Hope You're Havin' Fun With the Bean Bag

It's only been a week since I last saw Wah-Kee, but a lot changed in that week. He met a hairdresser and they went on a date. I don't know if he met her at a party and then got a haircut, or he asked her out while she was doing his hair. All I knew is what Jose told me: that his Chinese guy mullet is no more and he now looks like a boy band member, circa 1999. I got to see it myself at his birthday party Friday night.

I got him a card with some money and a printout of a website I found, www.wah-kee.com. It's a Chinese food place in Madison, WI.




Michele dropped Brianna off at my parent's house and we went over to Jose's place. Nick, Hedie, Wah-Kee and his hair showed up about half an hour later. Huh. He now has short hair with little brown streaks all over the place. He says it's "bleached." It looks like some kid took a burnt umber crayon and went to town on his head. Here's hoping it works out and she's not just using him as a guinea pig for her weird hair experiments.



A little later on Ali and Catlin showed up. For the longest time Jose was obsessed with Ali, even though she constantly shot him down and basically treated him like crap. Wah-Kee liked Catlin, then he may or may not have had something with Ali. That was during the summer, and I guess it put Nick, Jose and Wah-Kee's friendships in danger. I'm not sure when this turned into Melrose Place. I missed a lot, being a whole town away and all.

We spent the night watching a Ron White DVD, drinking some cheap yet magical Boone's Farm green liquor, and playing Taboo and Hoopla well into the night. I called the green stuff "inspiration juice," but it didn't really help my game at all. It didn't hinder it, either. Turns out I just choke whenever I'm playing a board game. We used to play Clue at Nick's house. I won the first two games, and I haven't won since. I once said "Hello, old man" after getting Col. Mustard. If you ever play Clue, don't do that. And then there was the whole Miss White ordeal. I hate her.

The party was great. Catlin got Wah-Kee a giant pair of granny panties that she told him were hers. We all had a good time, although every once in a while Jose had to remind us to keep it down so the neighbors wouldn't complain. By the time we left it was too late to wake up Brianna, so we went back to my parent's house for the night.

On Saturday Michele and I went into Boston to go Christmas shopping. We spent most of the day there, but nothing worth mentioning here. I guess if I was a chick I'd say something like "Omigod, I saw the cutest pair of shoes!" But really not much happened. It was just nice to be alone together for awhile.

During the train ride home, I kept hearing this weird noise. It was a little boy's voice. I couldn't make out what he was saying right away; only the "ding-DONG" rhythm he was saying it in. The doors on the train make the same noise before they open. At first, it sounded like "green beans."

green beans,
green beans...

He kept doing that. The whole time. Eventually, I could hear him better, and he was actually saying "bean bag". It was some kind of song. Or unholy chant, I'm not really sure.

bean bean,
bean bag
bean bean,
bean bag
hope you're havin' fun with the be-ean bag,
hope you're havin' fun with the be-ean bag
bean bean,
bean bag...

We got back to my parents house and picked up Brianna, who had been watching tapes of soap operas with my mom. Apparently she watched them Friday, too. She was all into it. She said "Chloe was in an accident, but she's still alive!" I told her it was time to go, but she said she wanted to find out "what happens to Chloe and the baby." My mom said the baby was actually on a different soap. My God. Two days and she's addict to daytime TV.

Despite everything that happened this weekend, all I can think about is that damn bean bag song. It just keeps playing over and over in my head.

bean bean,
bean bag
bean bean,
bean bag
hope you're havin' fun with the be-ean bag,
hope you're havin' fun with the be-ean bag

That kid's going to haunt my dreams.

kid: You must kill your neighbor's dog. So says the bean bag.
Me: Yes, master. All hail the mighty bean bag. Bean bean, bean bag...

Read more »

Hell's Radio

Where do bad folks go when they die? No one knows for sure, but I'll bet they play America's top 40 there. All day, every day. Somewhere in the depths of the sulfuric abyss, the wretched souls of the damned are forced to endure the pre-recorded bleeting Ashlee Simpson for all eternity.

And what cruel fate awaits the worst specimens humanity has to offer? An eternal loop of Move Ya Body by Nina Sky and a guy who calls himself Jabba.

I've heard this song more times in the past few months than any human being deserves to. Sure, they mix it in with a bunch of other terrible songs to ensure that no part of your spirit remains uncrushed, but this song takes that extra step that makes you want to actually go out and buy the CD so you can snap it in half and slit your wrists with the shattered pieces.

The part with the women singing isn't really too bad. It's not great, but it doesn't make me want to kill myself. But then near the end that Jabba guy starts shouting orders.



Dear God is that annoying. He's some kind of dance music drill sergeant. If you don't move your body, it's two hours in the Hole, maggot! I guess I can move my body well enough, but I don't know if I can handle all that alternating-speed winding.

I just hope there's a special place in Hell for everyone associated with this song. Jabba should be forced to slow wind while listening to himself shout "Slow wind" until the end of time. Maybe even longer than that.

Read more »

I Fall to Pieces

Quick story: When I was in second grade, I went to at a friend's house. He had this steep hill in his back yard. We started to walk down, but I slipped on a rock. I started to roll down the hill and didn't stop until I hit a tree. When I sat up, I noticed my pants were ripped and my leg was bleeding. I started to freak out.

My leg! My leg!

My mom came and got me and we went to the hospital. The whole time I kept screaming "My leg! My leg!"

The doctor looked me over. It seemed I had a small concussion and my left arm was broken in three places. There was nothing wrong with my leg.


Other than that I had a pretty good track record when it comes to injury. I'm very flexible. People used to call me Gumby. Those people were assholes. The point is, I bend but don't break. Or so I thought.

Thanksgiving a few years ago I was playing football in Nick's backyard. In retrospect, I had no business playing football to begin with. When I was a kid I used to strike out in tee-ball. Tee-ball! Who knew that was even possible? But it wasn't a big deal since none of us were teeming with athletic ability.

We pretty much made up our own rules. There was only five or six people on each team, and we didn't really have anything to mark downs, so every carry was all or nothing.

About an hour into the game, we did a running play, because I can't catch. The ball was snapped and I ran. I ran like hell. Faking left. Dodging right. I was unstoppable. As I drew closer to our makeshift end zone (a shrub) I could smell victory. Except it wasn't victory, it was booze, and it was coming from Nick's dad, TJ. He was on the other team, and even though I could zip by everyone else I was never able to get past him. I was supposed to be covered by this big lumberjack of a guy named Billy, but I sort of ran past him. He would have come in handy, but instead I went over TJ's shoulders and landed on my neck. I heard a loud crack noise, like when you bite into hard candy, and immediately thought I broke my glasses. But they were fine. Everyone ran over to ask if I was alright and I got up and said I was fine, I just felt a little weird. Then someone noticed my shoulder. It didn't look right. I thought maybe it just popped out and asked if someone would put it back in place. It didn't hurt, it just felt...different.

My friends took me to the emergency room. But not before calling my parents. I really didn't want my mom to know about this because just a few weeks before my health insurance was cancelled and I hadn't renewed it. She kept nagging me to get it renewed, but I figured "What could possibly happen?" So she was more pissed than concerned.

After sitting in the emergency room for a few hours, a doctor looked at me. But first I had to fill out a ton of paperwork because I had no insurance. They took x-rays, gave me a sling and said my collarbone was broken and will heal itself in about eight weeks. They didn't even do anything, but I had to pay more money than I care to mention for it. I was still able to have Thanksgiving dinner, except now my shoulder, which hadn't hurt all day because it was numb, started to hurt like crazy.

Maybe I'll play again this year. My collarbone never really healed quite right, so it sticks out a little. So I should break the other one so they look the same. I have insurance now...

Read more »

Another Malfunction

This morning on ESPN.com I saw yet another article about the Desperate Housewives promo on Monday Night Football. The FCC is going to decide whether or not to fine ABC for airing it.

If you're like me and you live with your girlfriend and only have one TV, you probably weren't watching football Monday night. But according to the article, the skit went like this:

Nicollette Sheridan is standing in the locker room with Terrell Owens, who I will never refer to as "TO" I just can't. Shorthand bugs me. It sounds like you're trying too hard to be cool. Like "lol." In all my time online, I have never written "lol." Damn, I just did. Twice. Well, except for just now, I never did. Anyway, she's standing there wearing only a towel and asking Owens to skip the game. She drops the towel and jumps into his arms. The article then points out that Owens is black and Sheridan is white.

And that's the thing that I don't get. I mean, some people are complaining that it was too racy. I can understand that. Even though both shows start at 9 PM, odds are there's more younger kids watching football than a nighttime soap, even if it is the must-see runaway hit of the season. It was inappropriate. So that at least makes sense.

But that's not the reason for all the uproar. It's not because people think it's racy, it's because they think it's racist. That's what Indianapolis coach Tony Dungy said after seeing it.

"To me that's the first thing I thought of as an African-American," he said.

"I think it's stereotypical in looking at the players, and on the heels of the Kobe Bryant incident I think it's very insensitive. I don't think that they would have had Bill Parcells or Andy Reid or one of the owners involved in that."

So, he wasn't upset about the naked white woman, but the fact that there was a black guy with the naked white woman.

Let's think about this for a second. ABC wants to promote their show, so they decide to do a segment with an actress from the show and a player from the game they were about to broadcast, the Eagles vs. the Cowboys. I've never seen Desperate Housewives, but I would think that most of the plot revolves around promiscuous women. Who are housewives. And desperate. So you know anything advertising the show would play that up. Now all they need is a player to make the NFL connection. Sure, they could have gone with Vinny Testaverde...

Who is that guy? Is he on the show?

I think it's Vinny Testaverde.

My God, I thought he was dead!

No, as much as it pains José, the Eagles owned a 7-1 record going into the game and were clearly the hotter team. So ABC went with Philly. Philadelphia's quarterback, Donovan McNabb, is black. Terrell Owens, their "look at me!" star player, is black. So they went with Owens. Big deal. Now, if it had shown him celebrating afterwards by taking a Sharpie out of his sock and signing her naughty bits, then I could see where that would be in poor taste. But making a stink because the guy is black is just stupid.

The Patriots are playing this Monday. If they had waited a week and did the promo with Nicollette and whitebread Tom Brady, I guarantee no one would have complained. Except maybe Bridget Moynahan.

Read more »

Killer Hobos!

Last night I didn't get out of work until 7:30. And since the sun sets a little after noon these days, it was pretty dark when I started walking to the station. Along the way I was stopped by a guy who smelled like he was basted in Jack Daniels. He stood in front of me so I couldn't move.

"Hi. How are you doin'? I'm Nate. And first of all, I'm Nate." He said, grabbing my hand giving it an au pair shake. He actually told me his last name too, but I forgot it. Which is kind of pathetic, since he told me twice. At this point I had my hands in my pockets searching for change to make the smelly road block go away.

"I need you to do something for me. I just got out of Walpole prison and I...blah blah balh" Prison? Great. There was a bunch of people around, so at least I was fairly certain he wasn't going to shank me. I don't know if he mentioned that he was in prison looking for sympathy or intimidation, and I didn't really care. I just wanted him to make his point so I could be on my way. At some point during all this, he hugged me. After that I checked to see if my wallet was still there. He also probably told me he was Nate a few more times.

He said he needed ten dollars. I gave him fifty cents and said that's all I had. He said "Come on, man. I need ten dollars."

Are you kidding me? Who asks for ten dollars? Most people wouldn't even give the guy fifty cents and he wants ten bucks! I'd think it's a safe assumtion that he had ten bucks an hour ago when he got hammered. I gave him two quarters, patted him on the shoulder, said "good luck" and walked away. I was half expecting him to whip out a gun and blow a hole throw my chest. So much so that I was shaking from when I turned the corner all the way to the subway platform. He didn't, right? I started to wonder if I was like Bruce Willis walking around oblivious while my bullet-riddled body lay twitching on Stuart Street in front of Seven Eleven. I called Michele just to be sure I was still alive. As you may have guessed, I was.

Then I started wondering what would have happened if I had implemented my "In Case of Mugging" plan. Basically, I pretend I'm mentally-challanged and talk really loud.

Hi Nate! My name's Billy!

No Nate! You can't have my money! My daddy gave me this money, Nate!

Hey, it could work.

Read more »

Yessir, Arafat

The headline on my internet browser is "Arafat's Condition Deteriorates Rapidly." Well, an hour ago it said he was dead, so I'd say his condition is improving. Unless he's so dead that he's actually starting to decompose, like when that guy drank from the wrong grail. He chose...poorly.



Now it says he's dead again.

Hold on, no...it's back to deteriorating.

Geez, what's going on over there? All I can picture is a bunch of people huddled over this guy's bed, and he keeps sitting up, then falling back down. Then they start to walk away and he sits back up again. "Rrrrr! Must...kill...Jews!" Then drops dead again. Like Jason or Freddy.

Speaking of things that have nothing to do with that, I've been listening to this group the Secret Machines ever since I simultaneously discovered them and that I had MTV2. They're from Texas, but they started in New York and they sound like Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, even Radiohead. Good stuff.

Read more »

Same as the Old Boss

Last week, Johnny Damon and a group of self-professed "idiots" won the World Series. Tuesday, the trend of idiots winning continued with the re-election of George W. Bush. For a while now I had wondered who could have lived in this country for the past four years and said, "Hey, let's do that again!" Well, apparently the answer is: Just over half the country.

Today, people all across America are cheering, "Hooray! Now things will change, because Bush is president again! Wait. Fuck, we're idiots."

I'm still trying to figure out the hypnotic grip this guy has on people. On the plus side, he did get Saddam Hussein, but...we were after Osama Bin Laden. Remember that guy? It's like asking for a puppy for Christmas and getting a goldfish. I'm not saying capturing Saddam Hussein wasn't a good thing, but I think it could have waited until the guy that actually attacked us was dead or in jail. At least that was my understanding after Bush's "evil-doers" speech. I thought one by one, we'd systematically route out terrorists, and I was cool with that. But that's not what happened at all, and as the election results show, nobody cares.

Imagine the war on terror is a final exam with four essay questions. The first question is about Afganistan, the second on Iraq, the third on Iran and the fourth on North Korea. Bush starts off strong, grabbing his pencil and proclaiming "I'm gonna ace this thing!" But halfway into the first question, he gets stuck, so he moves to the second one. He zips through the first few sentances before getting stuck again, and ends up spending the remainder of the time allotted on answering question 2. By the time the teacher says "Pencils down!" he's left with a paper with two half-finished essays and two that he never even started. That's an F. There's no way around it.

I don't feel safe right now. I just don't. The guys on talk radio sure as hell do, they were playing "Ode to Joy" and gloating like they just found out they were the biggest guys in the locker room. But I'm not exactly comfortable right now. If the United States is attacked again, the most likely targets are the Northeast, Washington DC and the West Coast. All of those places voted for Kerry, while the middle of the country, which has about the same chance of getting attacked as a fat kid has at getting picked first for dodgeball, voted for Bush. Thanks, guys.

Oh well. You know what they say, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me...you can't get fooled again."

Read more »

I Will Call You Betty

My grandfather built my parents' house in 1977, and they moved in that November. Their neighbor was an old man named Buster. The following summer, Buster went on vacation. Except he never went. The paper boy found him. He had been dead a few days.

When the new owners, the Howleys, found out that someone died there, Mrs. Howley had a priest bless the house. The Howleys and my parents got along when I was a kid, but then something happened. I don't know what, exactly. I think it has something to do with a crab apple tree and/or their cat. Regardless of the reason, the Howleys disdain for my family grew so large that they eventually built a house in their back yard and moved into it. The Howleys' old house was vacant for a few months, until one day during the summer between sixth and seventh grade, we saw a moving truck pull in. My neighbor Jen and I saw some kids in the driveway, and hoped maybe someone our age was moving in. But it didn't look like it, just a baby and a kid who couldn't be older than seven. He came over and introduced himself. His name was Al. He was twelve, same as us.

We started to hang out a lot. He had a golden retriever named Betty and a two year old sister that liked to run around without a shirt. At least once a day Natalie would say "Look!" and pull her shirt up (foreshadowing a career in Girls Gone Wild videos perhaps?) He had a big screen TV in his basement. We used to play Nintendo games down there. Duck Hunt is much easier on a giant TV. The house had a free-standing garage with it's own attic, and we found old newspapers and WWII army rations up there. Another time we went down to the river and followed it as far as we could in both directions. Turned out there was a big tree trunk bridge at one point, and towards the opposite end, we found a gravestone from the 1800s. Al was cool.

When school started that fall, he fit in surprisingly well. All the girls loved Al, all four feet, two inches of him. Maybe he evoked some kind of maternal instinct in them or something. Normally, it's hard to start off at a new school where you don't know anybody, but seventh grade was the first year that kids from different parts of town were together in one school. So nobody knew anybody else, really. It wasn't new to him; he'd been on the move his whole life. His father was in the military. I think he was in the military. Actually, I think it was his step-dad. Anyway, they moved around alot.

I was having a harder time adjusting. Sixth grade had been probably the best year of my life, and then all of the sudden I was in a new school and instead of the same group of people I'd known since kindergarten, there were all these...new people. They actually intentionally set up the homerooms so that there were only a few kids from each elementary school in each one. I guess the idea was to help the kids make new friends. But I already had friends, dammit, I didn't know any of these people!

Each homeroom elected a class president, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Four people ran in our homeroom, including Al. It ended with a three-way tie for first place. I wasn't one of those three people.

The year just kept getting worse. My dad got laid off that year. I never saw my old friends and I hadn't made any new ones. Then, just before Halloween, our dog Toby had a stroke and had to be put to sleep.



My parents deny it now, but at the time they said my cooking killed her. I was always critical of my mom's "cooking," so one night she suggested that I make dinner. I made some eggs. They were pretty bad, and they went where all bad food goes; into the dog's dish. The next day she had a stroke. Of course, it wasn't the eggs. If anything, it was the new flea spray that my dad drenched her new bed in, or the fact that she was pushing 300 in dog years and blind in one eye. My mom didn't really like the dog because she always threw up on the carpet. Um, the dog, not my mom. Not to mention what else she left on the carpet. But it didn't make it any less sad. She was part of the family. I didn't go to school the next day. When I did go back, the kids I sat with at lunch moved their seats. All of them. The went somewhere else. Bastards. I sat down, helpless and alone.

I was a broken man. Then, defying all logic, a hot girl, flanked by two girls of equal or lesser beauty whose names weren’t important enough for me to remember, came over to my table. They asked why I was sitting by myself, so told them about how my dad lost his job, that I hated school, how my dog just died and the assholes I usually sit with left. She asked if she and her friends could sit with me. Hold on, what? Maybe things weren't so bad after all.

Six seconds later, Al showed up. I didn't even know he had lunch the same time as me. I never saw him there before.

"Hey, John, what's up?"

The beautiful girls turned and looked at Al.

"You know him?"

Sure, he lives next door. We hang out all the time." He said.

"Really? That is so sweet of you!"

And just like that, all three of them...all three of them went off with him. Amazing. He could have stayed and the five of us could've talked. He could have at least left one of them with me. I just sat there until the bell rang trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

One day a girl called my house asking for Al. I put her on hold and went next door and told him he had a phone call.

"Thanks, Bob (his step-dad) won't let me use the phone, so I told her to call your house. Is it alright if I take this in here?"

A year later, Mrs. Howley got drunk and decided to kick Al's family out. So they packed up and moved again, this time to Brookline, MA. I haven't seen Al since then, although I could have sworn I saw him at Quincy Market once, but I'll always remember the tiny kid with the inexplicable hold over women.

Read more »

Holy Crap!

This morning I passed by Sacred Heart church in Quincy and either Johnny Damon was standing in the garden or someone put a Red Sox jersey on the Jesus statue. Normally, I would have thought that was strange, but not after the past week and a half.

In case you were trapped in a mine shaft for the past two weeks, let me recap for you: The Boston Red Sox won the World Series. They not only won, they swept the team with the best record in baseball. Oh yeah, and they came back from a 0-3 deficit in a best-of-seven series against the Yankees, becoming not only the first baseball team to win a seven game series after being down 3-0, but the first team to win eight consecutive playoff games.

Also, the Olympia Sports commercial where Manny starts daydreaming about being named World Series MVP actually happened. "Yeah, sactly."

So for the first time in 86 years, the Red Sox are World Champions. No more 1918 chants. No more ridiculous curse talk. It still feels kind of weird.

But once the celebrations die down...if they die down...it'll be time to start talking about the inevitable movie. I haven't got it all worked out yet, but how about these?

Read more »

I Am Not A Crook

I went to the pizza place down the street for lunch. I had no cash on me, so I hit the ATM first and took out $40. Then I went in and ordered a couple of slices, which came to $3. When I got back to the office, I noticed they only gave me $7 back. So I went back and told the guy he owes me ten dollars. He immediately said that I gave him $10, not twenty. He was "more than 100% sure," he said.

He asked if I was sure I gave him a twenty. And while I didn't actually look at it, I only had two bills on me, which came from the ATM. The ATM, like 99% of the ATMs around here, only dispense in multiples of twenty. I had a reciept showing I took out $40. So unless the ATM somehow got a ten stuck in their with all those twenties, I gave him a twenty.

He did finally give it to me, but really fought me on it and made me feel like I was ripping him off. An interesting thing to point out...he counted the money in the register and compared it to all the orders from the day and it came up eight dollars off. That means they made more than one mistake today.

I've gone there before and never had any problems. Maybe he was up late last night watching the 9 hour Sox game.

Read more »

The Elephant in the Room

We never talk about it. We dance around it. We avoid any mention of it. We have an unspoken agreement to take precautions so it never becomes an issue. I hide my Bushisms calander. When her parents were visiting, she asked them not to keep the TV on Fox News. I turn off the TV just before the Daily Show comes on. I've actually caught myself cutting off my grandmother before she could finish her critque of Bush. These are the little sacrifices you make in a bipartisan relationship.

It can be hard sometimes. But it beats talking about it. Way too many bad things could happen. Yes, like in some bad sitcom, I'm liberal and she's conservative. And the one thing I'm conservative on is the one thing she's liberal on. So we are basically complete opposites, at least politically. How wacky! Sometimes I do worry about that, but if we can survive this insane election year, then we can survive anything.

It does suck a little, though, because I don't really get to vent. I can't talk about any of the stuff that really bothers me about the world with her, not without the requisite groans and eye-rolling. But it's no big deal. Those conversations usually get redirected to Ryan or Jose, so I don't explode.

I'd never even think of mentioning Fox News around her. Fox News facinates me, actually. Aparently, it's broadcast from some parallel dimension where Saddam Hussein had a half-dozen or so nuclear weapons, which were given to him by Osama Bin Laden after they exchanged vows. I did try to watch once, but this really smug guy with no neck was gurgling about John Edwards and it made me want to throw bricks at the TV.

A few days ago I was flipping through the channels and caught a bit of Dennis Miller's show on CNBC. Or is it MSNBC? Anyway, he referred to John Kerry as "Lurch". Get it? I thought to myself, "That man is a comedy genious!" I'll bet in all the 20 years that Kerry's been in the Senate, no one ever thought to compare him to a character from an ancient sitcom. How fresh and original. Talent like his shouldn't be wasted on some rinky-dink cable network. He should be in a more excessable medium, like Monday Night Football. They could make him a color commentator or something. Seriously, I remember when Dennis Miller used to tell jokes instead of being one.

For some people, politics are the only thing worth talking about. I pity them. As for us, we've got like a billion other things to talk about at any given moment. And in a few more weeks, all this political nonsense will go away. Until the next elections, anyway.

Read more »

Eminem Knows Joe?

First off, I should be in a brand new office right now. I should be sitting in a sun-drenched room in front of a desk I put together myself. Best of all, Joe would have been in another room.

Everything was set in place. My employers sold our office, which consists of two condos they've occupied for over 20 years, and bought a 4-floor place on a secluded street to escape the hassels of condo life and the monthly fire-alarm tests and plumbing problems that go with it.

We printed up postcards to send to all our clients to let them know we were moving. And, as if by some cosmic joke, a woman who recently started working for one of our vendors happened to live on the tiny street we were moving to. And she found fault with us moving in there, because the street is not zoned for business. My bosses said they did know that in advance, but didn't really see this as a problem, as we are not a typical "business." Four employees working on laptops, none of whom drive to work so we're not taking up parking spaces. We don't have people coming in and out all day; it's just the six of us, and we're gone by 5.

But this woman, who doesn't know anything about our business other than that we sent a postcard to her company, immediately called the head of the neighborhood association and had us blocked from moving in. My boss had tried to talk with the guy that runs the association, but he won't even listen. Total snob. This guy makes Judge Smails look like Judge Reinhold.

So for the past few weeks we've been in limbo. We were supposed to be out of here on Sept. 24. My boss got the new owners to agree to let us stay in one of the two condos for another few months while we look for a new place. which means my two bosses had to move their desks into our area.

They both have their radios on all day, and in one ear I have sports talk radio, and in the other I have todays top 40. Which brings me to my point. At least three times a day for the past couple of days, I've heard Eminem's new song. I have no idea what it's called or even how it goes, I just know several times during the course of the song, I can hear a noise I've become all too familiar with over the past few years. That's right, if I did't know any better I'd swear Eminem sampled Joe's infamous "Arrghurrrghrruagh"

Does Eminem know Joe?!

Read more »

Get Some Skills!

You know what? I miss college. I really had a great time there. I went to Katharine Gibbs, a tiny school located on Boston's ultra-trendy Newbury Street. The unassuming front door looks like the service enterance to the Crate and Barrel next door. Maybe it's Pottery Barn. The point is, if you didn't know it was there, you probably would never even notice it.

Unfortunately, I only stayed in contact with one person. Well, two if you count Jose, which I don't because I've known him since high school.

A few months before graduation, I went on a road trip with Neil, one of the guys in class, to Charlotte, NC to go to this big comic convention there. Why? I had nothing else to do. Really. He just called up and asked if I wanted to go and I said "Why not?" He was going because he'd been apprenticing with a comic book artist named Pop Mhan and he was going to show a few sketches and even sit at the table with him. It was pretty cool. Anyway, at the hotel Neil was nervously drawing his sketches, tearing up paper and cursing, while I was doodling some pictures of my own. I was way too shy to show anything to professionals, but I showed Neil what I did. It was a picture of two of our classmates, Phil and Kristina.



He thought it was hysterical and captured their personas perfectly. Phil and Kristina were inseperable. He was this big gentle hulk and she was a tiny little ball of adorable anger. The three of us used to go to lunch together every day, and the whole time he'd complain about his crazy ex-girlfriend, and she'd complain about her boyfriend, Jay. Sometimes she's come to school with bruises and she'd say Jay was just playing. That pissed me off a great deal, and I know it pissed off Phil, but she continued to go out with this jerk and even though her and Phil had this cute, funny ying-yang relationship, they never ended up together. That kind of bummed me out. Like I said, I lost contact with everybody, so I hope she's okay.

So I drew this picture of the two of them, and then I got an idea to make a yearbook for all the students in my class. I drew a picture for each student, some portraying what their personal intrests were and some as parodies of movies catered to the individual student's personality.


We'll start with Kristina. Like I said, she was just the cutest thing. But if you piss her off, you'd better be prepared to suffer! Once, Jose had a dream that I had her locked in my basement. I was wearing a lab coat and rubbing my hands together, saying, "I'm gonna keep her!" When he told her about it, she hit me and said "Why would you do that?" First of all, it was a dream. It wasn't even my dream! Women are nuts. Anyway to capture her spirit (and lock it in the basement) I drew her in a happy little cartoon world looking very innocent, until you notice the giant mallet she's got behind her back. She loved the picture, which is good, because she punches pretty hard for such a skinny little chick.


This is Neil. He was sort of a Goth-Metal type guy. He lived in Salem, known for it's infamous witch trials, and is into the whole Wiccan thing. So I drew him as Bram Stoker's Dracula, sucking blood from a heart through a straw.


Neil always hung out with Sam. Sam's previous job was a cook on a submarine. He had a little...accident with a vegitable cutting tool and lost a finger, but when I was drawing his picture, I forgot which hand. So if you notice, his picture has 4 fingers on both hands. Yes, I realize how wrong that is. He worked at a BBQ place called Jake & Earl's, but I heard he lives in Texas now. Sam could be loud and opinionated, which scared off a few of the other students, but I got along good with him. Me, Neil, Sam, Phil and Kristina usually hung out together. Sam's a good guy.


Chandra was really cool. One time she came back from lunch and a few of her shirt buttons were undone and no one told her for most of the day. I guess I could have picked a better Chandra moment to share. She did a report on Mary J. Blige once. Yeah, I liked the first one better, too. This picture pretty much sums her up. Chandra was one mean motha-Shut yo' mouth! I'm just talkin' 'bout Chandra.


The first person I ever talked to in college was Marcia. She was a biker chick in her 30's who'd been a hair dresser for years and was looking for a change in careers. She was really great; we had kind of a big sister, little brother thing going. The other thing about Marcia was her husband's name was Ox or Rhino or some huge scary animal.


I've known Jose since high school. He worked at Blockbuster for years, but after college he jumped ship and went to work for Video to Go, where he spends a considerable amount of time in the porn room doing God knows what. If you look at the posters on the back wall on this picture, you can see "What's Eating Gilbert Godfried" with Gilbert's head superimposed over Johnny Depp's. I'm hillarious.

There were two guys in our class that we called the Backstreet Boys, because of their pretty-boy image. One was Alex (aka Chandler), who I drew sitting on a couch at Central Perk with the cast of Friends. I still like the concept, but it didn't come out the way I wanted it to, so I'm not going to show it here. Sorry. Move along.


The other Backstreet Boy was Anthony. Anthony was a basketball nut, so I put him on a Wheaties box. Alex and Anthony were cool guys, but I'll admit everyone, including myself, got them confused. I think even they did a few times, if that even makes sense. They didn't look the same at all, it's just the names I guess...


Sakeo was a blast. When we first started school, he and this other kid Tai used to breakdance on the tables. This usually ended with Keo getting too close to the crux where four tables joined and collapsed the whole thing, screaming all the way down. He acted super-confident around the guys, but when there was a girl involved, he was even more shy than me, and I had a crippling fear of rejection, so that's pretty bad. Jose took him to Hooters, and he was so nervous, he pretended he couldn't speak English. Then there was the librarian. He had a thing for the librarian. She was teaching us HTML for some reason, and Keo was in the back row, leaning his seat back, I guess trying to get a better view of her. A few seconds later, he lost balance and his chair tipped over. He quickly got up, waved his hands in the air to show he was alright, and sat back down. After class he was running around saying, "Green thong! She was wearing a green thong!" A new girl came to class third semister and he was obsessed with her. She was very quiet and none of us knew her name; we all called her Foreign Girl. Every time she walked out of the room, Keo would smile and say "Foreign Girl, yeah!" (sometimes it was "Yeah, Foreign Girl) I found this funny because he himself was foreign. Keo didn't show up for graduation, which sucks because he never got to see this picture. It's one of my favorite pictures, too. I really like how the sky came out. Oh well.


One thing Sam and Neil (hey...when you say their names together, you get actor Sam Neil!) loved to do was tease Kristen about her complete lack of movie knowledge. When she saw this picture, she admited that she didn't know the answer. I'm serious.


Mark was a quiet kid. He could draw like crazy, but he didn't really talk all that much in class. But as far as yearbook pictures go, this might be my favorite. Just a simple play on his last name.


Dave. Little Dave. Dave looked exactly like Michael Jackson in the Jackson 5 days. He was older than me, but he looked nine. I was kind of afraid he was going to be offended by his picture, but he got a kick out of it.


Jen is sitting in her favorite painting. Jose had a thing for her when we first started school, and since I somehow always seemed to be in the same group as her, he asked if I could help him out. You know, put in a good word. But the reason he liked her is because she reminded him of his old girlfriend, and all kinds of red flags go up when that happens. No good can come from that. He was pretty bitter about it for a while, especially because I used to go to lunch and stuff with her. Once I went to breakfast with Jen, Chandra, Kristina and Phil, and on the way back, Phil went in to Dunkin Donuts and the rest of us waited outside. While we were waiting, two homeless guys with maybe three teeth between them asked if "These were my women?" Before I could even say anything he had his arm around my shoulder asking if I minded if his friend took their picture, while the other guy was already asking the girls to smile. So two homeless guys randomly took a picture of Jen, Chandra and Kristina. And they thought I was a pimp. Cool.

Next time... We meet the rest of the class, and I explain why I left $60 by a teacher's bed.

Read more »

Back in the Day

This week we've been getting Brianna prepared for her first day of kindergarten. It's got me thinking about my first day. Getting on that big yellow bus and discovering what I can only describe as "bus smell," which is sort of a combination of gasoline and thirty or so peanut butter and jelly sandwiches mixed with that inimitable new plastic smell.



I remember waiting for the bus with my mom, Jen, and her mom. I remember my Gremlins lunchbox. I remember I wore a striped shirt. Okay, so I'm just describing the picture, but there really are some things I remember about that first day away from home.

In fact, the first memory I have of school is of a kid named Raymond. I don't remember much about Raymond, and to be honest, I don't think I ever even saw him. But Raymond sat behind me on the bus on that first day of kindergarten. And Raymond was not ready to interact with other children. Raymond spazzed out. He grabbed the kid in front of him (yeah...that would be me) and started choking him from behind with what I imagine to be a glint of sheer joy in his eye. He was grabbed by some adults and abruptly pulled off me, cementing at least one more year of sitting at home shoving crayons up his nose. I'll give him credit: not many people can get kicked out of school before they ever set foot in it. Here's to you Raymond, you crazy bastard, wherever you are.

Anyway, in honor of Brianna's first day of school, here are some of my memories from Thomas V. Nash Elementary School.

Our principal was Mr. McCorkle. Otis H. McCorkle, the most principal-sounding name ever. We used to call the papers we'd get from him "a notice from Otis." Every time he announced something over the loudspeaker he would start with "Ah, attention please..." and end with "That is all. Thank you!"

I was in Miss Shea's first grade class when the Challanger exploded. We watched it on television. I don't think I really understood what was going on. All I knew was that something important must have happened for them to bring the television from the library into the classroom. I will never forget that day.

I remember reading with Ms. Brown, the librarian. She reminded me of Diane from Cheers. She used to read "Riki Tiki Tavi" and "Miss Nelson is Missing!" to us. One year Ms. Brown got married, but her new name was ridiculously long and hard to pronounce, so I continued to refer to her as "Ms. Brown."

I remember Brian Larkin, effecionately known for one reason or another as "Bubba." Bubba Larkin was our school's Scut Farkas. A schoolyard thug whose antics invariably got him banned from field day every year.

I remember Mrs. Lavangie, the lunch lady. We weren't allowed to talk during lunch, and it was her job to enforce the law. She walked around with a clipboard, shouting "Ah, that's a check!" at anyone who made a sound. If you got three checks, you'd have to sit up on the stage of the cafeteria-auditorium-gymnasium until lunch was over. I guess that was supposed to be bad. I don't know. You'd think they would have come up with something a little more threatening. Usually she had her hands full with the sixth graders, so us younger kids talked quietly while she was down at the other end of the room.

And who could forget the school's flamboyant music teacher, Mr. LaPiere? He was the musical equivilant of Richard Simmons, minus the tiny shorts. He'd wheel his piano into the class once a week and make us practice our singing exercises. He always hit impossibly high notes; I kind of wonder if his balls never dropped.

Nnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

That's what he'd have us do. Say the word "new" and hold it until our lungs collapsed. Sometimes he'd bring a big red rubber dodgeball in and throw it to whoever he decided should say "new" next. That was doubly embarrassing for me because that exposed both my inability to sing or catch a ball.

Nnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Years later when I met kids from other parts of town, I learned that they too had Mr. LaPiere, except rather than a piano, he'd bring in a little keyboard. That's a shame, because you can't really get the same sound from a keyboard as you can with a piano. Plus, it was just plain funny to watch him push that giant piano around the whole school.

When I was in fifth grade, one of the sixth grade teachers was fired. From what I heard the reasoning behind it was that he was narcoleptic, and would sometimes fall asleep in the middle of class. I didn't really know the whole story, but the whys didn't matter. The important part of the story was that now there was only one sixth grade teacher. Miss Hanian.

Miss Hanian. Her name alone is enough to send a chill down your spine. Hanian, as in heinous. She was far scarier than anything any kid could dream up. A fearsome disiplanarian that screamed with all the throaty horror of the fires of Hell. On any given day, you could hear her Banshee cry echo down the halls and through the very spines of trembling kids. At recess, she stood on a hill with mirrored sunglasses watching over the playground like a gargoyle. Nobody wanted Ms. Hanian.

As sixth grade loomed closer, there was still no one to fill the vacancy. We were doomed.

But we weren't doomed. Well, half of us weren't, anyway. That summer they hired a new teacher, Mr. Brink. That year would go on to be the best time I ever had in school. That's actually kind of sad, considering I still had six more years of school left.

But it was a great year. Full of firsts. It was the first year the Barbie twins were in the same class. Ben and Megan Barbie, together for the first time. It was also the first time the three Elizabeths were in the same class. The Smart One, the Cute One, and the Quiet One. We didn't have a Ringo. Honestly, they were all smart, and all cute. But one was just a little smarter, one just a little cuter, and only one of them was quiet.

I always had a thing for the Quiet One. I remember I used to see her at recess in first grade. I didn't know who she was, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. In first grade! She ended up in my class the next year, and again in forth and sixth grades. One year at Jen's birthday party, Jen started crying because she said we were ruining her party. I don't even remember what exactly happened, I just remember her saying that. I think it was because I was the only boy there.

I was always the only boy at her parties, but that year she also invited Nathan Stockton. She had a crush on him, but he had "soccer practice" and couldn't make it. Maybe she couldn't take seeing us flirt, if you could even call it that. It never got any further than flirting, and I never told Liz after all those years that I liked her, something that would become a recurring theme in my life. So that's how that whole deal started.

Mr. Brink was great. His classroom didn't look like other classrooms. He had a huge Happy Meal collection on a shelf running all across the room. We learned about ancient Egypt and created board games based on what we learned. We disected squid. When he had gym, we played Brinkball, which was kind of like Doctor and Spy.

Sometime's he'd tell these corny jokes under the guise of anecdotes about himself, or more commonly, his cousin Otto. These stories always ended with a few laughs, a lot of groans, and Lakeisha, possibly the sweetest person ever and one of Weymouth's two black people, saying "I don't get it." Then twenty minutes later when we are doing math she'd say "The pig squealed. Now I get it!" and laugh uncontrollably for three minutes.

At some point, Mr. Brink had to have his gall bladder removed and was out of school for a few weeks. I can't remember who we had as a replacement, because there was a few different substitutes we used to have. There was Ms. Log (pronounced Low-g), who scared everybody by scowling all the time and looking like Bea Arthur. She used to give us the first answer on tests and say "It's my gift to you." She even sounded like Bea Arthur. Then there was Mr. Young, the Oldest Man on the Planet. And of course Mr. DiSessa, who looked like a turtle. Or a shriveled up dead indian, like those Weequay things in Return of the Jedi.

The school closed after that year. I was going to another school for seventh grade anyway, but it was still sad. They closed a few schools and restructured the whole school system because there were too many schools and not enough kids, then re-opened a few years later when there were too many kids and not enough schools. I guess the people who make decisions like that didn't realize that all the babies being born in the town when they closed the schools would be starting school in a few years. Gotta love the system.

Read more »

Happy Slappy Fresh'n Fruity Burger

I passed a convienece store on the way to work and they had Uh-Oh Oreos in the window. They're the "reverse" Oreos; chocolate filling sandwiched between two butter cookies. I thought to myself, "You know, I really like those things. Better than regular Oreos. But they've got such a stupid name." So I'd never actually buy them.

It's like when you go to a restaurant, and you see something on the menu that looks good, but it's got some cutesy/ridiculous name and you're too embarrassed to order it. I usually just point at it and say "I'll have this thing." Or order something else, that I don't really want but has a better name.

Why must we be humiliated in order to get what we want? "You want this? Do ya? Well, first you'll have to wear this dress and unicycle down Main Street while yodelling."

I'm really bad when it comes to stuff like that. I can't order froofy flavored coffee unless I'm placing an order for a bunch of people. Then I can work it in there in between the regular coffees. That's the only way I can get a French Vanilla. So...does anyone else do that? Has anyone ever heard those ads on TV or the radio that say something like "Come on down to Crazy Eddie's House of Appliances! Tell 'em Crazy Eddie sent ya and recieve 20% off!" and decide they'd rather just pay the full price than say "Crazy Eddie sent me"?

I'm the only one, aren't I? Crap.

Read more »

Everything is Satisfactual

I was waiting for the train this morning and a sparrow landed on my shoulder. That was pretty weird. I felt like I should start singing or something.

Read more »

My Ears Are Sad

They can't take it anymore. I fear that soon they're just gonna start bleeding, then shrivel up and fall off. And I can't wait.

I've been watching a lot of Nickeldeon since Michele's daughter moved up here, and every five seconds there's a commercial for "Kidz Bop 6." Yup, a bunch of kids singing pop songs, while playing sports and other activities in front of backdrops of some of America's landmarks; even an alternate reality where Mt. Rushmore sports the head of some little black kid not unlike Webster with shiny, shiny teeth.

Then the announcer says "The Kidz Bop Kids are back with their best Kidz Bop CD ever!" And then those freakin' kids start singing something else. Then, even as the threat of five more of these looms over your head, an easily excited girl in a green soccer uniform faces the camera and says "Kidz Bop scores every time!" If they had Academy Awards for commericals, she should probably be beaten with one for an hour or so.

And what exactly are these little cherubs singing, anyway? Well, here's the track listing of "kid safe" songs...

01 With You
02 This Love
03 Come Clean
04 Are You Gonna Be My Girl
05 The Reason
06 You Don't Know My Name
07 Toxic
08 My Immortal
09 Me, Myself, & I
10 Hold
11 The First Cut Is The Deepest
12 I Miss You
13 Burn
14 Meant To Live
15 I'm Still In Love With You
16 Beautiful (Dance Remix)
17 All Star (Dance Remix)
18 Sk8ter Boi (Dance Remix)

Toxic?!! Why? Why do these things exsist? And why are they already on volume six? I guess it doesn't matter, soon my ears will take their own lives and I'll have sweet relief.

Read more »

Loss

...continued from Ten Years Gone

Summer came and went and I eagerly waited to see her again. But I never did. High School was not Junior High. I barely saw her anymore and we never talked. I wanted to, but I just couldn't face her. A lot had happened since Virginia. During the summer between 9th and 10th grades my face broke out with a vengeance and I found out I had to wear a back brace at night because my spine curved too much. Even though there was never any indication that she would feel any different towards me, I felt like a monster and hid from her. Of course, she never made any effort to talk to me, either. The longer we didn't talk, the harder it became to start up again. It got so that I was even afraid to look at her. I wasn't good enough.

Also, I was in the Voc. One thing they don't tell you when you sign up for the Vocational School is that regular High School kids hate the Voc kids. That's not in the pamphlet. I lost most of my friends, including my best friend since kindergarten. Oddly, it didn't bother me as much as losing her, even though I knew him since I was six and I'd only known her for a few months. A few days, really.

I got by. I made new friends. Nick, Jose, Jim, Mike and Wah-Kee. Good old Wah-Kee. They were a little weird at first; Nick had about thirty people living at his house at any given time, and Mike is the personification of the word "spaz," but they stuck by me when the people who where supposed to be my friends bailed. I was really lucky to have friends like them.

I still thought about her all the time, even if I was too afraid to actually talk to her. Seeing her in the hallways caused my throat to dry up and my heart to start pounding in my chest so fast I thought it was going to burst. As time went on, in my mind I just kept replaying what little time we'd spent together and building her up until she became this untouchable goddess. She was like the Ark of the Covenant; one look and I'd melt like a Nazi.

Even so, in the back of my mind I imagined scenarios where we'd have some chance meeting one day and everything would go back to the way it was before. I just needed that one moment. And it kept almost happening.

Sophomore year I had Mr. Welsh for honors English first period. She had Mr. Welsh for honors English...third period. For me, third period was Principles of Technology with Mr. Soule. Mr. Soule wore glasses with one tinted lens. He explained his unique eyewear on the first day of class.

"You're probably wondering about my eye," he said as he removed his glasses to reveal one eye that looked straight at us and the other facing Mecca. As if he really needed further explaination, he told us that he had a lazy eye and the darker lens was to correct it. Mr. Soule was a great teacher, but Principles of Technology was just a fancy name for "applied physics," which itself is just another name for "math stuff." Since I'm what some people might call mathematically retarded, this probablly wasn't the best choice of classes, but it was part of a required program for kids in Tech Prep. I spent three years in that class and I think all I got out of it is that there's something called foot-pounds. The point is, I did horrible in this class and if I had any sense at all, I would have switched to biology. I know I would have done much better in Biology, which if I had taken, would have been first period, meaning I would have had the third period English class. Could have been that one chance I was looking for. If only.

There was a school magazine called Reflections. When my mom was in school, it was a quarterly magazine (and called "Reflector"), but in its current state it was only put out once a year. Anyway, it offered an opportunity for creative types to share their work with the whole student body. Or at least the six people that actually bought or was even aware of Reflections. I signed up to be part of the staff, but after a couple of weeks of sitting in an empty library waiting for the rest of the staff to show up for the meetings, I stopped going. When yearbook time rolled around, guess who was in the group photo of the Reflections staff? Missed her again.

Senior year, the guidance councilor suggested that I take a creative writing class. I didn't have any room for one on my schedule, but I was able to work out a deal with Mr. Landry, my graphic arts teacher. Instead of having graphic arts for the last three classes of the day, I'd leave sixth period for my creative writing class and come back to finish the day in the shop. It was a second semester class, and I knew it was my last chance to have a class with her. I remember actually pleading with God for her to have sixth period creative writing class. As it turned out, I had Mr. Welsh again. And she did have creative writing sixth period...with Mr. Ghiorse. She was in the next room! It's like God was saying, "You should have been more specific. Hehe."

That's the way it went. I was always just missing her. And I saw signs all over the place, like our phone numbers were one number off on the first and last digit. Even our birthdays separated by one month and one day. It couldn't just be a coincidence, right? This was bigger than just two people. This was destiny. I could feel it.

One time I went with Nick to his locker. Out of nowhere I heard, "Will you hold my orange juice, Hammel?" I turned around and there she was. I couldn't believe it. She handed me the juice while she opened her locker. A million thoughts raced through my head as I tried to think of what to say to her, but all that came out was "Phlarmmmble..."

Without turning away from what she was doing, her reaction to was, "What, did you spill it?"

Oh, that's it. Screw you and your stupid orange juice. You haven't said a goddamn word to me in two years--two years-- and now you decide you're going to speak and the first thing you say isn't 'Hi,' or 'How are you?' it's 'Hold my orange juice.' Well why don't you hold it between your knees?!

Of course, I didn't say that, I just said "Okay" and held her drink, while she got something from locker, took her drink back, and walked away again. I should have been mad, but I wasn't. She remembered my name.

I never told anyone about my feelings for her, and when Nick finally did found out, he was determined to get me to talk to her. Or at least nag me about it incessantly. As more people found out, they all seemed to take Nick's stance. He even stole my yearbook and got her to sign it for me during the senior cruise. My cousins saw her comments in the yearbook and immediately hopped on the "You gotta talk to her" train.

But it was too late. We had different lives. I wasn't about to bother her just because I had some repressed feelings I needed to express. Despite what everyone insisted, it was best for all involved just to let it go. Then something happened that made me change my mind.

After graduation we found out that my grandfather had cancer. Esophageal cancer. I couldn't understand it. He never smoked or anything. He was one of the healthiest people I knew. He used to swim laps in his pool every day and he competed in the senior olympics. But he still got cancer.

He went to the hospital Memorial Day weekend for what was supposed to be a simple opperation, but there were complications. They flew him to Brigham and Women's Hospital from South Shore. My grandparents lived next door to us, and seeing him in the hospital everyday and watching my family, especially my grandmother, try to cope was too much to bare. That's what finally drove me to write her; I was trying to get back to a place in my life when I was truly happy in an effort to ease the pain I was going through. I was trying to escape the misery that had enveloped my life. So I wrote to her and told her what was going on. I also foolishly confessed to loving her all those years ago, despite the fact that she now had a boyfriend and seemed quite happy.

I took a huge risk, and waited for her to write back. But she never did.

My grandfather's health continued to deteriorate. My parents went up to the hospital every night. I usually stayed home and watched my brothers. He died December 10, 1997, after five months in five different hospitals. I was a pall bearer. The funeral home was in North Weymouth. It was right next to her house. I remember that my grandmother was upset that they did something to his face. She said it didn't look natural and she kept crying. It was just too much for me, so I went out side and sat on the steps, hopelessly looking at her house, wondering if she was even there.

Then, just before Christmas, I got an envelope from her. I had just moved in with my grandmother to help her cope with losing the man she'd been with for over fifty years. I went into my room and opened the envelope. It was a Christmas card. She said she was sorry for not writing sooner and she asked how I was. I couldn't help but think she completely missed the point of the letter I sent, if she even read it at all. She told me to write back.

I wrote back to her and told her about my grandfather's passing. I waited for a response. And waited. Damn it, she did it again.

My friends and family continued to ask how things were going, and said the letters weren't working. If I wanted to resolve this thing I'd have to call her.

You have to call her. You have to. After hearing that over and over again, I finally called the day of my dad's 50th birthday party. We had this huge tent in our backyard and everybody was there. We even had some black people. I remember thinking, "Wow, I've got black relatives. I did not know that."

I called her and she put me on hold. We were on the phone for about an hour, but most of that time I was on hold. I'm not really even sure what was said. I just remember her saying "Oh God, this is so awkward." a bunch of times. That's not a good indication that things are going well. There was something in her voice; but I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. Was she laughing at the pathetic loser who can't let go of the past, or was she crying because she really did care for me once, but now has a happy life with someone else? My money's on that first one. I asked her how she felt back then. I didn't even care how she felt now. I knew it was too late. I just had to know. That's all I'd wanted to know all these years. If nothing else, I needed closure. She said she had to go.

Please, I said. Please.

She said again that she had to go, and I said okay and hung up. That was it. I always wondered if she liked me all along, as so many others suggested, or did I confuse friendship and kindness for love? I had been asking myself that since ninth grade, and I'll never know, because she wouldn't tell me. Honestly, that hurts a thousand times worse than if she said no. At least she didn't hang up on me, so that was classy of her.

And that was that. I thought the hero was supposed to get the girl. That's when I realized that maybe all those similarities and close calls I was so quick to point out really were signs after all. But I'd been reading them wrong. In each case, I was always just missing her, or a number was one off, etc. It seems so obvious now. I was destined to be the guy that doesn't get the girl. I wasn't John Cusack. I was John Cryer.

I don't think about her anymore. It hurts to. It doesn't matter now. I've got the best girlfriend I could hope for, and for the first time in nearly a decade, I'm happy.

Now she's just a memory. It's strange how someone that once brought so much happiness can cause so much pain. I hate memories.

Read more »

Ten Years Gone

Memories. I hate memeories. For the longest time, that's all I had. Just memories. Memories of a better time. Of her. Everyone has that one story. That one person that changed their life. She was mine. This is my story.

It starts in ninth grade Science class. I had Mr. Galiano. I hated that guy. I'm sure the feeling was mutual; he didn't like anybody. Some people become teachers to educate and inspire. Not Galiano. He became a teacher so he could yell at people all day and get paid for it. He never bothered to learn anyone's name; he just called everyone "freshman" in that condescending, excessively monotone voice of his. It was equal parts Ben Stein and Darth Vader.

Hello, freshman.

Where's your homework, freshman?

You underestimate the power of the Dark Side, freshman.

He'd get right up in your face and all you could see was this forest of tree-trunk-like nose hairs and horrible, nasty teeth that would make a dentist wake up in cold sweats.

There was only one thing that made sitting through that class tolerable. The girl that sat behind me. I didn't even know her name; it was the only class we had together and Galiano always called her "freshman." She knew my name though, probably because the only time Galiano would break his rule and say your name was if he was yelling at you. Let's just say everybody knew my name.

She always asked me how to do the lab assignments, and I never had a clue. I'm more of an English major guy. So I'd turn to my lab partner, Wah-Kee, then go back and tell her whatever he just said. Good old Wah-Kee. I found out much later that she was on the honor roll and probably didn't need help anyway. Maybe she was just wanted to talk to me. Or not.

She was just nice. To everybody; even people undeserving and unappreciative of such kindness. I actually looked forward to that class just so I could talk to her. It also didn't hurt that she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. There was a whole world in her eyes; you could get lost in there. And her hair; she had those hangy-down things framing her face. I don't know what they're called, but I love those things.

The class trip that year was to Williamsburg, VA. I went there with my family when I was younger, and decided to go again. This time around, there was no Winnebago, and anyone that wanted to go had to pay $300. I raised the money selling candy. It wasn't easy. The school gave us Kit Kats and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups to sell. I figured since everyone was selling the same thing, if I brought in a box of Snickers, I'd have the edge. Give people an extra choice. Apparently, that was illegal. I was forced to stop immediately and was told everyone must sell the same thing. Sounds a bit like Communism to me, but rules are rules.

Maybe a month or so before the trip, Ms. Qualey held a meeting for all the students going. The girl from science class was there. All this time I didn't even know she was going. She had bought some of my candy bars, and I never saw her selling any herself, so it was a bit of a surprise to see her there. Ms. Qualey asked if everyone had a roomate, and neither of us raised our hands. I remember her looking over at me. Of course, co-ed hotel rooms were out of the question, but knowing that she was going to be there put a smile on my face.

The day of the trip finally came. May 25th. I'd just turned fifteen. About forty of us ended up going. We had to be at the school at five in the morning, which meant waking up around four. My dad dropped me off in the school parking lot, I put my bags away, and got the bus. I had never been so exhausted in my life. I found a seat next to Jason Crevison. Crevison's father was teacher at the junior high; I had him for Graphic Arts. The two of them are like shaved Yetis. They're huge. Very cool people, but still...huge. He gave me the window seat, which was probably a bad idea since now I was wedged between the wall and this massive kid, but I didn't really care at that point. All I wanted was to sleep. Never happened. No sooner had I closed my eyes, I heard someone say, "Hey, wake up!" It was her, sitting in front of me, smiling. If it'd been anyone else I would've punched them in neck. Instead, I sat up and we started talking. It was a little weird trying to carry on a conversation with her without the benefit of knowing her name, but after all these months I wasn't about to say, "By the way, who the hell are you?"

At first we talked about a video we saw in science class about a con-artist guy that said he could bend spoons with his mind and faith healers that smack little old ladies to expel their inner demons. I demonstrated the process for her, saying "Satan be gone!" Then, "BAM!" I'd take my palm to Crevison's forehead. I'm lucky the kid didn't break me in half. She loved it, though, even after about eight hours.

Satan be gone. BAM! You've been healed, praise Je-hee-zus!

I was saying "BAM!" way before that Emeril guy.

By the time the bus pulled into the Quality Suites hotel we'd talked pretty much nonstop for twelve hours. Twelve hours, I couldn't believe it. It went by so fast. We just went back and forth, going on about different topics. I even finally got her name, albeit through hearing someone else speak to her. All the while I couldn't help thinking, "What's a girl like this doing hanging around with a loser like me?" It seems someone else was thinking the same thing.

Rich Bagan. The Moriarty to my Holmes. The Joker to my Batman. The Newman to my Seinfeld. The man who will forever be known as Dick had his own grisly plans for her. Plans that most likely involved whipped cream and gelatin. The fact that she had spent the entire ride down talking to me did not sit well with him, and he was ready to do all within his power to stop it.

Hey, show her your chest.

Damn. See, I've got a bone sticking out of my chest, slightly resembling the creature bursting out of John Hurt scene from Alien. My sternum, the reason I could never have a Slip and Slide when I was a kid. It serves no purpose, other than maybe conveniently fitting in the crevice between a woman's breasts. Hell, maybe that's what it's for, but I had yet to find a girl that wasn't freaked out by the damn thing. It was the sole reason for my role as an outcast of society. It was a constant reminder that no matter how much I tried to fit in, no matter how many people said they like me, they know I'd always just be a freak. Just a freak. I wish I could say that didn't hurt, but it ate away at me every day of my life. Funny thing is, I never even noticed it until I was in seventh grade. That's the first time we had to get changed for gym. The other guys were like, "Ahh! What's that thing?" At the same time I was thinking, "Hey, where's your lump?" What the hell did I know; I thought everybody had one.

There I was. Trapped. Damn. She was going to find out. I knew if she saw that I was just a freak, she'd never want to see me again. I wouldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let Dick win.

No.

C'mon, show her.

Show me what? What are you guys talking about?

Before I could protest, Dick reached over and pulled my shirt up, revealing my hideous deformity for all to see. She didn't say anything for a few seconds, but seemed relatively unfazed. I sat back in my seat and she picked up the conversation from where we left off before Dick interrupted. She didn't care. Wow. Didn't see that coming. I could almost see Dick twirling an imaginary mustache, muttering, "Curses! Foiled again!"

I never told her how I felt about her. I was too afraid. I knew she liked me a little, but I also knew she didn't feel the way I did. She couldn't. I looked like a failed genetics experiment. It's not easy going through life as a scrawny sack of bones that doesn't look like it's put together quite right. I have no ass. It hurts when I sit. Being skinny sucks. Every time I hear people complaining about wanting to be thinner, all I can think of is how I have to grab a hold of something every time a gust of wind blows by, for fear of being swept away to Munchkin City. Something to think about before you go buying all that GNC vitamin-enriched fat-free health food crap. I tried that Weight-Gainer stuff. What a load of garbage that stuff is! It's just chocolate milk, for Christ's sake, and it doesn't even mix right; it just lumps together at the bottom of the glass. Then again, maybe I just couldn't stir it hard enough with my tiny, useless arms.

I don't think petty stuff like that really mattered to her. But I felt that she deserved better than me. I didn't know what to do. She was unlike anyone I'd ever known. This was far beyond a schoolyard crush. I loved this girl.

I realized this when we were in Jamestown. It's a lot like Plimoth Plantation we have in New England, except for all the southern accents. We split apart from the rest of the group and went to look at the horses with a few of her friends. After a while I looked up and noticed that her friends had left. I don't know where they went; to the bathroom or something. It doesn't matter, they were gone. It was just us. I looked at her as she watched the horses. There was something about that moment as she stood there with the sunlight on her face; she was like some majestic beauty you always hear about in books and movies, but could never exist in real life. Yet there she was. She looked at me and I looked into her eyes. Those eyes held so many stories. I wanted to know them all. I could have stayed there forever. The perfect moment. Neither one of us spoke, we just looked at each other. That's all. It was at this moment that I realized how deeply I felt about her, but I didn’t say anything. I wish I had.

One incident that will always stick out in my mind is the flume ride at Busch Gardens. I was waiting in line with three other guys, Phil, Olsen and, you guessed it, Dick. She was ahead of us with her girlfriends, Cindy, Andrea, and some chick I didn't know. She turned around and asked me if I wanted to ride with her. I almost went into cardiac arrest right then and there. I collected my nerves and said, "Sure," as I looked over at Dick and gave him the most evil grin I could muster. I switched places with Cindy. Now you might think that riding the flume with the most perfect girl you ever met would be a good thing, what with all the screaming and wetness, but that just wasn't the case this time.

While we were waiting in line, Wayne decided he wanted to ride with us, too. Wayne. This kid epitomized nerddom to such a terrifying degree that...let me put it this way: he spoke fluent Klingon. Klingon! It's not even a real language!

The thing that kills me is that I still don't even know where he came from. He wasn't in line with us; it's like he just sort of...materialized. The flume log seats four single-file. Ours managed to squeeze in five: the three girls in front and me and Captain Kirk in back. She sat in front of me, separated by a bar that divided the front and back portions of the log. Wayne was behind me. As the log clicked its way up the incline, I sat there baffled as to why Wayne was on my ride stealing my thunder. Again, where did he come from? We were standing in line for forty-five minutes and he was nowhere to be seen. I didn't have much time to think about it, because a few seconds later we went down that steep hill, and I slid forward into the bar (which caused severe man-pain), and my head flew back and landed between Wayne's legs. Somehow when I started I didn't think this ride would end up with my head nestled in Wayne's crotch. I washed my hair about fifteen times that night.

All my insecurities and embarrassing mishaps aside, the major thing I had going for me was that the entire time we were there, from the bus to Jameston to Virginia Beach to the Air and Space Center to Busch Gardens, I never left her side. Well, almost never. Our group of about twelve people kept getting smaller and smaller as kids broke off to go on different rides. She wanted to go on the roller coasters. Screw that. I had this thing about roller coasters. They scared the hell out of me. Now I go on them all the time, mostly because I got tired of seeing little five year old girls do something I was afraid to do. If I had a time machine, I'd go back and beat the crap out of me until I agreed to go on a roller coaster with her. But I don't, so she went off to go on the big coasters the park is famous for, and I, like a giant lump of concentrated idiot, stayed firmly on the ground and just sort of...wandered. I'm still not sure exactly what happened, but before I knew it, I was alone and lost. I walked around for hours, trying to find somebody --anybody-- I recognized. All this time she was in one of those booths making a video with Cindy and Phil. They did the Beastie Boys' "Fight for Your Right to Party" under the name the Hammels. She named her group after me. That's so cute I could vomit. Of course, at the time I was completely oblivious to all of this, because I was lost in a giant amusement park. Ever been lost in a giant amusement park? It can be very traumatizing.

That night, after she had us watch the video several times, I headed back to my room and went to bed. Crevison was my roommate. He stayed up watching Platoon on TV. I was half asleep, but I kept waking up because the guys on TV were shouting "Ammo! Ammo!" but I was hearing "Hammel! Hammel!" I guess I fell asleep when that scene was over. And some time after that, the phone rang. Crevison answered. It was her. She asked for me, but rather than wake me up, he told her I was asleep. Gee, think it might have been an important call, Sasquatch?! I didn't find out until she told me at breakfast. But she didn't say what the call about. What could she possibly have called me for in the middle of the night, I wonder?

Whenever the group went out to eat, we'd always sit together, and if I didn't, she called me over to sit with her. Sometimes I'd sit somewhere else just to see if she'd call me over, and every time, without fail, she would. Everywhere I went, "C'mon, Hammel!" She'd grab my hand and take me with her. I don't think there's any greater feeling in the world than that feeling you get when a girl calls for you. But she never called me John. It was always Hammel. Did that mean she wasn't interested? I mean, you call your buddy by his last name, but I've never heard a girl say, "This is my boyfriend, Smitty." It just doesn't happen. That must have been what I was thinking of when I made The Mistake.

On the bus ride home, Dick kind of put me on the spot. Again. His earlier plans to get her away from me didn't work. This time he conjured up something far worse. I was sitting next to her now. I don't know how I managed that. Before the last rest stop I was sitting next to this kid who asked to borrow my Gameboy, and then I watched in horror as his festering, pus-oozing thumb mashed down on the B button for half an hour. But there I was. Sitting right next to her. Dick leaned over and asked me if we were going out.

Trapped. Again. What do I say? There was a number of things I could have done to get out of that situation. I could have just ignored him. I could have even asked her then, "Hey, are we going out?" I didn't really know. We were in a hot tub together, but there were other people in it too, so does that count? We were pretty much inseparable, and I mean, the Hammels? C'mon. But I couldn't help thinking it was all just a fluke, and that I didn't belong with her and it was only a matter of time before it fixed itself. I could have done lots of things but instead I blurted out "We're just friends."

We're just friends? We're just friends?!! Argh!! I never thought I'd live to see myself use the "we're just friends" line. What right do I have using that line? We're just friends, what the hell is wrong me? I should have let her answer. If she said no, she said no. None of the blame would lie with me, as it does so heavily now. I made the wrong move and Dick won. Dick's a jerk.

Regardless, the rest of that year we continued to talk in science class pretty much every day. A few days after we got back, she even wrote me note.

Hammel,
Did you get your pictures developed yet?
Danielle.

Tomorrow: The story concludes in Loss

Read more »

I Like Megan

Well, I don't like Megan. I don't hate Megan, either. I don't even know Megan. But somebody likes Megan, because they spray-painted their tepid feelings for her along the wall at the beach across from my apartment.



Not I Love Megan. I Like Megan.

Why? Why would someone feel the need to write that on a wall? Why would someone say "Megan, I wouldn't mind seeing you on a semi-regular basis, to hell with what anyone thinks!"

If you're going to deface public property, shouldn't it be for an emotion a bit stronger than "like?" Oh, won't Megan's friends be jealous when they see her sort-of admirer's apathy prominently displayed for the world to see!

Maybe, one day, he'll take Megan to a Red Sox game with some friends, and on the Jumbotron it will read: "Megan, I think you're a cool chick. And if Liz is busy this weekend, do you want to see a movie or something?"

Imagine their imminent breakup...

"Megan, baby, I like you, but I'm not in like with you anymore..."

Maybe there is no Megan. Maybe it's a code..."I like Megan" could be an anagram of "Enigma like" or "I am King Lee." Or "A Milk Genie." I'd like Megan if she were a milk genie. She'd grant wishes and help build strong bones.

I guess we'll never know. So Megan, wherever you are, know that somewhere out there, there's a guy who cares enough about you to spray some words on a wall, but not quite enough to use that other "L" word.

Read more »

the Boogieman!

Michele insists I was dreaming, but some kind of horrible thing tried to rip out my life force last night. It rattled me a little bit, almost being sucked right out of my body by unseen forces, and dream or not, I'm still shaking.

I woke up at 3 AM. Why? Because we had KFC for dinner that night and it was trying to escape. Half an hour later, I crawled back into bed, feeling much better. I couldn't really go back to sleep because Michele...well...she snores. I closed my eyes and saw the residual image of the room as a high-contrast negative. That's pretty normal, it happens when you close your eyes after being exposed to bright lights.

But I also saw a door. A door that's not really in the room. And I felt myself being suddenly grabbed and pulled toward it. Not my body; but my spirit, or soul or essence or whatever the hell it is. It was being pulled out of my body by a white...thing. Shapeless. But it was pulling me and I couldn't open my eyes no matter how hard I tried. And I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I tried to, but all I could do was mumbled grunts. Some people would argue that's how I talk anyway, but that was all I could get out because I couldn't move my lips.

Michele heard me and woke up. She took my hand and I could see the white blobby thing that grabbed me slink away into the door that isn't there.

I grabbed on to her after that and pretty much stayed clamped onto her 'til morining. She said it was just a dream but dammit I wasn't asleep; I had just put my head down and I could still hear the wind blowing into the room from the windows.

I say she saved me from the evil thing because if she wasn't there to snap me out of it I would have suffocated. She says this happens to lots of people and the black people in the south call it "riding the witch." Or the witch is riding you. I don't know. Either way, it's creepy. So all these people have the same dream? Or are these things roaming the world, killing people in their sleep? Could it show up in your bedroom tonight?

I'm just glad I went to the bathroom before this happened, or I would have had quite a mess to clean up...

Read more »

Just the Ten of Us

Mr. Potter died when I was seven. He was my aunt's father, but I didn't know that at the time. To me, he was just a nice old guy I saw on birthdays and holidays who'd give me money. He had a Winnebago that he and his wife were going to travel the country in, but never did. So after he died, my aunt Betty decided we should take it on a trip to see what it would be like. So ten of us, Uncle Jay, Betty, their kids Andrea, Kristin, Joel, Jon, my parents, my younger brother Ryan and me, went on a trip to Busch Gardens.


From left to right: Kristin, Jon...or Joel, my dad,
Ryan, my mom, Andrea, me, Betty, the other twin, Jay.

We took the Winnebago and my parents' station wagon and set off on a mishap-laden adventure that we still talk about today. My mom drove the Winnebago for exactly one block before it was decided maybe someone else should take the wheel. At one point, the car broke down on the side of the rode right next to a bag of rotting fish. So we were standing on the side of the road with a stinking bag of fish guts in the middle of August, waiting for AAA. Later, my then three-year-old brother Ryan announced he had a string in his throat, which my parents didn't understand until he threw up all over the place. Joel and Jon were in the back of the station wagon, banging on the back hatch for dear life for someone to let them out.

We made a stop at a campsite and we were all supposed to go to a waterpark, but I got stung by a bee. My dad said it was because God was punishing me for whatever I did earlier. So my uncle's family went to the water park, and my family stayed behind for a while. When we did finally go, instead of going to the big water park, we went to the cheap, broken down one across the street. My mom took Ryan on a slide with her and her mat flipped over at the bottom, and for a while she was underwater on top of Ryan. None of the attendants at the park even offered to help. To this day, neither one of them has gone back on a water slide. Meanwhile, the slide I was on didn't have enough water on the slide part to make it slippery, so I stopped halfway down. I wasn't sure what to do, so I stood up. Then the guy that went down behind me crashed into me, and there was much screaming and confusion all the way down. Also, some other guy grabbed me out of the pool because I was floating face down trying to see how long I could hold my breath and he thought I was drowning. He got pretty mad.

Then there's my dad, who carefully walked all the way across the German-themed food court in Busch Gardens, with a lederhosen-clad Um-pa band playing in the background, carrying a pizza and a pitcher of Sprite all the way from the Italy-themed section of the park until finally spilling the pitcher all over the pizza when he put them on the table. Looking equally embarrassed and angry, and certainly not about to walk all the way back to get Italy to get another pizza, he clenched his teeth and said "You're gonna EAT that pizza and you're gonna LIKE it!" My mom grabbed some napkins and mopped up most of the soda.

As soon as we got back, my aunt sold the Winnebago. That trip became the template for every vavaction my family's been on since then. What a great trip.

Read more »

There's Guns in Them Thar Hills!

I've always really liked where I live. We have a large backyard and lots of woods. There's a path in the woods that leads to a river and waterfall. It's only a few feet high, but...do you have a waterfall? Didn't think so.



Anyway, there's a path that leads to my grandmother's house and for the past two weekends, I've been cleaning up the path and making it look nice after years of neglect and several storms left it looking creepy and foreboding.

My brother Glenn and I also cleaned up the hill leading up to my grandmother's house (you can either go up the hill or through the woods...or just use the driveway like normal people.) My neighbor's house used to be a mill and the guy that lived there many years ago used the hill to dump his trash. For as long as I can remember, we'd find old glass bottles, license plates, and Schlitz beer cans on the hill, usually after a rainstorm uncovered them.

But this weekend as we raked all the leaves off and cut back the thorn bushes, Glenn uncovered two rusty old guns, or at least the barrels. The stocks and everything else were gone, but burried together was a rifle and a shotgun.





First the creepy hut, now we're finding old guns.

Who knows why they were burried there. This guy dumped all his trash on that hill, so it's more likely that he just threw them out than if he hid them to cover some sordid crime. Maybe his mama put them in the ground because he can't shoot them anymore.

I'd like to know exactly what kind they are and how old they are. I don't know the first thing about guns, so for all I know they could just be BB guns. But they look really old. And anything over 100 years old that you find in the ground is cool.

Read more »

The Secret of Bare Cove

Like the Hardy Boys before us, (the teen sleuths, not the wrestlers) my friends and I have discovered the secret of someplace. Yes, we have uncovered the grisly truth of behind the secret of Bare Cove. Or we would have, if we hadn't bolted like Kenyan marathon runners as soon as we heard someone coming.

Here's what went down: Last month we were sitting around Nick's house trying to decide how to spend our Sunday afternoon, when it was suggested that we buy some disposable cameras and go around taking pictures of random stuff. Maybe it was the ammonia emitting from the ferret cage, but we thought it was a good idea and we were soon on our way.

After taking a few pictures at Nantasket Beach, we drove to Bare Cove, the type of large wooded area where people go to walk their dogs or to write 10,000 page manuscripts on the evils of technology. It didn't take long for us to veer off the paved path to explore the woods. Eventually, we came to a suspicious pair of women's shoes.


Two red pumps. I think they were pumps. I don't really know what the hell a pump is, but it sounds good: two red pumps. Abandoned shoes in the middle of nowhere are a little disturbing. But not as much a hut made out of tree branches sitting on a hill that overlooks abandoned shoes in the middle of nowhere.





We went up to investigate the hut. It was small; made out of branches and twigs, and what looked like maybe a piece of broken old fence for a door. There was a jacket inside. Outside, there was a hacksaw with a bright orange handle sticking out under the dead leaves.



I'm sure there's many explanations for what we found. Maybe the hut was a Cub Scout project or some handy junkies home, and completely unrelated to the shoes scattered below. It's not like I saw any blood on the hacksaw, although I didn't exactly get close enough to investigate. We all ran away when we heard someone coming. Maybe it was just a jogger. Or a squirrel. But no one wanted to stick around to find out. I'm too young to be skinned alive and worn as a coat.

Read more »

Spleen Day

April 2.

This day may not hold much meaning to most people, but to my friends and me, it will forever be known as Spleen Day. Yes, on this day in 1996, Nick got smacked around like an angry rag doll and wound up in the hospital minus a superfluous organ.

We were juniors in high school. I was sitting in homeroom, probably doodling skulls and bunnies, when Jim burst into the room, laughing hysterically.

"Nick's nose exploded!"

"What?!"

"There's blood everywhere!"

Jim explained what had happened. Apparently, Nick had some words with someone outside the building. I think Nick made fun of his girlfriend or something. I don’t know. I was sitting at my desk, channeling my own teenage angst into demented little scribbles in the margins of my notebook. But the point is, things started to heat up, and Nick got punched in the face, spilling forth what I can only imagine was a crimson torrent from his nose. That probably would have been more than enough for someone to get their point across, but it didn't stop there. He was also kicked in the side, which ruptured his spleen and set up the subsequent hospital stay. All this before school even started. It was an interesting day.

Ironically, the school was having a blood drive that day. Really. The joke was that all the blood collected went to Nick, either that or all the blood he left on the dirt outside was mopped up and donated to the Red Cross.

Nick was laid out for a few weeks, while the other kid with the silly poodle haircut was suspended and told if he got into another fight within so many days he’d be expelled.

Nick has since proclaimed that April 2 be known as Spleen Day, and while the greeting card companies haven't jumped on it yet (Happy Spleen Day, Grandma!), it's significant enough to be the date of Nick and Hedie's wedding next year. Easier to remember the anniversary that way.

Who knows? Maybe it'll catch on. Or maybe not. But for a select few, it will always be remembered as the day Nick got the ever-loving crap kicked out of him by a drugged-out lunkhead.

Read more »