Coo d'État

At the bus stop today, I saw a pigeon trying to eat a hard chunk of bread, but he couldn't break it up, so he gave up and waddled away. Then another, rattier pigeon with a lone, ratty white feather sticking out the top of his head, took a turn at it and had the same bad luck. So, to be helpful, I crushed the bread into small bits with my shoe. Old Rat-face went to town on it, gobbling it up greedily. But then Mr. Original came back and wanted to get in on that sweet, dirty bread crust. At first, Rat-face kept crust blocking Mr. Original with his body, and they both started making threatening angry pigeon cooing sounds at each other. Then, suddenly, they started battling it out, Mutual-of-Omaha's-Wild-Kingdom-style, shoving each other with their chests and smacking their ratty pigeon heads together. Rat-face drove Mr. Original back into the gutter, but before the victor even had time to celebrate his flawless victory, a homeless dude walked up and scared them both away. True story.

Once, at Band Camp...

For most of my adult life, I have had a tendency to pointlessly dwell on the various opportunities that I allowed to slip through my fingers because of my own youthful foolishness and lack of insight. Such reflection would invariably lead to rueful recrimination and endless sojourns in the speculative world of what-ifs, if-onlys, and could-have-beens. Fortunately for me, I have finally reached a point in my life where time and experience have dulled the sting of such recollections and have allowed me to view the failures and foibles of my younger, less discerning self with detached amusement. Now that I am able to lay aside all tendencies toward maudlin, sappy regret, I feel comfortable recounting one particularly amusing occurrence from my youth as a cautionary tale of myopic cluelessness.

In the summer of 1987, before my freshman year at Camelback High School in Phoenix, AZ, I attended the school's marching band camp, which was held for one week at Camp Mingus—a cozy camp facility situated in the woods of Mingus Mountain in Northern Arizona. For the early part of each day, we practiced marching drills, and then it was on to band music in the afternoon, followed by a couple hours of free time before dinner. In the evenings, after dinner, we had a couple more hours of band practice before ending the day around the campfire, singing songs and performing skits. I hated getting up early in the morning and marching in the hot sun and rarefied mountain air, but I did enjoy the free time we had before dinner, and I appreciated the lively campfire sessions most of all. It was during one of those sessions that summer that I made a bit of a name for myself by performing a novelty song called “Ronnie's Rap,” a goofy Ronald-Reagan-themed rap song which I had heard on The Doctor Demento Show, a popular novelty song radio show. I had a spot-on Reagan impression that was an instant hit with the entire group. It was a heady rush to hear the laughter and cheers as I sang:

“I'm the Big Gipper, don't mess with me.

I'm the baddest rapper this side of D.C.,

With my best girl Nancy, as my spouse,

rappin' to you from that big White House.”

Suddenly, everybody knew exactly who I was. I had become a celebrity.

        At first, it was flattering as people I did not yet know approached me and asked me to “say something like Reagan.” It always caught me by surprise, but I was obliging nonetheless. Even though I could never seem to find anything particularly witty to say, they would laugh anyway, because, after all, I really did sound just like the President. Sometimes, I would feel annoyance at being constantly put upon, but I never turned down a request, no matter how I was feeling. I had a gift that made me a hot commodity, and I was going to respect the shtick that was my main claim to fame.

        On the last day of band camp, at the end of our daily practice sessions and just before we were released to our own devices for the day, some of the seniors handed out awards: Most Improved, Best Hair, Cutest Couple, Hottest Guy, Hottest Girl, etc... I was hoping there would be an award for Best Reagan Impression, but, alas, none of the seniors had seen fit to honor my unique talent with a cheap paper award certificate. They also announced that there would be a dance that night. It didn’t matter much to me. I had always hated dances, and never really saw any point to them. I was sure that I would spend this evening alone, outside the recreation hall, trying to hide from the obnoxiously loud festivities—just like I usually did when having to endure such events.

        After the announcements, we were dismissed for a couple of hours until dinner time. After milling about the camp for a while, I decided to break away from the crowd for a change and explore the area a bit. I walked out to the mountain road and headed up the hill toward a scenic point about a quarter mile from the camp. When I arrived, there were already two girls there, hanging out, enjoying the lush view of the valley below, and chatting about whatever it is that high school girls chat about. I recognized one of the young ladies, a saxophone player, but I could not remember her name. I decided to strike up a conversation. She told me that her name was Laura Ingalls, just like the beloved character of literature and television. I mentioned that I had heard one of the seniors constantly referring to her as “Half-Pint.” Laura laughed it off with a shrug. “Yeah. I've been getting that all my life,” she said.

        Slender in build, Laura had a natural, easygoing beauty. Standing close to her, I began to drink in the features of her face. Her long, straight, brown hair was simple and unadorned, and she had no need of makeup to accent her brown eyes or to obscure the sprinkling of light freckles across her nose. I found myself feeling very attracted to her. I hoped that there was some coincidence that would give us common ground—that would bind us together in some mystical way. Almost, as if in answer to a prayer, she told me that her father was a Wesleyan minister. “My stepfather's a Pentecostal minister!” I announced, completely bowled over by such a significant coincidence, but she seemed unfazed by it. She grunted in acknowledgement. “I guess we're both P.K.s,” I said, using an abbreviation for “pastor's kid” that was common in many evangelical Christian circles. Her reply was a bland “I guess so.” I decided to press the point even more. “You know what they say about pastors' kids,” I added, a slight hint of conspiracy in my voice. “Yeah, I'm such a wild child,” she confessed, somewhat sarcastically. I was so excited by our common ecclesiastical status, that I was utterly perplexed by her apparent lack of excitement. I decided to search for more commonalities between us in the hope of confirming our compatibility.

        Being a passionate music nerd, I asked her a question that was, to my music nerd brain, the most important question I could ever ask another human being: “What kind of music do you like?” “Classical, mainly,” she answered, nonchalantly. I felt my heart start to pound. I was positively elated by what I had just heard! She was a classical music lover, just like me! I had never yet encountered such a kindred soul among my contemporaries. “I also like oldies,” she added coolly. “Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper are my favorites.” “I love oldies!” I erupted, perhaps a little too ardently, as I really had never even heard of the Big Bopper—but I did like Elvis, and that was close enough, right? With just these two amazing and important things that we had in common, I was certain that this girl would be mine. It just had to be a work of Divine intervention that we met like this. That was the only logical explanation. 

        Later that afternoon, back at camp, I was filled with that unique combination of giddiness and stark terror that I had always understood to be love. My mind was buzzing with thoughts about the lovely creature I had met that day. As a religious young man, I believed completely in the providence of an Almighty God, who, despite having his hands full keeping every single atom in the universe from spontaneously disintegrating, somehow found time to take a keen interest in the angst-driven hopes and dreams of lowly teenagers like me. In His divine wisdom, He had seen fit to send me someone who was my perfect match. I knew that I absolutely had to talk to her again and get to know her better. I was sure that she would feel exactly the same way once she had the opportunity to see what sort of person I was. Maybe I could even make her laugh with my Reagan impression. That shtick was pure gold. Then, I remembered the dance that was scheduled for that night. That was perfect! I knew I would have to dance with her!

        That evening, after dinner, I showered and put on my best set of clothes. I felt invigorated by the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Tonight was going to be the greatest night of my life! I made my way to the recreation hall. I could feel the bass thumping and braced myself for the sonic assault as I climbed the steps leading up to the entrance. Inside, it was like every other dance I had ever attended—too dark to really see anything clearly, too loud to comfortably converse with friends, and too crowded to move freely about the room without bumping into people. My sweaty classmates had paired off and were shaking their bodies to the rhythm of popular music that was, except for a few occasional songs, completely foreign to me. I scanned the room, looking for Laura, but she was nowhere to be found. That was fine, though; I knew she would show up soon.

        I found a suitable wall to lean against while I gathered my courage. I continued to scan the room, watching the happy faces of my classmates, thinking about the momentous event that was to come. While standing there, attempting to unobtrusively search the crowd for that one familiar face, I heard a female voice ask me, “Would you like to dance?” I turned to see Kelly Roth, a gorgeous sophomore who, earlier that day, had won the designation of “Hottest Girl” at the band camp awards ceremony. She was holding out her hand, her full lips curled into a gentle smile, her head tilted slightly down with her sultry eyes looking up at me in a way that would make most men's glasses fog up. I, of course, was bitterly disappointed when I realized who it was who wanted to dance with me, but I decided to accept her invitation anyway. After all, there was no point in being standoffish to such a nice young woman. I wasn't much of a dancer, but I had attended a couple of dances in middle school, just to see what all the fuss was about. As I had been instructed at those dances, I placed my hands on Kelly's hips as she rested hers on my shoulders. We began to rhythmically sway to the music, just like in middle school, but I immediately noticed that something about this girl was different from all my previous middle school dance partners. Her hips felt...different. They were very round and shapely, and the sensation of their movement was both strange and pleasant to me. “So how did you like camp?” she asked, still smiling and staring into my eyes with what appeared to be sincere interest. I wondered—was she coming on to me? No, I was sure I was imagining things. I answered her with a noncommittal “It was fun, I guess.” She was still smiling. I scanned the room again, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Kelly gazing up at me still. “So, what kind of things are you interested in?” she pressed. I could still feel her hips swaying. I stopped scanning the room and returned my attention to her. “Mainly music,” I offered, nonchalantly. “That's cool. Me too,” she said. We continued to dance, and she continued to ask me questions about myself, which I dutifully, but distractedly, answered. The thought crossed my mind again: Was this girl into me? There was just no way that could be the case. Besides, it didn’t matter even if she was. Laura was the one for me. Still, there was no denying that Kelly was exquisitely beautiful, in a rather conventional way. The song came to a close. “That was nice, thank you,” she said. “Sure,” I vacantly replied as I turned to head back to my observation spot at the wall.

        For the rest of the night, I grew ever more nervous with anticipation. I still didn't see Laura anywhere, and I continued to scan the room, occasionally taking breaks to fetch a cup of refreshing, fruity punch. The night drew on—one loud, unfamiliar '80s pop song melding into another, until I finally realized that the dance was winding down. I had to get out there and find Laura—and fast—or else my hope of dancing with her would be gone forever. I began to make my way through the dark and crowded dance hall, scanning the boisterous crowd on the dance floor, searching the ranks of the wallflowers standing in shadows.

        I heard my name being called and turned to see my friend Andre. We had both attended the same middle school together, and were entering Camelback High School that year as freshmen. “Hey, you know that senior chick, Mary Colts?” he asked, “Well, she's lookin' for you, man. She says she wants to dance with you.”

Why on Earth was Mary looking for me? She didn’t know me. We had never even talked at all, as far as I could remember. She must have seen my awesome Ronald Reagan impression. How could she resist? All I knew for sure was that I absolutely did not want to dance with Mary. I wanted to dance with Laura. I felt a twinge of panic as I suddenly realized that I would have to find Laura before Mary could find me.

        “Have you seen Laura Ingalls?” I asked my friend, almost pleading. He replied that he hadn’t seen her. I thanked him and moved on. I asked another fellow first-year if she had seen Laura, but she couldn’t help me either.

        Suddenly, the deejay's voice boomed over the sound system, announcing that the time had come for the last dance of the night.

        I frantically scanned the entire room, my panic ascending to a horrible crescendo. I could feel all my hopes slipping away as the final slow dance of the night began playing through the speakers.

        Then, in one glorious instant, I saw her.

        In my recollection it was as if the writhing sea of slow-dancing teenagers gently parted, revealing the angelic figure of Laura, hovering ethereally on the other side of the dance floor, bathed in the shimmering light of a disco ball. I began to walk toward her, my heart pounding in anticipation of the moment when everything would forever change for the both of us.

I took about two steps forward when, suddenly, I felt my hand being seized in the surprisingly strong grip of some unseen female force who, with all the ferocious speed of a diving hawk snatching up an unsuspecting rabbit, forcefully whisked me away to an empty spot on the crowded dance floor. In a dizzying blur, I saw the big, frizzy mass of crimped blond hair and the black-mascara-lined blue eyes speeding toward me with desperate determination, and, before I even had time to process what had just happened, I found myself cheek-to-cheek in Mary Colts' overwhelming embrace. I could feel her over-processed coif rubbing against the side of my face like a plastic-meshed dish scrubber, the slightly burnt smell of Aqua Net® filling my nostrils. She held me close and tight, as if we were both tragic lovers soon to be parted, and this was our last moment together.

        I felt all hope evacuate my chest and sighed in resignation to my grim fate as Mary dragged me around the dance floor. Some syrupy '80s love ballad blared from the speakers, but the saccharine romantic sentiments it expressed, combined with the desperately powerful embrace of my captor, only heightened the sense of desolation I felt in that moment. For one last time, I scanned the crowd of happy faces swaying around me, hoping to catch a glimpse of the object of my affections. I did not see her. She had vanished as magically as she had appeared.

        It wasn't until many years later, with the benefit of hindsight, that I was able to understand more clearly what had really happened that summer. Of course, Laura wasn't sent to me by Divine Providence at all. In fact, over the next couple years I spent at Camelback High School, her passive-aggressive behavior toward me was evidence of a deep contempt. What I failed to realize then was that my fascination for Laura was based on a complete delusion—who I thought she was, how much like me I believed her to be, how perfect our lives together would have been—all of it existed only in my mind. On the other hand, there were some very obvious clues that the beautiful, intelligent, and remarkably talented Kelly Roth actually may have been attracted to me, but my myopic obsession with Laura kept me from seeing them. Whatever moment of opportunity I may have had with Kelly was short-lived. She either grew tired of my coolness toward her attempts to gain my attention, or, more likely, she realized just how gorgeous she was and how much better she could do. I don't know for sure, and everything happened so long ago that none of it matters anymore. Thinking about how my life may have been different had I not been so wrapped up in a world of delusions would be to engage in the same counterproductive fantasy thinking that I would be lamenting. I think it is much better to enjoy my own story for what it was, learn what I need to learn from it, and let the what-ifs dissolve into the ether with all the if-onlys and could-have-beens. 

The Swede and the Meathead or: My Case for Stricter Immigration Laws

Yup. Seems like just another typical day at the ol' college, but wait! Oh look! Pretty Blonde Swedish Girl from anthropology class is sitting at the picnic table in front of building B, studying feverishly for today's quiz. Maybe I should offer my help. I walk up to the little square table and sit on the side to her right. We exchange pleasantries. She smiles with her perfect white Swedish teeth. We talk—about the class, about her struggles with trying to learn English, about her education in Sweden. She's still smiling. That's good. She seems to find me a suitably charming conversationalist, and why wouldn't she? I'm brilliant.

I crack a few witty jokes, and she laughs her perfect, feminine Swedish laugh. I give her coupons for Camel cigarettes—her brand. Oh yes. I am awesome, thank you. Wait, what the hell is that noise? It sounds like a flatulent elephant farting into a bullhorn. There, backing into a parking space—an absurdly tricked-out blue Japanese car...with a spoiler. What's with spoilers, anyway? Do they even do anything?

That's not ridiculously obnoxious and annoying at all, I say out loud. She doesn't say anything. Nosiree, definitely not too loud, I sarcastically opine. No reply. Oh well. I go back to studying. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her wave to somebody. I turn and see Manly McStudly getting out of the absurdly tricked-out blue Japanese car with spoiler. He's wearing a tank top to show off his muscles and tattoos. She's REALLY smiling now, a rapturous, trance-like expression washing over her face. He approaches the table, his mouth cracking only the faintest hint of a smile—he's much too cool and studly to bother with a full smile, after all. He sits down across the table from me. They blather briefly about something inconsequential. Sheesh. I've seen this jerk before. This is the second time that Beefcake McHunkerton has decided to step in and interrupt a perfectly pleasant moment between Pretty Blonde Swedish Girl and me. She's already forgotten that I'm there as she dazedly stares deep into his chest muscles.

Now the hunky interloper looks over at me, noticing my awesome Panama hat. Why, yes—it is a nice hat, thank you very much. Have I ever been where? Cuba? No, but I had a friend who once...oh, really? Lots of people in Cuba wear hats like this? Well, thank you for enriching my intellect with that fascinating bit of information.

Meathead and the Swede start blathering to each other again. Why, yes, she would like to get out of here. I check the time on my cell phone. Class starts in ten minutes. I guess I should get going too...wait...where is she going? Class is in the other direc—oh, I get it. They're going to the nature observation spot thingy under the trees. Yeah. They're totally going to make out again, just like they were doing last week when I walked out of building B and right into their blissful, hormone-saturated public display of affection. And, just as she did that time, she'll probably once again rub her pasty white Nordic hands all over his liberally-tattooed arm and chest muscles while staring longingly into his big, dumb, vacuous moose eyes. What the hell is wrong with Swedish chicks? She didn't even say goodbye. Eh, screw it. I gotta get to class—I've got a quiz to ace.

A Quick Note to Self

Dear Imagination:

No. Making slightly lingering eye contact with the bookish, somewhat granola girl on the bus does not mean that the two of you just shared a silent meaningful moment.

Sincerely,

Reason

(P.S.--I'm sorry if the Ben Folds song playing on your iPod at that moment might have led you to think such a thing.)

(P.P.S.--If it's any consolation, that cloud you saw today totally DID look like a chubby cartoon shark.)

My Sports Dream

Actual conversation snippet from a dream I had this afternoon:

SOFTBALL TEAM COACH JASON BATEMAN: Well, here we are. Phoenix.

ME: We're not in Phoenix.

COACH: Well, we're in Kingman. Close enough.

ME: The signs say "Placentia." We're in California.

COACH: Well, San Diego is IN Kingman.

The Dream in Which I Am a Bad-Ass Action Star

I had another weird dream last night. I was trying to get to a college to do something (I can't remember what) by a deadline, but I ended up on some strange university campus on the other end of town. I asking around for directions, hoping to catch a ride from someone, when I met two lovely young single mothers pushing strollers with super cute babies in them. They wanted to find the same college, but didn't have any transportation either. I thought that I should leave them behind and try to go it solo, but their babies were, like, sooooo ridiculously adorable that I decided to let them tag along on my quest.

After wandering around a bit, we began to realize that all the shop and street signs were in Spanish. I thought we were lost in Santa Ana, California, but soon realized that we were stranded in a scary Mexico border town. None of us had a passport, and we were all afraid that we wouldn't be able to get back to the U.S., so we found a trench that we knew would lead us across the border back to home. The trench led to a concrete-walled tunnel. As I advanced through the tunnel, I suddenly realized that my travel companions had vanished. As I began to reach the end of the tunnel, I sensed that something horrible had happened to them.

I was just feet away from the exit to America, but it was being blocked by some creepy Josef-Mengele-looking dude in a white lab coat, and his tough-looking Mexican henchman. I knew that they had killed the young ladies and their babies. I was enraged. Suddenly, I was Danny Trejo (awesome, I know). I'll spare you the details, but there was horrific Robert-Rodriguez-movie-style bloodshed involving an ice pick, a sharpened chisel, and a box-cutter.

I made my way past the bodies of my slain foes and walked through the door leading to Main Street, USA. People lined the streets, watching a marching band in a parade. I made my way through the crowd and on to freedom, but the sweet relief of my homecoming was marred by the horrors that I had faced. I was a survivor. And I was still Danny Trejo (still awesome, yes). Then I woke up.

The Dream About the Moon Cat

I had a dream last night that my friend Ben Stumpf had traveled to the moon and had just returned to Earth. I was quite impressed, but I also found it a rich source of joke material. I made a nuisance of myself making lame moon jokes. At one point, for some reason, Ben was standing in a vacant city lot doing some kind of weird Harlem shake type dance. I thought he looked like a spaz, but other people from the neighborhood were drawn to him, and soon, the lot was full of people centered around Ben, dancing the same spazzy, jerky movements, all without music. I shouted: "He says he just came back from the moon!" All the dancing stopped, except for Ben's. Everybody eyed the writhing astronaut as if looking at a lunatic whose lunacy might be an incurable contagion, and they slowly backed away from him, dispersing and leaving him dancing alone in the vacant lot.

I thought the whole incident hilarious. He did not, as he later made clear in newspaper editorial in which he soundly excoriated me for taking his greatest triumph in life (going to the moon) and somehow turning it into a joke to make him look like an ass. I felt horrible. I apologized profusely and told him personally that I thought he was a total badass because, after all, HE WENT TO THE FREAKING MOON!!! He didn't seem persuaded by my apology and was still visibly upset with me. Then things got much worse.

He had brought back with him the first cat to ever go to the moon. The cat wandered around the neighborhood, exploring its urban surroundings. Suddenly, a huge yellow dog the size of a small horse caught sight of the cat and gave chase. I grabbed a large club and tried chase him down in order to stop him from hurting the moon cat, but I was too late. I could hear snarling and cat cries coming from behind a dumpster. When the dog finally emerged, moon cat blood all over his face, I was filled with a seething rage. I lifted up my club to administer the ultimate punishment. The beast looked up at me, and I immediately feared that I might be next on his menu. He was massive--more like a bear than a dog. I realized that there was no way I could fight such a monster and win, but I was so mad, I didn't care. Then I looked into his eyes. They were filled with such innocence and trust. He had no idea at all what I had planned for him. I felt strange. Guilty. I lowered my club and started petting the bloodied dog. His fur was surprisingly soft, his nature surprisingly gentle. Suddenly, all was forgiven, and we walked off into a serene urban sunset.