words I've been playing around with

Apparently I post everything these days. The first one is a story-poem I made up for Jenny when she challenged me to use the word "municipal." The second two sound angry, but they're not actually aimed at anyone. I promise.

Bar Fight

People constantly compare him to Steven Segal
Because he's fat and has a ponytail.
At eighteen Rick joined the marines.
But he didn't really fit in
With the hard drinking tough guys
So he never re-enlisted. His GI bill
Was wasted
On community college
Accounting classes
That he only attended briefly.

Rick never misses the Presbyterian Singles' dance
Held bi-monthly at the municipal building downtown.
He only dances if someone brings their daughter
Perches her feet on his loafers and waltzes in time to an Abba song.

At 36 and four days
He bet a guy down the bar twenty dollars
That the 'Skins would "whoop" the Packers.
When the score was 28 to three
The bald widower began to gloat.
Rick called him a jackass and
Ended up on the ground, his barstool tipped over
In a pile of broken glass. The manager on duty
Yells that he's on the phone with the cops
As Rick slips out the door
Wondering where he'll watch the fourth quarter.


We're completely cool

you and I - me and you.
there's nothing there anymore
you're a ghost
a fading memory
translucent film
the sharpied X on your hand
you can barely make out
the next day after you've showered.
I don't quite recall what we fought about
how it felt when our eyes met
or the fissure that opened
in my chest when you broke the news
like someone just told me
I was dying
or I'd discovered that
the world wasn't round.
I'm no longer a conductor for our spark
not a semi-conductor
I insulate.
when I'm awake at night you're not the cause
it's heartburn
or stress from work
or maybe some other girl.
and that guy you knew isn't here
I pawned him and lost the claim ticket.
he joined the french foreign legion.
the guy left here doesn't care about the past
doesn't wonder what if
doesn't shed a single tear.
he's alzheimer's
he's amnesia
he's empty.
this isn't good-bye
it's a shrug.


Does your hate keep you warm at night?
Does your bitterness tuck you in?
Does reliving every detail
Of every time you've been wronged
Erase a scar, negate a single tear?
Is your anger justified?
Did the world give you plenty of reasons
To take up your cross
Nail your arms to its timbers
On a hilltop for all to see.

Does your pain make the world spin faster?
Does it keep the days from blending into one?
Does it give you at least one thing you can count on
One set of beliefs that won't prove false?
If you grip a bit tighter
Will it scream back at you?
Will it beg you to let go, to go easy
As you smirk and increase the pressure?
Does your fear make you who you are?
'Cause it doesn't do a whole lot for me.

the third law

I've never been much of a science fan, but I have to admit that Newton had it right. Life is all about actions and reactions. It's about the things we do and their consequences. The butterfly effect may be hard to visualize, but there are times when it's abundantly clear that the there are two paths before us, that the decisions we're making in that moment will change everything one way or the other.

I remember back in high school thinking about the future. My whole life I'd planned on attending UNC-Chapel Hill. My dad went there and my older cousin, and I'd been cheering on their basketball team through every triumph and failure since birth. They're one of the best schools in the country. Their campus is sprawling and beautiful. They have a great journalism program and I wanted to write. It was perfect. I knew I was smart enough, but I was also lazy. I'd sit there in my room some nights, when I had a history paper to write or a Physics test to study for, and I'd say to myself, "This is important. If you don't get into Carolina, this will be the reason why." And I knew it was true. But I still just sat there. I watched TV or listened to music and I didn't do what needed to be done. Sure enough, when senior year came, I sent in my application and got back the thin letter instead of the thick one. So I went to ECU instead. And in some ways it was perfect. I had some great professors, I met some wonderful people, and I still call Greenville my home. I like my life, but what if it could have been better? Maybe I would have challenged myself more. Maybe my Carolina friends and teachers would have inspired me. Maybe I'd have a career by now and a family and home. Or maybe I would have been miserable and dropped out, be living with my parents and working at the Christian Book Store of Lumberton. The sixteen-year-old me wasn't psychic. He couldn't predict all the details. But he knew there would be consequences.

Two years ago I was dating this girl. I thought it was going to be for real, but things happened and we broke up and I was miserable. In my frustration, I wrote a blog much like this one detailing the things that annoyed me about her. I didn't think she knew where the blog was and I didn't think she'd ever read it. She did and she was hurt and furious. We weren't talking a lot at the time, but I still had hope that we'd get back together eventually. At the end of the post I turned it around. I said that the little things that should annoy me didn't really and that they actually made me smile since they were part of her and I loved her. I'm still not sure if she made it down that far or not, but it didn't matter. No amount of explaining or apologizing or begging and pleading made things any better. Now she's engaged to someone else. Honestly, I'm honestly happy for her. I've moved on and I've kissed other girls and I've realized that we probably wouldn't have worked our regardless. But who knows what would have happened if I hadn't have written that post. Maybe we would have gotten back together and be married right now. Maybe I would have just gotten in the way and kept her from meeting the real love of her life. Maybe things would have happened the same but we'd still be friends at least, we'd have more to say to each other than "how's it going?" Two lives were altered because I made a choice.

Truth is, there's not much point in looking back. It's not that it's wrong to regret. I regret the times I've hurt people. The terrible things I've said and the wrong things I've done. I regret the tears that other people have shed because I made a stupid mistake. But I can't remake those decisions. And maybe I wouldn't want to. What I can do is think more carefully about the ones I make in the future. I can take my time and not act on emotion. I can let God continue to teach me the value of silence and give me a heart that's more compassionate. I still can't predict the future and I won't know for sure where each path leads, but if I do what's right and honorable and decent, then everything will work out for the best.

Sleepless in Peniel

Wrestling with an angel all night
I'm thinking of changing my name

Things I should be done with
Still lie heavy on my chest
It's enough to make me cry
But doesn't quite
I can't even coax out the tears
On those days when all that I want
Is to curl up like a wounded fawn
Admit that I only deceive myself
And stain my stone pillow with saline

I often wish my ladder was an elevator
I rarely even bother to climb it
I'm content with this dirt bed
I keep letting myself get pinned
Half nelson after arm drag takedown
Gripping and grappling to no avail

Strike my hip and let's get this over with
There's no victory if the night never ends

Subway Story

The subway platform is already crowded by the time I shuffle in. There's a guy by the door playing what sounds like "Radar Love" on the harmonica. I drop the 62 cents change from my lunch into his dixie cup. I've been standing by the second pillar from the entrance for a few moments, when my train arrives and I climb aboard. After riding the subway for a few weeks it starts to become like a college class. There are no assigned seats, but you gravitate towards the same car each day. I notice a couple of the other regulars as soon as I step in. The guy with the sandwich is sitting in his usual spot by the door. Today it's filled with some kind of italian meats and the smell has already filled up the car. The woman who knits is sitting in the front corner and today she's using rather hideous brown and orange thread. The space around her is less tightly packed than the rest of the car as no one wants to get poked. Some days I wish I had the luxury of a bubble. Knit one, pearl two I count in my head as I find an empty enough spot to stand and slip my right hand into the red pleather strap. The doors closed and the train shrugs out of the station. It takes me about thirty seconds to wish I hadn't left my i-pod at home. The new Wilco album I downloaded last night would be a welcome replacement for the sound of shaking, vibrating metal and plastic and squealing brakes that signals our arrival at the next stop.

Only three people leave our car and maybe ten or fifteen pile on. There's a short, sweaty asian kid in a Dominique Wilkins throwback jersey, a nebbish looking woman with cat-eye glasses, and a tallish fellow wearing a seersucker suit and a bowtie. 'Nique settles in right next to me. His b.o. isn't exactly the reprieve I was hoping for from the nasal assaulting power of sandwich guy's oil and vinegar. The train stutters to a start again and the asian kid nearly falls on top of me before deciding he should probably hold on to something. I try to focus on anything other than the smell and stare at the birthmark on the woman sitting next to me's ankle. Before I can come up with an interesting Rorshach response, the train stops again and I look up to watch the comings and goings. Once again, more people get on than off and everyone on board slides a little closer together.

I try to read the front page of the New York Times that's almost touching me, but its owner turns the paper inside out before I can find out what the FBI is currently saying about airline travel. For some reason, Dominique is antsy now. He keeps shuffling his feet and swaying back and forth slightly. I watch his Air Jordans move back and forth, closer and further from mine until he finally steps on my right foot and looks back towards me. "Sorry, bra," he mumbles.

Among the arrivals at the next stop there's an old man with a stuffed cockatoo and a seemingly married couple of undeterminate ethnicity that seem to be arguing in either portuguese or some middle-eastern dialect. Farsi perhaps? At any rate, their volume is already at eight out of ten before they even walk through the doors. My kingdom for an i-pod. Two stops later, 'Nique gets off and so does the sandwich guy. The equilibrium has finally shifted and there are more people going than coming. Enough seats have cleared out that both the old man and his bird are not comfortable, but I decide to keep standing, partially to be polite and let the older folks and women sit first and partially because I sit down all day at work and it doesn't feel so bad being on my feet for a while, even if I've had to switch strap-arms six times by this point. I've lost track of which stop we're on when bowtie and the birdman leave the train and the only person to climb on is a girl in her mid-to-late twenties. Shoulder-length dyed-red hair that curls up a bit at the tips. She's wearing a sea-foam green t-shirt under a faded burgandy cardigan with a tan Walgreen's tote bag slung over her left shoulder. She manages to grasp the pole on the opposite side of the aisle from where I'm standing just as the train rattles to life and into a tunnel. Her jeans have small factory-made tatters on the left hip pocket.

The arguing couple is still going at it. Their volume hasn't decreased even slightly and they don't seem to be aware of anyone else's discomfort. At least they're on the other side of the car. I try to ignore them and think back over my day. Was that e-mail my boss sent out intended for everyone or just me? Ever since I got there, I've felt like the subject of every memo, the cause for each reminder or warning. Two stops later, the angry couple finally exit the train without so much as pausing their conversation. A guy in a Starbucks uniform, sitting across the aisle from me arches his eyebrows in relief and I nod my agreement. The redhead takes a vacated seat and I notice that her brown Dr. Martens are high-tops, but not calf-high.

It doesn't take long before the train is almost empty and I feel compelled to sit. The knitting lady still occupies her corner and a couple of lawyers are discussing a brief one of them submitted on international copyright laws or something equally uninteresting. The redhead is deeply engrossed in a worn paperback. I'm trying to mentally calculate exactly how much time I have left when she looks up for her book for a second and our eyes meet. "Any good?" I ask.

"It's amazing," she answers. "My favorite." She smiles a bit and I notice that she has incredible dimples.

"I sort of wish I'd thought to bring one," I say. "Who's it by?"

"Gabriel Garcia Marquez. One Hundred Years of Solitude."

"I think I've heard of that one. Sounds like a heavy read."

"It is. Most of my favorites are," she says. She dog-ears a page to save her spot.

"Most of mine are too," I agree. "My name's Ben."

"I'm Carly." She stands up to shake my hand and I rise also. When the handshake is through, she grabs onto a strap and I lean slightly against one of the poles. "What's your favorite book?"

"That's a tough question. I just finished reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers."

"Nope. I've read it. What else ya' got?"

"Umm...The Unbearable Lightness of Being?"

"Sounds like a winner," Carly says with a smile. "I'll trade you."

"I...uhh...don't have it with me," I mutter.

"Of course not. But you're good for it." She pulls a pen out of her tote bag and sits back down to write something in the front cover. "Give me a call when you get a chance and you can live up to your part of the bargain."

She stands up again and hands me the book and I slip it in the front pocket of my messenger bag. "Thank you. I'll definitely give you a call."

"This is my stop," she says as the train brakes. "It was very nice meeting you, Ben." She shakes my hand again and exits the train. I try not to smile too ridiculously.

It's another three stops before the knitting lady and I finally get off. My mind is on anything but work as I climb the stairs toward the street and saunter down the now-dark sidewalk. I hardly notice the dark-haired man with a mustache and a desert-camo jacket as he walks by, but then calls out nervously towards me. "Hey...hey, man...got change for a five?"

I tell him that I do and as I start to pull out my wallet, he pulls a hunting knife out of the inside pocket of his jacket. "Great," he says. "Hand it over, along with your wallet and your bag."

He seems considerably calmer now and I feel like maybe I can bargain with him. "I'll give you the cash, but let me keep my wallet and my bag. There's no laptop in the bag or anything. Nothing but notebooks and paperwork."

"I said hand it over!" The man is agitated again now and I can't quite tell if he's
trembling or purposely thrusting his knife towards me. I quickly hand him my wallet and the messenger bag and he takes off running.

"Wait! Can I at least have my book back?" I yell towards him. I comptemplate chasing him before thinking better of it. He never turns around.

today

It's a fairly typical lunch break: McDonald's. Two cheeseburgers meal with no cheese, large sized. Dr. Pepper. Occasionally I get burned out and it's all I can do to choke my burgers down, but today they're tasty enough for the price and convenience. I'm still chewing three fries when I hear someone speak. I look up from the front-page USA Today article I'm reading about the Patreus hearing in Congress to see a blondish woman in her mid-to-late-forties. "Do you have the puzzle?" she's just asked and it takes my brain a second to sync up. At first I think she's asking if we have any puzzles at Toys "R" Us since people at McDonald's often see my uniform and ask me such questions. I start to mumble something along the lines of, "Which puzzle..." but sensing my confusion she repeats her question, "Do you have the puzzle? It's in the 'Life' section" and this time she points towards the disarrayed stack of newspaper on my table. The woman is wearing a camoflauge baseball cap and a white tank top and when she opens her mouth to speak I notice that she's missing all four of her top-front teeth. I realize that she must be referring to the crossword puzzle and, being the stereotyping semi-elitist that I am, I wonder if she's smart enough to actually fill in the right words or she just makes stuff up. As I hand her the middle pages of the "Life" section, I notice that I'm giving up what could be a slightly interesting article about the big Kanye West/50 Cent showdown, but I probably won't lose any sleep over it. Thinking the transaction is over, I look back down, but the woman continues talking. "I love the puzzle. My husband and I fight over it. My son used to watch 'Blues Clues' and he'd always say, 'A clue! A clue!,' but now he's leaving for Iraq tomorrow." She spits all of this out without a pause and I'm taken a bit off guard. "Oh wow," I manage to get out. "I tried to talk him out of it, told him to join the Coast Guard or the forest rangers or the Navy or something instead," the woman says. "There's a lot of people who are pretty gung-ho about the whole thing," I respond. "Pray for Michael" she commands me and I'm not sure whether I should tell her I will because I do, in fact, pray or not answer since I want to be honest and I'm afraid I might forget. I mumble back that I will and say a quick prayer in my head as she continues talking. "He's my little Stinky..." she says, "Do you know why we called him Stinky? Because when he was first potty training he fell in the toilet." "I'll bet he doesn't like that nickname," I say. The woman mutters something back that I can't really hear as she walks away with her puzzle.

break-up

The worst part isn't the present. It's the future. All the places you planned to travel. The movies you were going to watch. All the stories you never got around to telling. You realize that it's not going to happen. And it hurts. The loss of a future that was so vivid, so real in your head. Even if a part of you knew you were never going to make it there. You constantly check your phone out of habit, but you're not sure who you're expecting to call. Sometimes you wonder if there's anything left to look forward to. Just working and sleeping. Endlessly. And it's not that you lived for your relationship. It wasn't that big of a deal. But it was hope. It was something different. It broke up the monotony. And now life is back to normal. Everything's the same. But you're not quite.

Last Call

Pardon me for saying so, but Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman are idiots. They're the guys who wrote the 1960 Drifters hit "Save the Last Dance for Me." It's playing at Toys [backwards]R Us right now, so I've heard it three hundred times recently, which has led me to overanalyze it. Endulge me. Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman are idiots.

I'm sure you've heard the song, but let me refresh you on the content anyway. The speaker says to an unidentified "you" that we'll assume is his girlfriend, go ahead and dance with that guy who's been eyeing you and smile at the guys who want to hold your hand."Have your fun" and "laugh and sing," but [the chorus]...
"Don't forget who's taking you home
And in whose arms you're gonna be
So darlin', save the last dance for me."
You're kidding me, right? Put yourself in this guy's place. You're dating this girl and you're really into her ("Baby, don't you know/I love you so,") and you take her to some sort of party or dance. And what do she do? She goes off dancing with every guy who winks at her. She flirts and smiles and has the time of your life while you're sitting on a folding chair composing some sappy love song about her. I'm sorry, but if that's you, you're a moron. Even if they're not technically a couple and it's more of a prom date scenario, that's even worse. The speaker bought this girl a ticket and a corsage and spent too much money renting a tux with a pink cumberbund 'cause it's 1960 and to pay him back she goes off and shakes her little tush for every other guy at the party while he's nursing the same glass of punch and eating stale peanuts for two hours. And he says save the last dance for him, so it's not like he doesn't dance. It's not like he's not willing to go out there and live it up. But this girl doesn't want that. She wants to be the star of the party and let every guy there think he's got a chance at bedding her. And poor, stupid Doc and Mort are more than willing to sit back and watch, wait until she's worn herself out and ready for that last dance. Ready for them to drive her home and tell her how much they love her and how beautiful she looked out there. Girls are the devil.

boycottomy

I've seen a lot of talk on both MySpace and Facebook about staying away from the gas pumps on May 15th. I'm not sure who came up with the idea or set that specific date, but it has definitely taken off, with numerous Facebook groups and MySpace bulletins championing the cause. And that's all well and good. I don't own a BP station and I don't really care who purchases gas or when. But I think it's pretty silly to think this one-day boycott will accomplish anything at all. I don't have any clue what the actual numbers are, but I'll throw out some approximations that sound plausible to me at least. Let's say that, between MySpace and Facebook, the boycotters manage to attract 3 million people that actually commit and agree to not buy gas on the 15th of May. Multiply that by twenty to fifty dollars per tank of gas, you say, and that's a lot of money. Perhaps. However, it's extremely doubtful that all of that money will actually be lost, even for a day. Again, for the sake of argument, let's assume the average person fills up his or her tank about once every ten days. There are some that fill up more than that obviously and some that fill up less, but we'll pick that number as a nice even average. That means that only a tenth of those 3 million people would have filled up their cars on the 15th if not for the boycott. That cuts the number of customers lost from 3 million to 300,000. I would wager that 85 to 90% of those FaceSpacers will end up purchasing gas on the following day since it's not like they can skip work or other obligations when their gas runs out. That means maybe 300,000 (on the high side I'd say) people may buy gas one day later than they would have otherwise. To the trillion dollar oil industry, that's not exactly a noticable dent. It's not even a mosquito bite. So by all means, skip your trip to Shell on the 15th. Just don't expect the prices to lower on the 16th.

nerd stuff

What if Star Wars were an actual greek tragedy instead of just based on one?

In act 1, Leia sleeps with Vader in an attempt to gain her freedom and once Luke has rescued her, they are immediately married as a show of her gratitude.

In act 2, Luke visits the oracle, Yoda, and finds out the truth, that Vader is his father and Leia his sister. He immediately gouges out his own eyes and begins to wander Dagobah aimlessly.

In act 3, Luke's faithful manservant, Artu, returns to tell the princess what has become of her new husband and why. Distraught, Leia hangs herself with her own hair. Han Solo, when he comes upon the scene is overcome with rage and flies into the Death Star, destroying it but killing himself in the process. Han's foreign slave, Chewbacca, by now the only main cast member left alive, travels to the rebel base to tell them all that has happened, but cursed by the gods with muteness for his role in what has gone on, all he can do is howl in agony.

The end.

put to good use

When people are mad they'll sometimes use the phrase, "you're just using me." And I guess the "just" makes it seem somewhat negative, but in general I don't see what's so wrong about using people. We all use people every day, especially our friends. We use them for entertainment, for companionship. We use them to cheer us up when we're down, to give us rides when our cars break down, to keep an eye on us and let us know when we're being stupid. And that's okay. As humans we need other people. We depend on them and they depend on us. I use you because that's what you're there for and I want you to use me back. I'm happy to be your shoulder to cry on, to make fun of myself to make you smile, to buy you a meal when you forget your wallet or keep you company when you're bored. That's what friends do. We use and we get used. We're symbiotes. We're designed to be. So use me. Abuse me. "Bend me, shape me, anyway you want me." That's what friends are for.

Nor Dark of Night

Morning’s stillness parted
By jingling bells
Not sleigh, but mailmen
Mail carriers
Mail persons
Unloading sacks from vans and trucks
Loading up cars to deliver
Unwanted fliers and circulars
Bills with past due reminders
I listen from my bed
Dreams cut short
No longer in my high school
In my underwear
Fighting dragons with my Geo Prism
Now awake and aware
As the plain clothes post officers depart
To fulfill their weekdaily chore
I wish that I’d closed my window

dinner conversation

[This is part (probably the beginning) of what will hopefully become a larger, more awesome piece in the near future.]

"Baby," I looked at her and said, "I think you might just be my soulmate."

It was our third date and things were going well. Olive Garden seemed a bit crowded for a Tuesday, but the wait hadn't been excruciating. Grace seemed to be enjoying herself so far and I was much less nervous than I had been on our previous dates

"Souls can't mate, Jack. They don't have genitalia."

My first date with Grace was to a movie and our second was a group date sort of thing with two other couples, so this was our first chance to really talk for an extended period of time.

"Typical," I said, "Everything's about sex with you."

She arched her eyebrows slightly. "You're one to talk with your porn star name, Jack Redman."

I affected a bit of a pseudo-British accent, "Actually, it's John Tyler Redman the third."

"Oh…I see. Like the president?"

"That's right. Number ten. Practically a founding father. Beats being named after Taft I guess."

Grace chuckled to herself. "You know…Taft was eaten by wolves."

"Really? Wolves? I wasn't aware." I took a sip of my ice water. "And what's your middle name, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Actually, Grace is my middle name. My first name is Whitney."

I managed to stop myself from making the obvious "danger is my middle name" reference, figuring she'd heard it a million times. "Whitney Grace Connors, huh? How very sorority girl of you. I'm surprised you didn't go to Vassar." Grace has dyed black hair and a lip ring and "dressed up" for our date by wearing Dr. Martens instead of her usual checkerboard Vans, so I knew that one would hit her where she lived.

She chuckled slightly again. I really dig her laugh. "Yeah…I guess I'm a real disappointment."

Steve, our waiter, returned to the table with the signature Olive Garden salad bowl and watched while we served ourselves, waiting to offer us some grated cheese. I accepted. Grace declined.

"No cheese? Are you vegan or something?" I nodded thanks to Steve as he walked away.

"Were you not here when I ordered the veal parmesan?"

I shrugged. "I don't know…I figured maybe you love animals, but really hate baby cows for some reason. You watched a baby cow murder your parents when you were seven?"

"That's it." Grace faked wiping away a tear. "I'll never forget that sight. The heartless bastard just stood there chewing his cud, redigesting their torn flesh while they slowly bled to death in front of us."

"How traumatic. I think I saw the Lifetime movie about it now that you mention it. Wasn't your mother played by Judith Light?"

"It was Meredith Baxter Burney, actually. Brilliant actress. I just wish they hadn't picked a young Tori Spelling to play me." Grace was sniffling now, pretending to blot her eyes with her napkin.

"Tori Spelling, huh? I didn't realize her dad had pull over at Lifetime too."

"Never doubt power of Aaron Spelling. If he could land her a role opposite an acting legend like Dustin Diamond, he could do anything."

"Point taken. It's a good thing he's dead now or Tori would be getting an Oscar nomination."

Grace had let up on the fake crying by now and took a bite of her salad. "I don't know, Jack. It hasn't been confirmed yet, but I think his powers may just work from beyond the grave."

I put on my best generic serious actor voice. "God. Help. Us. All." The salad was tasty, not to vinegary this time. "So what sort of trouble did you get into today, Ms. Connors?"

"No trouble, sir. Just went shopping."

"Really? How is the gang down at Hot Topic?"

Grace did this cute thing where she bared her teeth and looked like she was going to growl. "You're one to talk, Mr. Thrift Store. 'Ooh…look at me. I'm so hip and ironic with my secondhand t-shirts. I only wear clothes somebody died in.'"

"Dude…who told you that I tried to buy hospital ID bracelets after I saw that chick in Constantine?"

Grace crunched on a crouton. "You're a sick, sick man."

I stuck out my tongue. "Takes one to know one."

"Oh…so I'm a drag queen now? What does that make you?"

"Eddie Murphy?"

We both laughed and there was a bit of a lull in the conversation while we took a break to eat. Grace broke the silence while I was twisting some noodles around my fork.

"Did you see Bush's speech today? What a retard."

I took a bite and shrugged my shoulders. Grace plays bass in a band called Crossbone Syndicate with her older brother. DC hardcore. Very political. My band plays shows with hers, but we tend to sing more about relationships and real life incidents. Sort of Brand New meets At the Drive-In. We were called Star Crunch at the time of the date, but now we go by The Alphabet Exchange.

Grace continued her thought. "Just what we need: more dumb Americans over there raping and pillaging and killing innocent civilians."

I took a sip of my iced tea and spoke softly. "Umm…Grace…I should probably go ahead and tell you that I'm a military brat and my younger brother's stationed in Afghanistan right now."

"Oh." Grace looked down at the table and took a quick bite of veal. Steve came by and refilled my tea. I took a couple of sips and bit into a breadstick. The napkin they put on them really manages to keep them warm. Grace was looking off at another table by this point, probably afraid to make eye contact.

"Hey, Grace, you know what I hate?"

Grace looked back at me, trying hard to keep a neutral expression on her face. "What's that?" she asked.

"Jews and black people," I said, managing to keep a straight face.

Grace laughed and shook her head.

"It's terrible. The Jews run Hollywood and the media. And black people crucified Jesus and shot JFK."

She looked around to make sure there were no people of color or wearing yarmulke in the vicinity. "And don't forget about Tupac and Biggie."

"That's right! Black people shot Tupac and Biggie," I said. "I almost forgot."

"And I'm sure they shot 50 Cent too."

"No, that was Woody Allen. Dirty Jew."

"Oh yeah…I read that on the internet. And didn't Jerry Seinfeld kill Aaron Spelling?"

I laughed a bit. "Nope. I hear from a reliable source that Yahweh himself smited Mr. Spelling out of jealousy. Or smote maybe? Seinfeld may have killed Elvis and Kurt Cobain though. Authorities are still looking into it." I took a bite of my pasta, which was mediocre by the way. Olive Garden never really impresses me.

"This is so informative, Jack. What else have the Jews been up to lately?"

"Well…I heard that John Stewart…"

"…whoa…leave John out of this."

"Sorry. I forgot that he's God to you dirty liberals."

"At least he's not Bill O'Reilly. Ugh." Grace fake-shuddered.

"I'm not a Fox News fan actually. I prefer Joe Scarborough."

"Welcome to Scarborough Country," Grace deadpanned. "No Passport required. Check your brain at the door."

We playfully argued about news pundits for a while and finished up our meals. Grace looked a bit sad when Steve brought our check. That's always a good sign, right? Steve didn't charge us for our drinks.

"Who are the ad wizards who came up with this one?"

Music videos have technically existed since the 1960's, but it wasn't until the 80's and the advent of MTV that they really became an art form. Performers like Madonna, Michael Jackson, and Duran Duran revolutionized the medium and massively boosted their own careers in the process. The question of which video deserves the title of all-time greatest is always up for debate. You could make a case for Pearl Jam's "Jeremy" or The Smashing Pumpkins' "Tonight, Tonight." Michael's "Thriller" video has to be included in the conversation as well as "Sabotage" by the Beastie Boys. There are several more recent artists like Kayne West and My Chemical Romance that have made videos worthy of being discussed and every video by Björk is pretty much amazing. One thing that is not up for debate, however, is the question of who made the smartest music video ever. That title, without a doubt, belongs to "When I'm Gone" by 3 Doors Down. Let me explain:

It was 2002 and Americans' patriotism was still riding high after the September 11th attacks a year earlier. Even many who were normally anti-war couldn't help but support the war in Afghanistan where it seemed clear that we were merely going after those that came after us. The controversial Iraq war was still to come and, unlike in the 1960's where a large group of people had a giant mental lapse and began taunting and spitting at America's mostly drafted soldiers, no one was wavering in their support for those in harm's way. 3 Doors Down could have gone the way of Toby Keith and written an over the top, rompin' stompin', flag waving, pro war anthem and probably not alienated most of their core fan base. But they didn't. Brad Arnold and company wrote a typical alt-rock album about relationships. After recording, however, the boys paid a visit to the USS George Washington, a naval aircraft carrier. Either the band or their record label most likely decided to scrap the previously filmed video for lead single, "When I'm Gone" and use footage of their concert aboard the carrier instead. Suddenly, "When I'm Gone" became an ode to our fighting men and women overseas and instantly cemented 3 Doors Down as the most visible band to "support our troops" at a time when practically everyone saw that as noble. How strong is that association? I'll start by saying that I'm not a fan of the band or their style of music. But to this day, over four years later, I think of soldiers when I hear the song, or even the second single off of that album, "Here Without You," whose video, to my knowledge, didn't feature a single active member of the military. Unlike other overplayed, schmaltzy radiogarbage of the era (ie: "It's Been Awhile," "How You Remind Me," and "The Reason), I don't cringe when "Here Without You" comes on the radio. Despite any feelings I may have about the Iraq war or Bush's presidency and the over-riding cynicism everybody tells me I possess, I can't turn a cold shoulder to the mental picture of brave guys in varying shades of khaki getting shot at in the desert while their families spend another holiday with a missing piece. Call me a sentimental sap, but it worked. 3 Doors Down got to me. And I have a feeling that they got to a lot of Americans. And that, my friends, is brilliance.

navelgazing rambleness

I vividly remember painting balloons in second grade. Natalie Thornwaite painted hers yellow with red polkadots and wrote the words, "Wild Thang" on it. Before the balloons were turned in though, she changed the phrase to, "Wild Thing." I remember being upset. I've never thought intentional misspelling was cool (although I did have a brief habit of spelling "rules" with a "Z"), but in second grade, replacing an "I" with an "A" was downright subversive. I was disappointed that she gave in to percieved societal pressure to be normal and censored her own creativity. Even at seven, I valued individuality.

That's pretty much been a constant ever since. There were times when I wanted to fit in, but never if it meant being the same if that makes any sense. My favorite Muppet was Gonzo. My favorite Anamaniac was Wakko. I loved Peter Tork on the Monkees and Murdoch on the A-Team and claimed "I Am the Walrus" as my favorite Beatles song. When people would call me "weird" I would take it as a compliment.

The question I have is why? What caused me to value uniqueness (within reason) over so many other things? I wonder if maybe it was because I've always felt odd myself. As far back as preschool, I was never cool or popular. Other than a few scattered moments, I was never completely ostracized, but I often felt like an outsider. Maybe that was the beginning. Maybe, at some point, I subconsciously decided that if my lot in life was to be weird then I'd turn it into a positive. So now when I find myself wondering whether I hate something because I actually hate it or simply because it's popular, I should stop questioning it since I already made up my mind about the subject when I was two.

Really, it's a chicken vs. egg thing. Either I'm weird because I value individuality or I value individuality because I'm weird or both qualities come from some unknown nature/nurture source that I could never hope to isolate. Pick option A, B, or C and it doesn't change much. I'm a bit strange sometimes and I appreciate other things that ever-so-deftly deviate from the norm. For better or worse, that's me. But I can't promise not to be hurt if you call me weird too much.

it's a boy

Am I the only person in America that finds it odd that everyone keeps talking about the Iraqi people like they're eight-year-olds? In just about every speech or commentary I've heard lately, from both sides of the aisle, politicians and pundits have been discussing the citizens or Iraq like we're trying to teach a bunch of children how to run a country. Apparently, if we keep supporting the Iraqis too much, then they're going to become relient on our help and never learn to do things for themselves. Maybe it's time to let little Jimmy leave the nest and fly solo. I know it's scary thinking of him out there on his own at that sleep-over birthday party with the other countries at Syria's house, but you can't be there forever to wipe his nose and make sure he's eating his brussel sprouts. Honestly, that's been the tone lately. It's so incredibly condescending. We realize that that the people running Iraq are all over eighteen, right? And not only are they adults, but they're millions of multi-faceted adults with different viewpoints and ideas. I'm pretty sure that, as we speak, some of them are thinking and behaving exactly as we'd like them to while others are completely in another sphere. And do we honestly think it's going to help to talk about all of this so much in such a superior tone? You realize that they know what we're saying, right? They have TV's. It's not like they can't hear us. The least Bush and Obama and Hannity and Colmes could do is spell the words instead of saying them. It works on other children.