone else. Congrats on the new addition!!

{ - }

Case Study #7: Text sent to "Tim" (cousin I haven't spoken to since last Christmas)

Me: It couldn't have been me. I haven't been to that particular massage parlor in weeks. It was probably Doug. He has a mask of me.

Tim: Is this Rich? Who is Doug? Mask of you? WTF?

Me: Sorry man. Sent that to the wrong person. See you soon. Say hi to your mom and dad.

{ - }

Case Study #8: Text sent to "Bob" (guy I used to work with 5 years ago)

Me: And that's why we call him Date Rape Charlie.

Bob: Huh?

Me: Sorry Bob. Texting error. Please disregard. Hope all is well!

{ - }

Case Study #9: Text sent to "Joe" (high school buddy haven't talked to in several years)

Me: I didn't have the heart to tell me the peanuts had been jizzed on.

Joe: Whoa. I'm confused dude.

Me: Sorry. That was meant for someone else. Kindly disregard.

Joe: Wait a second. I need an explanation. Holiday party? Sugar coated cocktail peanuts? Or did you really jizz in a nut bowl?

Me: Let's just say it was a long night : )

{ - }

Case Study #10: Text sent to "Ben" (former college roommate - no correspondence really ever - not sure why I even have his number)

Me: Call me asap. She's still breathing and she won't stop mumbling your fucking name.

Ben: [no response]
Me: Hold that thought. She's breathing but she has no recollection of the Knicks game. Please advise.

Ben: [no response]

Me: Whoops. Wrong number. Disregard.

Ben: Rich? Rich Zeroth?

Belated / Grover Difps

Oct. 7th (my birthday):
Hooray for me! What a lucky man I am. A wonderful family who loves me dearly. A roof over my head. A fridge full of food. A damn good dog. What's this? Cards from both my beautiful wife and breath-taking daughter? Not just your run-of-the-mill Hallmark bullshit either. These are handwritten! From the heart. My two-year-old daughter even tried to sign her name. Love that. Gotta catch myself lest I cry here. This is going to be a great birthday.

Oct. 8th (birthday +1):
Odd that I didn't get a gift from my wife yet. I mean the card was nice and all but what husband doesn't get a gift from his wife on his birthday? Things we kind of hectic yesterday. I guess she's just waiting for the right time. That perfect moment. Tomorrow is Saturday. We got nothing going on. I'm sure I'll get my present tomorrow. No need to get worked up.

Oct. 9th (birthday +2):
I know. She must've ordered something online - waited until the last minute. Happens to the best of us. Not to say that springing for express/overnight shipping in order to get it here by my birthday wouldn't have made sense. . . but I guess she decided to save some dough and go with ground. Tough but fair.

Oct. 10th (birthday +3):
No mail today. I'm sure it will arrive tomorrow. Or maybe she plans on taking me shopping today so I can pick out something myself? Yeah, that's it. I'm not the easiest to to shop for after all. I'm sure we'll go this afternoon.

Oct. 11th (birthday +4):
What the fuck? What's the grace period for getting a birthday gift from your spouse? It's been 4 days. You'd think she would have at least said something by now. "Sorry hon, didn't get a chance to get you anything yet but I've got something great picked out in my head. Just need to pick it up after work tomorrow." How hard is that?

Oct. 12th (birthday +5):

Not getting a gift on our anniversary was one thing. We had an agreement. Only cards. No need to splurge on gifts so soon after fitting the bill for the back yard landscaping. But this is my fricking birthday, woman. No way she interpreted the one-time-anniversary-no-gift policy as extending to all future holidays/special occasions. That was made perfectly clear.

Oct. 13th (birthday +6):

I remember her asking what I wanted and I said 'I have everything I could possibly need'. Who takes that literally? All dad's say that. It's part of our code. We say we don't want anything and then we get surprised with something. A crappy tool, a tie, a new dress shirt, at least something. Maybe I was supposed to fill out a list like a fucking 8-year-old. Unbelievable.

Oct. 13th (birthday +7):
I need to concede myself to the fact that she has simply forgot. She's got a lot on her plate. She's a pregnant kindergarten teacher with a 2-year-old that attaches herself to her leg the moment she walks in the door. If getting her husband a birthday gift somehow slipped through the cracks in between being a lunch monitor and reading bedtime stories then so be it.

Oct. 14th (birthday +8):
I take it back. This is ridiculous. I should drop a hint or something. Mention how a coworker bought me a new stapler or some shit. That way she'll at least have to address it. At this point I don't even want a birthday present. I just want her to acknowledge that she chose not to buy me one.

Oct. 15th (birthday +9):

Got a package today. . . from my in-laws. New socks. And a card. Well if my wife needed a hint then this is it. Her parents have officially outperformed her in terms of birthday gift offerings. And they won with a pair of socks. If this doesn't jolt her into action, nothing will.

Oct. 16th (birthday +10):

Maybe she's waiting for me to say something. Like it's some weird pregnant woman hormonal thing. She's feeling vulnerable and protective of her immediate surroundings and she needs me to take the initiative, be the leader, blaze all the trails. I will say "Honey, in regards to my birthday and lack of gift thus far due to your fragile state; I will be requiring a box set of 'The Wire' as well as a new messenger bag. We will now sit side by side and order these items on amazon using your credit card." That's just crazy enough to work.

Oct. 17th (birthday +11):

Yeah I can't say that. She'd tear me a new one. This is some bullshit is what this is. I bust my ass everyday at some bullshit job just so I can pay for some bullshit mortgage for a piece of shit apartment not to mention fucking tuition to some bullshit preschool just so my kid can play with blocks all day and I don't even get a god damned birthday present!?!?! Bullshit!!!

Oct. 18th (birthday +12):

What am I, 12? Flipping out over a birthday present? Take a deep breath. It's not that big of a deal. I've had 30 odd some birthdays and I'll have 30 odd some more. A couple weeks from now I won't even remember this. Relax. So I didn't get a birthday present. Big deal. Life goes on.

Oct. 19th (birthday +13):
I will buy myself something. Something great. Something absurd. I will go all out. We'll see how she likes that.
"Are those. . . cowboy boots?"
"Thanks for noticing. That they are. And you know what? They were expensive. Best ones I could find. I think they have real gold on the tips. And you know what else? I'm not even sure I like them. I've always wanted to see if I could pull off being a guy who wears cowboy boots around and I just decided today to fuck it all and buy a pair. Because that's how I roll baby. I see something I think I might want and I fucking buy it! No, I won't be able to wear them to work."

Oct. 20th (birthday +14):

I'm going about this all wrong. The key here is communication. I'm married to this woman. She's my life partner. Through thick and thin. I should simply sit her down and tell her how I feel, like a loving husband should. Tell her that I realize it's just a stupid birthday gift but that it actually means a lot to me. Tell her that not getting a present really hurt my feelings. I'm an adult for cripes sake. A grown man. Time to start acting like one. There's no reason this misunderstanding can't be settled with a civil conversation.

Oct. 21th (birthday +15):
You know what? Her birthday is next month. How exactly am I supposed to handle that? At some point I have to ask her what she wants for her birthday? That's a hard question to ask without sounding condescending given the current circumstances.

Oct. 22th (birthday +16):
Fuck that. I won't even ask her what she wants for her birthday. I just won't buy her anything. Two can play this game. Let's see how she likes counting the days before her "big" day when she'll get her present then finding herself counting the days after her "big" day as they pass without getting a gad damned thing. Check that - I'll buy her a card.

Oct. 23th (birthday +17):
Hold on. Instead of getting her nothing I'll buy her a whole shit load of birthday gifts! Ha!! Spa passes, flowers, new shoes, mani pedi gift cards, a fucking iPad, you name it. That'll show her. You buy me nothing. I buy you EVERYTHING! It'll make her feel like shit. Now who's on top, sister? I AM A GENIUS!!

Oct. 24th (birthday +18):
In the meantime I can totally keep this whole situation in my back pocket. Pull it out next time she asks me to do anything I don't want to. "You know what? I don't think I'll be attending the kindergarten fall craft festival. I think I'll stay here and watch football. We can CONSIDER IT MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT!" "You know what? I think I'll be eating all the leftover Chinese food myself. CONSIDER IT MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT!" Yeah, that's the ticket.

Oct. 25th (birthday +19):
Wow. If there was even a shred a doubt before. . . I mean, it's official. It's been like 3 weeks. My wife did not buy me a birthday present. That is reality. Yet it doesn't seem real. Maybe if I say it out loud. . .
"My wife did not buy me a birthday present."
Wonder if that guy heard me. Weird thing to say out loud to yourself. Yet it had to be done. So I can accept it. And then hopefully move on. Sort of feel like I've entered a new era here where bitter disappointment is the norm. A whole new realm. No turning back now. Bridges have been burned. Lines have been crossed. Nothing will ever be the same again.

Oct. 26th (birthday +20):

What's this? Oh, thanks babe! You shouldn't have. No, no, I like it I like it. My old messenger bag was all beat up so this one is perfect! Yes, I like the color too. That's very sweet of you. I love it! It's just the kind that I wanted! You know you didn't have to get me anything though.
I love you too.

A good lie / Pervis Nessle

Stable marriages are built around small, impenetrable lies. Sad as it may be, it’s a necessary evil to keep both man and wife on the favorable side of the sanity line. This much he was certain of. Whether or not this particular lie qualified as necessary was debatable. In fact, walking into the bar, the exact reasoning behind the lie momentarily escaped him. As he scoped the front room, then back, for the ideal spot to sit, he re-justified his reasoning and once again felt satisfied. He had a need, a right, to take a couple hours tonight for himself. If a well prepared lie was all that stood between him and that, then so be it.

The lie was this: His wife was under the impression that he was obligated to attend an after work function to see off a coworker whose last day was Friday. Some bar in midtown. No, they weren’t great friends but it was important that he make an appearance. Everyone else was going. He wouldn’t stay long, just a couple of drinks. He felt bad that he couldn’t come home straight after work to help out with their daughter. He knew she’d been a handful as of late. If it were any consolation, he could pick up dinner on the way home.

All bullshit.

All except the baby being a handful that is. That part was true and was the primary reason he sought some solace. The rest, a well orchestrated lie. The bar he sat in wasn’t in midtown and didn’t contain any coworkers. He was only a few blocks from home and the place was empty save for a couple guys at the bar watching a soccer game with no volume. He bought a beer and took a seat in the back room, by himself. He took a sip, then another, before setting the glass on the table and triumphantly leaning back in his chair. Damn he was smart. Not only had he managed to steal a few precious hours for himself, but he had a legitimate excuse to get a little drunk and have a cigarette or two. Choosing a bar close to home was an ingenious, last minute wrinkle as it also allowed him the luxury of loosing track of time to a certain degree. If after, say, three beers he got a call from his wife wondering if he was coming home soon he could say "I'm on my way" and still have time for another full beer before he would be expected to make it back all the way from midtown.

He took out a notebook and started jotting down various story ideas and musings that may or may not be brilliant. Most petered out after a few sentences. The few that lingered inched closer and closer to full-out masterpieces a beer and a half later. And that was the whole point, really. To allow himself to feel like a genius for a brief and stolen stint before returning to all his inadequacies, waiting at home.

His phone rang. It was his wife.

The baby was sick. Throwing up every ten minutes. Could he come home right away.

“Yes, I’m on my way.”

. . . Whether that was another lie was now the matter at hand. If he truly was 'on is way' he'd be home in less than ten minutes, an impossible feat if he indeed was coming from midtown. And while his hasty return would be appreciated, it would no doubt raise questions of how he'd made it home that fast. If he was to stick with the plan, he'd have to wait at least a half hour before leaving to maintain his pristine 'coworker after-work party' alibi.

He mindlessly tapped the phone still in his hand. He took another drink with the other.

The sanctity of this lie, and all others to follow, or the immediate welfare of his firstborn? ? ?

- - -

Two beers and forty minutes later he paid his tab and left the bar, head held high, as proud as he'd walked in.

The tomato incident / Eugene Itsokay

Sophomore year of college I lived in a rundown house with seven friends. Not yet blessed with the capacity to purchase groceries at regular intervals we lucked out as the building directly across the street offered a student meal plan. For a parent-fitted monthly fee all we had to do was muster the energy to put on some pants and a fully prepared breakfast, lunch, or dinner was a mere 50 feet away.

The place had a buffet style, all you can eat, punch card policy. Each time you walked in you gave your name, presented your card, and got checked off. It didn't take us too long to figure out that the way to get the most bang for your buck was to make it there for breakfast, stuff your face with eggs and hash browns, then smuggle out food for lunch and/or dinner. Multiple meals for a single card punch was the goal. Since the breakfast bar offered a nice spread of bagels and cold cuts the 'ole "fully loaded bagel sandwich tucked into the hooded sweatshirt" became a daily staple. I took great pride in this sandwich - toasted bagel with turkey, ham, roast beef, mayo, mustard, lettuce, and tomato. Take it home, wrap it in tinfoil, pop it in the fridge, head off to morning classes and come home for lunch to enjoy 'Divorce Court' and my bagel sandwich. It was a daily routine. I had a pretty good thing going.

One day I came home from class, flipped on the TV, and bit into my precious bagel sandwich only to realize something was missing. No tomatoes. I thought back to that morning's breakfast and could swear I added the sliced tomatoes same as I had every other morning for the past several weeks. There'd be no reason I wouldn't have. Some asshole had stolen my tomato slices. On the surface it didn't seem that big of a deal but the fact that one of my roommates took the trouble to carefully unwrap my sandwich, deconstruct it, remove the tomato slices, rebuild it, and rewrap it the same as before hoping I'd never notice bore a level of brashness and entitlement I couldn't leave unexposed.

"Did someone take the tomato slices off of my sandwich?"

The question was answered with guffaws and fierce dismissal. Who the fuck would bother taking a couple soggy tomato slices off your stupid sandwich they said. I was an fucking idiot they said. Shut the fuck up and eat your fucking sandwich they said.

I couldn't let it go. Months later, drunk at some bar I'd routinely pull roommates aside and sequester them. "Look man, about those tomato slices. I know you didn't do it but c'mon. It was Jimmy, right? No? It was Garrett then? Dude, I'm not even mad about it anymore. I just want to know who did it." No one was talking. They grew sick of the interrogations and retaliated with vulgar insults of varying accuracy. I conceded that I'd never find out what happened to those tomatoes.

Ten years since that troubling day I'd all but forgot about the sandwich. It was my wedding day. I was starting a life free from such controversies. 'My' tomato slices were now 'our' tomato slices. I could finally move on. The night was coming to an end. The dj was in the homestretch. Those who weren't dancing to "You Shook Me All Night Long" were busy gathering their suit jackets or heels. I was debating the pros and cons of one more beer when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to receive a heartfelt embrace from Jeremy, a close friend, a trusted confidant, and sophomore year roommate.

"It was me," is all he said. It was all that had to be.

Memorable moments from birthday's past / Greta Yank

33 - 10/7/2010: Steak thawing in the fridge. So far so good. . .
32 - 10/7/2009: Allowed to sleep in and relieved of diaper changing and dog walking duties for the day.
31 - 10/7/2008: New Socks! Some sex.
30 - 10/7/2007: Ice cream cake in conference room B
29 - 10/7/2006: Nice dinner with wife followed by 'Revenge of the Sith' on DVD.
28 - 10/7/2005: Ice cream cake in conference room C
27 - 10/7/2004: Cordial dinner at respectable restaurant with responsible and trusted friends that results in a drunken shit-show nonetheless.
26 - 10/7/2003: Parents come to visit. They buy me some work slacks.
25 - 10/7/2002: Call in sick to work and try to write a movie script. It goes just OK.
24 - 10/7/2001: $15 check from grandma used to roll joint.
23 - 10/7/2000: Fucking Zoology exam
22 - 10/7/1999: Received stack of porn from roommate.
21 - 10/7/1998: Allowed to dj at the after-bar. A lot of Fatboy Slim was played.
20 - 10/7/1997: Denied access to 'Wando's' with a pretty good fake Michigan ID
19 - 10/7/1996: Denied access to 'The Flamingo' with terrible fake Nebraska ID
18 - 10/7/1995: Doolian's parents out of town. Kegger. Wore cool new leather jacket hoping Shelly Fraser would show up. Passed out. Face drawn on. Shelly hooks up with Tod Mayberry. Jacket Lost.
17 - 10/7/1994: Cool Water cologne bitches!!
16 - 10/7/1993: Oh so lame pizza party attended by remaining friends who didn't yet drink. 'Faces of Death 2' rented and watched. Boobs talked about at great length.
15 - 1992: World's greatest pizza party attended by all the coolest guys in school. 'Faces of Death' rented and watched. Boobs talked about at great length.
14 - 10/7/1991: Thanks Mom for the expensive acne medication!
13 - 10/7/1990: Went to my first PG-13 movie without the accompaniment of an adult (Days of Thunder).
12 - 10/7/1989: Got a sweet friendship bracelet from Angela Mindel. She totally wanted me.
11 - 10/7/1988: Traded a '87 Will Clark Donruss for a Topps Bo Jackson rookie
10 - 10/7/1987: Had sleepover where Jeffrey Meyers peed his pants and had to leave early.
9 - 10/7/1986: Pretty pissed off about getting socks from grandma.
8 - 10/7/1985: Asked for Jet Fire. FUCKING RECEIVED JET FIRE!!
7 - 10/7/1984: Too old for Cookie Monster cake. Publicly shamed.
6 - 10/7/1983: Wanted He-Man. Received 3 He-Men. Proceeded to trade extra two for Shipwreck & Man-At-Arms. Win-win.
5 - 10/7/1982: Ant farm sucks
4 - 10/7/1981: Disappointment surrounding new laser gun's lack of actual lasers.
3 - 10/7/1980: I am a cowboy. Seriously. Also balloons are awesome.
2 - 10/7/1979: FROSTING!!
1 - 10/7/1978: STOP LOOKING AT ME!! WHY IS EVERYONE YELLING!!
0 - 10/7/1977: Not a fan of the whole breathing oxygen thing. Also it is cold and not nearly wet enough.

For who am I to judge / Sven Bewb

Whenever I take my daughter to the playground and discover a pile of human excrement left by a homeless person I try to catch myself from rushing to judgement and make it a point to consider that the reason it's so massive is because they had held it in for so long, that squatting underneath the twisty slide was probably a last resort type of thing.

Excerpt from the Sistinass Sessions: Jail / Chantel Chromodom

Two college roommates stand at the kitchen counter of their apartment. It’s late on a week night. Their other roommates have already gone to bed but these two are wide awake. They are not drunk or high or otherwise under the influence.

Mike: What time is it?

Rich: Two something.

M: So now what?

R: [with more than a hint of frustration] I don’t know man.

M: Watch a movie?

R: No. No. No.

M: Why not?

R: We just did that. We need to be doing something. Something different than this.

M: What then?

R: I’m not sure, but it should be sweet.

M: Right.

R: I’ll tell you what I’d like to do.

M: What’s that?

R: I’d like to go to jail.

M: What? Why?

R: Because that’s the easiest way to get things done and figure things out.

M: What do you mean?

R: It’s like this. Here we are right here, right?

M: Sitting in this apartment.

R: Correct.

M: Looking for something to do.

R: Yes. Searching for an idea.

M: But we got nothing.

R: That’s the thing. We don’t have nothing. We have too many things. Too many options.

M: OK.

R: I mean we could watch a movie. We could still hit up last call and grab a drink somewhere. There’s probably some studying that we should be doing. You could call Jamie what’s her face. I could go into my room and rub one out. It goes on and on.

M: Right. So let’s do something!

R: But none of those things are what we should be doing. We should be figuring life out. Philosophying. Documenting our thoughts and ideas on paper, man! Getting to the bottom of all the bullshit. But we sit here.

M: Like idiots.

R: Yes!!! Like a couple of idiots.

M: So how does jail come into play exactly?

R: In jail it’s all laid out for you. It’s all right there. A bare room, a modest bed, and crapper, and your thoughts. That’s what we need.

M: Then you’ll be able to figure it all out?

R: Yes. Here there are too many options. Too much responsibility. In jail you get the solitary factor going for you so you can easily focus. Like a laser beam. High potential for real productivity.

M: OK. But you’re in jail though.

R: Exactly. It would be perfect.

M: But how would you get in jail?

R: I don’t know. Some petty crime or something.

M: It would have to be serious enough to get you thrown into jail though. It couldn’t be shoplifting or anything like that.

R: Maybe I rob a bank, or I beat a guy up pretty bad or something.

M: Who would you beat up?

R: I don’t know. Paul maybe?

M: Paul Withers?

R: Sure. Why not? That guy is kind a prick. Could use a good ass kicking.

M: So you kick the shit out of Paul Withers, get charged with assault and battery or something, get convicted, get thrown into jail, and then figure out the secret to life.

R: Pretty much, yeah. That's the idea. I’m not necessarily saying I’ll figure out the secret to life or anything. I’m just saying that jail would be the perfect environment for that. Jail is the place to really get stuff done. It would be so much easier.

M: Right. Too many restrictions here in the real world.

R: Yes! Exactly. Now you get it. It’s like we’re in some sort of prison here or something.

M: Uh huh.

R: And I want the freedom that jail provides.

M: [dumbfounded / speechless]

R: Until I get thrown into jail, I’m fucked. It’s all pointless.

M: So. . . You want to go track down Paul Withers?

R: Not tonight. It's too late. Maybe tomorrow.

M: Big Lebowski then?

R: Sure.

Excerpt from the Sistinass Sessions: Pop's thoughts on writing / Tory Toppart

So Dad, what makes good writing in your opinion?

Well to me, good writing needs to keep your interest. There are a lot of times when I read a book and, I don’t know, it seems to go into too much detail explaining things that aren’t that important. That’s one reason I like textbooks. They get right to the point. Lately I’ve been looking through my old calculus text book from college. Trying to work through some of those problems to keep my mind sharp. Man, some of that stuff gets pretty hard. I like those Suduko puzzles too. Some of those can get pretty difficult too though. Sometimes I just have to give up on them.

OK. But Sudoku puzzles really don’t qualify as literature. What other types of things do you like to read?

I like reading about war. I’m telling you what those guys went through in World War II or the Korean War or Vietnam? It was something else. Those stories really make you appreciate - I mean war is so much different nowadays. I don’t think soldiers now have to make their way through jungles with viet cong waiting in the trees. I mean those guys were completely out of their element. The Americans I mean. I used to get these Time Life books but after a while it just got too expensive and the books weren’t as good. Sometimes the best things about them were the pictures really. I don’t know how they ever got some of those photographs. They were right in the action. They were unbelievable. I think some of those pictures even won some awards.

Do you have a favorite author?

Jerry Kramer wrote a book about the 1967 Green Bay Packers called ‘Instant Replay’. That book has to be one of my favorites. It was all about the players back then and coach Lombardi. I tell you what, Vince Lombardi knew how to motivate those guys. What a coach! I don’t think they’ll ever be another coach like that. And the things those guys got away with. There were some pretty funny stories about players sneaking out of their rooms at night and going to bars and meeting up with ladies and stuff. I don’t know if Lombardi ever really found out about that but if he did I’m sure he’d give them a good talking to. Ha!

Did Jerry Kramer write any other books?

I don’t think so. He was a speaker at our high school my senior year. He was a real nice guy. He was a hell of a player too. He played right guard I think. And when he played the Packers had one of the best running games in the NFL. They had this play called the power sweep and it was almost unstoppable. I don’t know if Jerry Kramer made the NFL Hall of Fame or not but he should if you ask me. I mean, he was something else.

Thanks for your time.

The grocery list / Ramona Hornblowa

Here's another video I created at xtranormal.com. The original script was a prior blog post that can be read here.

Marking the occasion / "Pipes"

Born on 4/23/08 @ 9:34 pm

Loose change / Karen Carbone Kraut

He was running a little late if he hoped to stop at the bank and still make it to work on time.

Bounding up the platform stairs, two at a time, the extra weight in his messenger bag became all the more evident. He almost tripped while trying to steady the suddenly swinging pendulum hanging from his shoulder but steadied himself on the hand railing and saved certain disaster before emerging from the subway station into the frosty Manhattan morning.

Double-timing it across 6th avenue despite a traffic signal that suggested otherwise, he headed to the bank. He thought it best to get there early rather than deal with a potential line at lunch. The only thing more depressing than spending an evening meticulously counting loose change would be a chance encounter with a coworker while waiting in line at the bank holding multiple rolls of nickels.

He was planning how he'd properly finance the next three days with just three pounds of change when he heard the first metallic splash behind him. Odd, he thought. Before his mind had a chance to process the immanent tragedy the second splash confirmed the now creeping dread but by then it was too late. He turned around just in time to see the last of the fifty dimes from the first broken paper roll come to rest on the sidewalk some 15 feet behind him. The busted roll of pennies that was the second splash appeared to be salvageable. Perhaps he could escape this rapidly deteriorating scene yet. While examining the messenger bag for the method of the coins' escape the remaining money (two rolls of quarters, a roll of dimes, and a roll of nickels) spilled from the undetected hole in the bottom left corner. Each roll exploded upon impact, creating an ever expanding perimeter of copper, zinc, nickel, and shame.

Now on his hands and knees, he scrambled in futile fashion to complete two opposing tasks - clean the sidewalk of this unsightly, worthless mess and recover as much of his net worth as quickly as possible. His only hope was that the countless shoes he saw walk on by wouldn''t belong to the same people that he'd see at the bank, over lunch, where he hoped to have his pockets filled with $42.50 of uncounted and unrolled, loose change.

Actual straight-faced conversation I had with my wife the other day / Lionel Truthobel

Me: We got some time before the bus comes. I think I might go and get something we can eat on the way.

Wife: Where are you going to go?

Me: There’s that Quiznos a few blocks down. That work for you?

Wife: Yeah.

Me: What kind of sandwich do you want?

Wife: Do they have veggie?

Me: I would imagine so.

Wife: Then I’ll have that. With whatever veggies they have, mustard and mayo.

Me: What if they don’t have a veggie sandwich?

Wife: Then I guess I’ll have turkey.

Me: And what would you want on the turkey sandwich?

(after a brief moment of consideration)

Wife: I guess whatever veggies they have, mustard and mayo.

Me: On wheat?

Wife: On wheat.

A last minute prophesy / Ned Den

It started out as just an every day excursion, a quick trip to the neighborhood ATM to get some cash. About a half block away from the bank he suddenly got the feeling that something big was about to happen, as if his own fate were reaching down and shaking him awake from his day-to-day stupor through life. His senses were suddenly heightened and he became aware of each step he took, the significant event only a few moments, a few feet, away. Each passerby seemed to do so in slow motion, oblivious to his fast approaching wonderment. Suddenly he could hear far off birds chirping, make out every word of surrounding cell phone chatter, and was cognizant of the sound of tires crunching the gravel on the street. It was seconds away now. He took in a breath through his nose knowing it might be his last as the man he knew. Nothing would ever be the same.

And then it happened.

There, exiting the bank, walking in the opposite direction, was none other than Steve Buscemi.

My dad explaining Avatar to my uncle / Flinch Hindsight

We saw this movie the other day. Arvantard I think it was. At first I didn't think it would have much of a plot because it was one of those action movies but it turned out to be pretty good. They had these creatures that lived in this, like, fantasy world or something. But the regular people needed their land for gold or some other type of important fuel or treasure. To tell you the truth I don't know what it was they were after but they basically just tore the place to shreds. It was pretty incredible really. Then they had this group of scientists that came up with a way to get into the creatures bodies. They could then control them and try to learn their ways. Well one of these guys was a marine and he ended up becoming their leader basically. The Nabi I think they were called. The creatures I mean. The Nabi. Yeah, I think that was it. Nabi. You know it would be interesting to see if there was an Indian tribe called the Nabi because the whole story was kind of like the Indians here. You know with the land and all that plus they kind of dressed like Indians. They were also really connected to nature. Yeah I remember that. When the Army came and blew up their tree home you could tell that the Nabi were really screwed at that point. Not that we ever did anything that bad to the Indians or anything but the message was pretty clear.

Anyway I thought the movie was really something.

Monk book regret / Hum Neeber

You should have bought the weird book from that monk guy. What the fuck were you thinking?

Shit.

It's too late now. You said "sorry" and "no thanks" and walked onto the subway leaving the monk guy standing on the platform, smiling.

He didn't seem crazy or anything. And he seemed to really want you to have his book. It all happened so fast it's hard to remember exactly what he said - something along the lines of "you look like a kind person" or "I couldn't help but notice you were an interesting individual". Whatever it was it didn't sound like the typical bullshit you hear from the guy begging for change outside the deli or the guy trying to sell his hip hop cd's. Actually that's not entirely true. The words themselves were the same bullshit but this time, with this guy, it somehow seemed sincere. Then he said his name was Ben or Bret or Andy or something and he was a monk. Then the train started coming. That's what fucked it all up - that fucking train. You looked at the train and he saw you look at the train so then he looked at the train and he knew he had to hurry. He pulls out this book and opens it to a page with a picture of a bunch of people standing in a row holding what looked to be a string of lights. The monk said "we started out here" and pointed to a person standing on the far end of the row. Then he pointed to the other end of the row and said "now we're here". The folks holding the lights might have been naked. You're not sure, you just nodded your head. By then train had arrived and the doors were opening. The monk had run out of time and could explain no more. He offered to give you the book and only asked for a small donation in return. You politely refused.

And now you're here.

And there he goes.

Fuck!

This guy, this book, could have changed everything. I mean it probably wouldn't have but what did you have to lose? All he wanted was a donation to cover the printing costs. That seemed reasonable. I mean this wasn't just a pamphlet or anything. This was a legitimate hard cover book with glossy color pictures. It could have been yours for $5. Fuck that, it could've been yours for $2. He definitely would have sold it for $2. Monks don't haggle. Christ, if you weren't so quick to dismiss him he might have given it to you for free. But no, you let your inherent misgivings of strangers yield the controls once again and you left the monk, his book, and his teachings standing there on the platform. Nice. And here you on your way back to your same old life coming from your tired old job.

Fate brought the monk to you. If you had waited for the next train the monk would've explained that to you. He would've answered your questions about God. You would've said, "Of course!" and "Exactly!" and "It all makes sense now!" Real change could have happened.

But you couldn't give a stranger $2. You couldn't wait for the next train and be a little late for dinner.

You should go back.

He's probably still there - looking for other kind people. That's it. You should totally go back!! . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Fuck it. That would take forever.

An everyday conversation / Gwen Pathogen

Dinner is ready. ¹

I'll be there in a minute.²

Do you want me to dish you up?³

Sure.⁴

Are we sitting at the table?⁵

Doesn't matter to me.⁶

Do you want wine?⁷

Sure.⁸

Here you go.⁹

Mmm. What did you marinate this or something?¹⁰

Soy sauce and ginger.¹¹

It's good.¹²

So how was your day?¹³

Fine. How was yours?¹⁴

Busy.¹⁵

Well tomorrow is Friday.¹⁶

Do we have anything going on this weekend?¹⁷

I have a work thing on Friday. Shouldn't be too late though.¹⁸

Is that your holiday party?¹⁹

Yeah.²⁰

I thought you had your holiday party last week.²¹

That was for the department. This one is for the whole company.²²

I was thinking we could go check out coffee tables at the flea market tomorrow. ²³

Sounds good to me.²⁴

I'll find out what time they open.²⁵

__________________________________________

¹Dinner is ready.

²Start without me.

³Are you too lazy to put food on your plate?

⁴I am too lazy to put food on my plate.

⁵Are you going to shut off the television?

⁶Can't we just eat in front of the television?

⁷Are you going to get drunk again tonight?

⁸I think I'll go ahead and get drunk tonight.

⁹Say you don't like it. I dare you.

¹⁰How do you manage to fuck up chicken?

¹¹Fuck you.

¹²I hate it.

¹³So. Did you get a chance to dispose of the bodies?

¹⁴I took care of the hooker. I thought we agreed we'd let the meter man live?

¹⁵Whoops.

¹⁶I cherish the fact that we're both so comfortable joking about death.

¹⁷I assume we'll continue to work on the time machine this weekend?

¹⁸If I make it back it time. Shouldn't be a problem though.

¹⁹Make it back from where?

²⁰The future.

²¹I thought you'd already come back from the future.

²²I did but I came back too far. I'm now about an hour and ten minutes behind us.

²³Maybe we could waste some time checking out coffee tables at the flea market tomorrow so you could catch up.

²⁴That just might work.

²⁵I'll find out what time they open.

Ditching the smokes / Hal Hetchemburgersonwaldersheim

He always found Christmas shopping to be one of the more underrated New York City experiences. Sure the lines were long and stores were hot and crowded. Sure the crosswalks were often submerged in slush and filth and the places he needed to go widely spread throughout the city. But still, the satisfaction of dropping a load of shopping bags inside your front door after a successful excursion in the city far surpassed the same feeling after pulling into a driveway with a trunk full of gifts after a trip to some mall. The glory was in the endeavor itself. Why anyone would prefer to drive to a mall in a single trip when one could navigate their way through numerous stops in various neighborhoods of the greatest city in the world was beyond him.

He only had one stop left. The place that gave the foot massages his wife enjoyed was about twenty blocks southeast. He could take the R or N to 23rd street or he could head over to Grand Central first at the oft chance that he'd happen upon a side store selling the "Welcome to New York. Duck Mother Fucker" t-shirts he knew his brother-in-law would appreciate before hopping on the 6 train.

He had just decided to skip the subway altogether and complete the final leg of his trip by foot. This would allow him ample time to enjoy a single forbidden cigarette, certainly one of his last before he quit his dirty secret for good with a single determined new year resolution. With an unlit smoke hanging from his lips he was perusing the passersby for likelihood of having a light when the scaffolding he was standing under suddenly collapsed, trapping him beneath two tons of metal, snow, wire, and ice. His back broken and his lungs filling with blood he reached into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes he wasn't supposed to own. He managed to retrieve them and with a flick of the wrist they were now laying closer to an older woman with a white hat who appeared to be dead. In his life's waning moments he found relief that although Christmas was ruined and his daughter would grow up without a father, at least when his wife came to identify the body she wouldn't have to claim, amongst the bags of gifts found 'on his person', a pack of smokes.