July 01, 2009

cherry pop

When I was in Bellingham, I bought two cases of Diet Dr. Pepper. I put them in the back of the Jeep, which is also where I left Dex while I ran into Lilly's apartment for a few minutes. When I returned, no cardboard remained. The only forensic evidence that the cases ever existed was 24 slightly chewed, free-range cans of pop.

Whenever I rounded a corner, a heavy metallic avalanche would swamp Dex, who lunged to keep out of the way of the rolling cans.

"Serves you right!" I yelled into the mirror.

And then the cans began exploding. Three of them sprouted geysers. Today, Dex has a peaty, cherry bouquet. And of course, a pesky insouciance.

posted by john at 10:00 AM  •  solamente

June 30, 2009

mission accomplished

Two years ago, I took my brightest student ever out for beers. I was about to offer her an editing gig for Microsoft. First, though, I would follow my custom and pump her full of Bud Truth Serum. It didn't take her long to lament that she'd had to withdraw her applications to grad school. She was flat broke.

"You haven't withdrawn them yet, have you?" I replied, aghast.

And thus did my mentoring of Lilly commence as these things should: in a sleazy bar.

I adored Lilly. She was exactly why I still dabble in teaching. A great person, warm, brilliant, full of light and promise. To help her go to grad school would doubtless be one of my greatest accomplishments in life. I was excited. And then a friend had to go and mention a nightmarish and all-too-likely scenario.

"So how will you feel if she ends up staying with Microsoft, doesn't go to grad school, marries a soulless Microsoft loser, and bit by bit you see all those great qualities sucked out of her like they are the rest of us? If you become the agent of Lilly's destruction?"

Utterly. Mortifying.

"Okay, so here's the deal," I barked at Lilly later that day. "After a year, you're fired. And if you date a co-worker, you're fired."

"You can't do that!"

"Try me."

Even though she ended up working for two years, I was hyper-protective of her. She never met management. She never went to a meeting on campus. She never met a co-worker who wasn't a middle-aged woman. My proudest moment came when Lilly met a guy in a bar and he asked her out. Seeing his Microsoft badge, she turned him down flat. "My mentor would kill me."

"I don't believe Lilly really exists," a handsome young writer told me just last week.

"Fuck off," I replied. I almost have this cow in the barn. I'm not spooking it now.

Today is Lilly's last day in her job, and in a month she'll be in the grad school of her choice, where presumably her soul will be fed, not depleted. We went out to dinner last week, reflecting both backward and forward.

"One of the things I've learned in the last two years, and I hope this doesn't offend you," she began hesitatingly, "is that I don't want to work with Microsoft."

I have never loved another human being more than I loved Lilly in that moment. I gave her a hug.

"I have nothing more to teach you."

posted by john at 09:08 AM  •  solamente

June 29, 2009

doppleganger

Dream girl Emma visited me this weekend. I'll pause so that you can read the link.

Done yet?

We waxed about our school days, and we discussed my temper, which was vastly worse then than now. Emma is so unfailingly gracious and kind, this conversation about my dickishness made me squirm, which she exacerbated by being gracious and kind about it. "I never saw you lose it at someone who didn't deserve it. That's what I was telling my husband about you last night. He....say, have you ever met my husband?"

"Once, a long time ago. I remember an impossibly gorgeous, gentle man."

She chuckled. "Yeah. Anyway, that's what I said about you."

"That I'm an impossibly gorgeous, gentle man?"

"It's like you were there, John."

posted by john at 09:04 AM  •  solamente

June 26, 2009

haunted

Would someone kindly help me get that goddamned Michael Jackson song "Ben" out of my head?

posted by john at 07:03 AM  •  solamente

June 25, 2009

mirror mirror

Every woman who's stayed in my guest room has said the same thing. No, it wasn't "I'm staying in the guest room, and that's final." They have requested that I install a mirror. And thus did I look for an appropriate mirror when I browsed Bellingham's many galleries. I think I found it.

posted by john at 07:30 AM  •  solamente

June 24, 2009

felt like a giant slug

Dogs are famously revolting creatures, but Dex set a new mark yesterday. We visited some friends in Bellingham, and while she was in the back of the Jeep, I filled her travel bowl with water. Meanwhile, in the front seat, I changed shirts. This allowed Dex to snarf my bare back with her shaggy, slobbery, mop-like face. You wouldn't think it possible to stand up in a Jeep. You'd be very wrong.

For no particular reason, here's a photo of Dex "helping" me garden. Yes, I'm aware that Obama got a dog just like mine. No need to tell me. Really.

posted by john at 09:56 AM  •  solamente

June 22, 2009

mr. charm

I went into the Metamuville Grocery, and the hot young woman who works nights was there alone. "Eeeeev-ah!" I heard on the TV.

"Wall-E!" I said. She and I both professed our love for that movie, and eventually I asked if she’d seen "Up." Nope, she hadn’t. “Well, it’s playing right over in Blahboro…” I said.

There was nothing more to my sentence, but her sudden look of dread was palpable. Suddenly I felt compelled to tack on “So I’ll let you know how it was!”

I will never forget the look on her face. Kinda terrified.

posted by john at 02:39 AM  •  solamente

June 19, 2009

stupid is

A mere 24 hours after my triumph in the car wash, I was spreading a trailer's worth of beauty bark. I hopped into the back of the trailer, forgetting that it wasn't attached to the truck anymore. Boing! I fell, and the ensuing avalanche of beauty bark smothered me.

My mom was right. I am the stupidest kid on the face of the earth.

posted by john at 02:08 PM  •  solamente

June 18, 2009

stupid does

Not that further proof of my intellectual degradation was needed, but yesterday was a landmark of sorts.

Sequence One
The following took place in a split second. I was towing my boat to the mechanic. During a right turn, I set my bottle of Diet Coke into the right coaster in the truck's console. My boat keys were already in there, and the bottle toppled about, splashing everywhere and filling the left coaster. My iPhone was nearby, and I quickly flipped it to the safety of the dash. The sloped dash. Splash!

Sequence Two
I stopped at a self-serve car wash to scrub down the boat. Washing the roof required that I balance on the narrow (5") side of the boat, some six feet in the air. My full weight on my toes, I fired the sprayer. It's not often in life that you think of Newton's Third Law of Motion while actually still in motion, but there I was. Splat!

I launched violently backward into the wall of the wash bay, and I slid down coyote-style. My whole body hurts today.

posted by john at 08:45 AM  •  solamente

June 15, 2009

my big fat gay weekend ii:
even gayer

My fate was sealed, I suppose, the moment Mike invited me to watch the charity softball game. "It's cross dressers against lesbians," he said. It's called "Bat 'N Rogue."

"What's the charity?"

"I dunno. Does it matter?"

"No. I'm so there." I was certainly not going to miss seeing this.

It was a freakshow, but it was decidedly less so than I'd anticipated. I'm not sure what I'd hoped for, exactly, but it wasn't wholesome couples picnicking in the outfield with their Brookstone picnic basket and poodle.

Mike introduced me to his buddy Matt. "John's from Columbus," Mike said to our fellow midwesterner. Matt's eyes flashed.

"Oh! I heard they have the largest bath house in North America! Is that right?"

"Uh, I wouldn't know," I said.

"John's straight," Mike stage-whispered in a manner that was way too similar to how someone might explain hair loss by whispering "He's got cancer."

"Ohhhh," Matt replied, my obtuseness explained.

And so did it go for the rest of the day. Every time I met a friend, my predilection for vaginas would be quickly explained. Sometimes it was phrased exactly that way. In my regular life, the word "vagina" seldom comes up. Not so on Saturday. It takes some getting used to, as does my obtuseness being explained. I mean, I'm used to being a polka dot, but black friends seldom have to explain that I'm white. Apologize for it, sure, but not explain it.

"From now on, every time I introduce you, I'm adding 'He's gay.' to every sentence," I growled to Mike.

"Oh shut up."

A group of us went to dinner, where good food and much alcohol flowed. They asked me about women. We talked about glory holes and rectal fissures (I'm opposed) and the recreational use of Viagra. Well into my eighth bourbon, I reportedly asked, "Tell me about a world without women. It's saner, right? It's wonderful, right?"

More booze flowed. I toppled my drink on some guy's lap, and everyone lunged to dab it off with their napkins.

I made that part up. The dabbing part—unfortunately, the drink part is true. We drank some more.

Feeling bad about my clumsiness, I picked up the check. They were delighted. Elated. Kinda crazily happy about it. Matt declared "We are SO getting John laid tonight!"

"Uh."

"Trust me."

"I don't."

"You should."

"Why's that, exactly?"

"Oh, you."

They determined to take me to a gay club called Purr in the gayest part of Seattle, and that's saying something. Matt wouldn't let it go. He pulled me aside. "What type of woman do you like?"

"I have only two requirements: 1) no living relatives and 2) low standards," I replied. "Disease free is a nice-to-have."

"He likes tomboys," Mike interjected. "Brown ponytails pulled through baseball caps."

"Man," Matt replied. "Wow. That's a pretty tough order. Not many of those in Purr."

We walked into Purr, and I was stunned to see it full of attractive women. It was a bachelorette party. The place was filled with the usual Capitol Hill freaks, but as far as gay bars go, this seemed tame. Why there were women in schoolgirl outfits, I could not guess. At first I thought they were trannies, but no. They were women in plaid miniskirts and vests.

Our group sat down. "So back before you all chose to be gay," I said. They all glared at me, waiting for me to finish an offensive thought. "I don't have a second half to that sentence," I finally admitted. "I just wanted to begin a sentence that way."

"What you'll quickly understand about John..." Mike began.

"...is that he's kinda an asshole?" Vince said. "Yeah, we got that."

Time passed. They all tried to hook up, but they did check in on me once in a while to shoo away a guy and to be sure I was having a good time. I was. I was a fascinated observer in an environment truly alien to me.

Matt took a break and plopped next to me. "So who's the best looking woman in the room?" Now this was not an alien environment to me. This is how guys normally converse. I surveyed the veritable buffet before me and selected a statuesque blonde in a tight skirt.

"I will procure that vagina for you," Matt chirped confidently.

"No no. I was just answering your question. I'm not actually interested."

"You, sir, are going to tap that tonight."

"You're insane. No. I'm not. Don't do anything."

And then he disappeared. Within 20 minutes, there was another plop on the couch next to me. It was the blonde. Seriously? What the fuck?

"Are you really straight?" she asked, touching my arm, not unlike like a stripper.

There was only one thought on my mind: committing a hate crime. Matt must die. And slowly.

"Are you really straight?" she repeated.

"God yes," I said with probably too much defensiveness. We chatted for a bit, and she was an utter imbecile, not that you expect any less from a woman your idiot gay buddy sets you up with in a bar named Purr. I chatted politely for a couple minutes, then excused myself and ditched her on the couch.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" Matt screamed, to the general agreement of all assembled. "YOU BLEW IT! I GIFT-WRAPPED HER FOR YOU, AND YOU BLEW IT!"

"I'm not really in the market for an STD right now, but if I change my mind, I'll definitely give your matchmaking services a try."

They all stared at me. It was a familiar stare. I've seen it on my friends' faces before, most often on the basketball court when I've blown an easy layup. In my head, I hear the caption I'm friends with this? Really? I can't do better? I've also seen the stare on girlfriends' faces. I debase myself with this? Really? I can't do better?

I, too, was feeling contemplative. I thought about my odds of getting anywhere with that woman had I been left to my own devices. 100 to 1? 1000? A million? Something like that. What on earth had I just blundered across? And more importantly, how can this heretofore unknown gay superpower be exploited for my heterosexual benefit?

Matt's continuing rant interrupted my reverie. "What is wrong with you? I mean, she had low standards!"

posted by john at 07:00 AM  •  solamente

June 12, 2009

soulful, joyful, pointful

A former co-worker is visiting from Israel, and he scheduled me for lunch. Into Redmond, the heart of darkness, I went, grousing ungently. As I approached Microsoft's campus, I could feel the vitamins drain from my bone marrow. I hate the place. I despise the multitudes of soulless, joyless, pointless asstards who work there.

Naturally, that's where he wanted to have lunch—in a dreary new Microsoft cafeteria. And so we did. I bitched about it. And at one point, he called me overly negative. "You hate everything, John!"

"Oh, I do not."

"You do!"

"If I'm pissy, it's because I'm in Redmond."

"Oh yeah? I defy you to name three things that fill you with joy to think about."

I briefly surveyed the crowded cafeteria and shared with him my list:

1. Their mortality
2. Your mortality
3. My mortality

posted by john at 03:21 AM  •  solamente

June 11, 2009

the acid test

My mom, as I've written previously, was a complete flake. Whatever vapid trend there was, she was right there, with bells on, four years later. Turquoise. Wheat germ. Disco. The healing power of crystals. However embarrassed you were of your mother, I assure you that it paled next to my own apoplexy.

My god, the self-help books. That's all there was to read in my house. Those, and Prevention magazine. There was relatively mainstream stuff like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, but Mom gravitated toward mystical stuff like The Psychic Side of Sports.

She had no interest in sports.

For one Christmas, I agonized over what to get Mom. I was in the bookstore, and I sarcastically thought "I could just go to the freaking Self Help section, pick a book at random, and she'll love it." And then I realized this cynical theory simply must be tested. I walked to the section. I closed my eyes, twirled and pointed. Thud.

"DEATH" said the huge yellow letters on the book's black cover.

"Jeeeeeeeezus. That's one tough sell to someone with cancer," I thought. "Talk about the acid test." And thus, on Christmas morning Mom unwrapped this treatise on the implications of an afterlife.

Within days, she was excitedly recommending it to her friends.

posted by john at 08:18 AM  •  solamente

June 10, 2009

it's the sport of kings, better than diamond rings

This is just about the sexiest thing ever. Or maybe that's just me.

posted by john at 09:01 AM  •  solamente

June 09, 2009

great moments in mentoring

My adoring young protege Lilly sent me this yesterday:

You're not in a King county detention facility, are you? I keep getting collect calls, and the name is really muffled. Sounds a little like "John".

posted by john at 10:37 AM  •  solamente

June 08, 2009

the gift that just keeps giving

My former student Courtney is from my neck of the woods, and over lunch a while back, I'd lamented how most of my friends are 90 minutes away. A month later, she said she'd achieved a critical mass of people who couldn't stand Seattle pizza, and would I consent to teaching a cooking class?

Transparent, but appreciated. And so I taught this half dozen people how to prepare New York style pizza.

Courtney is some sort of genius. The intervening months have been a litany of invitations to come over for pizza. This is like a dream I had once.

posted by john at 08:05 AM  •  solamente

June 04, 2009

minding manners

My phone rings. I see it's Dorkass.

"Hello?" I say.

"Uh. It's Dorkass."

"I can see that. Your photo is on my phone."

"Well, you didn't answer like you normally do, yelling that I'm a dork."

"I'm in a nice restaurant."

"Ah. That explains the politeness."

posted by john at 01:14 AM  •  solamente

June 03, 2009

what friends are for

A sequel to this post.

When Susan wrote me months later to tell me that she'd broken up with Jake, read receipts were in their infancy. (A read receipt is an option that a mail sender can select so that she's notified whenever an email is opened.) Wary, I looked at her email in my Inbox and didn't open it. Dorkass and I sat behind my computer, speculating about what it contained. "Oh, just open it! I wanna know what it says!" she said.

"I think I'll just delete it," I replied.

And then she lunged at my keyboard and hit ENTER, opening the email and triggering the read receipt. Bitch.

posted by john at 09:16 AM  •  solamente

June 02, 2009

c cups

"I'm a c-cup, so there's no way I could even fit into that!" boasted the 38 year-old surfboard, to the silent astonishment of all the men present. It was the second time that week she'd mentioned being a c-cup.

Um, women know their breast size is readily apparent, right?

posted by john at 09:26 AM  •  solamente

June 01, 2009

coyote ugly

You know how married couples will argue in front of you, and you would chew your own leg off in order to extricate yourself from that particular trap? Last week will forever (please god) set my personal gold standard for that feeling.

This couple chose the occasion of my visit to address whether or not they should have aborted their three year old daughter. When the sentence "I would have gotten an abortion if you'd asked me to!" was uttered, the daughter was sitting on my lap.

I wanted to claw open my own carotid artery.

posted by john at 08:25 AM  •  solamente

May 29, 2009

baby, vegas

When 19 year-old Aaron showed me his fake ID, I was intrigued. When he showed me his mother's credit card, I was downright inspired.

Yes, I would take my friend's kid to Vegas.

But only under one circumstance. I tracked down Zoe to ask. "How much would it bother you if I took your kid to Vegas?" I said, causing her to swallow her face and half her neck.

Yes, I would take my friend's kid to Vegas.

Aaron was excited. He was already planning our itinerary. And then he was overcome with generosity. "I'll even pay my own way!" he chirped.

"You have yourself mistaken for a 19 year old chick," I growled. "You bet your ass you're paying your own way."

posted by john at 07:51 AM  •  solamente

May 28, 2009

the magic rock

Zoe has returned to Seattle after a decade's absence, bringing with her her son, Aaron. I was hugely in Aaron's life when he was 7-10, and now he's 19. I hadn't seen him in 9 years until a party a couple weeks ago.

He reminded me of the Magic Rock.

One day when he was nine, Zoe and he arrived home to find the following: a broken window, three chips in the TV screen, and a rock sitting on the sill of the broken window. It defied explanation. It defied physics. Zoe was freaked out. I showed up, and I was stumped too. There was a gravel driveway 100' away, across the street, and we wondered if it was remotely possible that someone had violently spun their wheels over there and caused the rock to sail 100', crash through the window, hit the TV three times, and then bounce back in the direction from which it had come. Which of course it isn't. But off I went anyway in the Jeep, trying to test the hypothesis, furiously spinning my wheels in the gravel.

"That," Aaron concluded, "Was when I realized that not all adults have it together."

posted by john at 06:10 AM  •  solamente

May 27, 2009

war and remembrance

When I was dating the AW, I purchased the 1988 TV miniseries War and Remembrance, soapy historical fiction that follows a family's travails during WW2. I'd hoped to successfully marry 1) my interest in history with 2) her interest in Us magazine, thereby helping her to accidentally learn something.

She saw right through my ruse. Inside of 10 minutes, she was ejecting the DVD.

And so it gathered dust for eight years, until I recently started watching the set. For the most part, it's been an exercise in "What's more implausible? 71 year-old Robert Mitchum as a 50 year-old who marries a 30 year-old hottie, or Jane Seymour as an American Jewess?"

Meanwhile, if there's anything worse to watch while gnawing on baby back ribs than concentration camp footage, I don't know what it could possibly be. And I don't mean re-enactments. I mean actual footage of GIs carrying around mutilated, emaciated corpses and near-corpses.

Yeah. Who else is hungry?

I laughed during one horrible scene, though. Seymour is being coerced by Nazi guards. They're doing so by threatening to rip her three-year old child in half. Clearly, not remotely funny. What made me laugh, then? A guard held the child by his ankles, upside-down, and although we heard the kid screaming in terror when he was off-camera—moooom-MYYYYY!—when he was on-camera, the look of unabashed delight on his face was unmistakable. "Again! Again!" the face said.

posted by john at 10:30 AM  •  solamente

May 26, 2009

dex e. coyote

Dex, as I've previously written, is a complete sissy. She's not the least bit afraid of me, however. If I scold her, she wags her tail and does a little riverdance. No, she's a sissy about unfamiliar things and places. A serious sissy.

The only time she ever got spanked in her brief little life was when she leapt out of the back of the Jeep, without permission, into a busy street. It was six months before she wasn't psychotic about loading or unloading into the Jeep. I would have to pick her up, and she would piddle. Finally, in the last month, she started leaping in and out on command. Finally.

Last week, I told her to load up and opened the back of the Jeep. She complied, leaping through the tailgate and face-planting into the wall of stacked firewood I'd forgotten I'd picked up the day before.

posted by john at 08:59 AM  •  solamente

May 21, 2009

quite possibly the most excruciating five minutes of two lives

Yesterday at lunch, I went to the only decent restaurant within a half hour of my house. On a 400 square mile peninsula with a quarter-million people, it was statistically inevitable that Sarah would be the one to bring me my pecan pie.

We nearly collided. I was entering the bar as she was exiting it. We stood there and awkwardly regarded the situation.

"Sarah..."

"John..."

"Uh..."

"Uh..."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Here? Really? The only decent restaurant within 30 minutes of my house?"

"Yeah, I know."

And so it went. We are not inarticulate people, but words utterly failed us here. I can't speak for her, but all of my synapses fired at once, and my mouth couldn't make sense of all the signals from my brain. I have no idea how many people were in the room, but I guarantee that they surmised Oh yeah. These people used to do it. There was no other possible explanation for the reaction. We stood there stammering for three eternities.

Always the more articulate party, Sarah finally managed to gag out that if I was comfortable with this, she was. I was not. But perhaps the Kristin debacle a few days ago was still on my mind, 'cause all I could think was Oh, don't be a pussy about it. Just sit down. And I did.

And so I watched my onetime waitress take my order again. I watched her grab drinks and straighten placesettings again. Full circle. Full, weird circle.

I asked the only thing on my mind. "Are you happy?"

She said she was getting there, although she doesn't know if she would characterize herself as happy.

"Yeah, after all, you're still you."

She nodded and laughed and left the room.

She brought me my pie. It seemed loogie-free, but the whole damned thing looked like a loogie, so how can I tell with any degree of confidence? I didn't really want it anymore, though. We weren't traumatized or angry or hurt or any of the obvious feelings. It was merely discomfort that made it uncomfortable, hers and mine both, nothing more. And man, were those first five minutes uncomfortable. How is this going to go down? we each seemed to be thinking.

"Jesus Christ," I thought aloud. "I have no idea what to tip in this situation."

Sarah smirked sideways as she passed my table. "Either a lot...or nuthin' at all."

She set the pie down. "John, I just have to point out," she said, pointing to my book. "That's what you were reading at Holly Hill the day we first talked."

"I don't think so. Wasn't it Sedaris?"

"No, it was this book." She then quoted my review verbatim from five years ago. This is vintage Sarah.

A woman entered the bar. "I was in here last week..." And before the woman could continue, Sarah retrieved the article the woman had left behind. More vintage. When the woman left, I commented that if she immediately returned, I would not be able to positively identify her. Engagement with people is a skill Sarah possesses and I do not.

"Great," Sarah groaned. "I've got the skills to be a waitress."

"I think that skill is transferable to other industries."

Time passed, and as it became clear that any drama between us has run its course, the discomfort abated. We talked about the waning of the discomfort. We were both relieved. "This is going a lot better than I would have expected," she said. "But when we first ran into one another, my vision actually started to go. How are you with it?" I said I was okay.

When I finished my pie, I immediately started to get up. "Oh, sit down, John," she snapped, correctly guessing I was thinking about her discomfort.

I asked about her dogs and about school. She asked whether Lilly married a Microsoft guy. I tried not to be annoyed that her one question about me was actually about my talented little protege who, frankly, gets enough attention. We showed one another photos of our dogs. We were two exes, sharing photos of their kids at our high school reunion.

More time passed. She worked. I read. She commented that she hoped I was as okay with being there as I seemed. I seem okay? I thought. That's a first. But I was okay. I was surprisingly okay. After a time, she wasn't the nearly mythical Sarah, not anymore. Time moved backward. She was the original Sarah, the one before...everything. I watched her interact with her co-workers and customers with familiar humor and grace. She doesn't think she's particularly funny or graceful, but she's ridiculous degrees of both, even when she's freaking out inside, like, oh, say, now. She dropped by a couple times to complain about work, which was also very much like old times. Somehow, the clock had turned back three years. Past everything, both great and awful. Some switch in my head reset. The baggage disappeared. She was just Sarah again. Funny and graceful and kind Sarah.

And even if this is the last time I ever see her, this is a very good thing. It's healing. It repairs the good memories. I wish such a moment for anyone whose heart has been broken.

I took my leave of her. She again said she hoped that I wasn't just acting comfortable when I wasn't. "C'mere," I said, and gave her a hug. I said I prefer her hair this color, her natural color. She grabbed her ponytail and smiled. "Light brown ponytail," she said. In my imagination, she waved it goodbye as I left.

posted by john at 05:52 AM  •  solamente

May 20, 2009

loser, defined

I fished into my fleece pocket for my ticket to Star Trek. I handed it to the usher.

He squinted at it. "This is...well, it's for Star Trek, but it's for the Regal Cinema in Redmond, sir," he said. "Two days ago." Then I sheepishly handed him the correct ticket.

posted by john at 08:27 AM  •  solamente

May 19, 2009

numbers game

I recently bought my first authentic Steelers jersey. They ain't cheap. In fact they're insanely expensive. So it was with utmost gravity that I selected the player to immortalize on my back.

I can't wear Roethlisberger or Polamalu or Parker. Half the shirts out there are one of those three.

I could get fellow Ohio State alum and Super Bowl MVP Santonio Holmes, but I would look pretty ridiculous in his jersey. That goes for all of the little speed guys. No receivers or defensive backs' jerseys. My square build requires at least a linebacker.

No white guys. It bugs me when 80% of white football fans wear the number of the same three white players. Sorry, Heath Miller. You're out.

No one on the offensive line, which in the interests of greater accuracy will now be pronounced with a long o.

The defensive line is 2/3 white, and the third third's nickname is Big Snack. I don't need that in my life.

This leaves the linebackers. Woodley and Foote went to Michigan, and there's no way in hell that's happening. This leaves Farrior, who could retire any year now, and Super Bowl hero James Harrison. It's Harrison. Got to be Harrison.

And thus did I so very carefully choose to purchase the jersey of a man who would, mere weeks later, make headlines by declining to visit the White House with the team. Said he:

This is how I feel -- if you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers, invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl. As far as I'm concerned, Obama would've invited Arizona if they had won.

If I'd set my money on fire, at least it would have generated heat.

posted by john at 07:26 AM  •  solamente

May 18, 2009

here pussy pussy pussy

1996

Uncharacteristically, I'm sitting in my office working when Katrina steps inside. She's spent her day at one of those morale events Microsoft holds periodically, in this case, bowling. She's wide-eyed. "Oh. My. God. I just met your perfect woman."

"Huh?"

She gives me directions to my Perfect Woman's office, which of course I follow with all due haste. Therein sat a beautiful girl, Kristin. I could see what Katrina was talking about. Kristin was resplendent in a faded sweatshirt and blue jeans, no makeup, her natural blond hair pulled back in an informal ponytail. The woman exuded "tomboy." Pretty tomboy. Very pretty tomboy. We had no real reason to talk, but I gagged out some awkward pleasantries anyway. She beamed and sparkled and offered her handshake.

And I pussied out.

1999

I left that team shortly thereafter, and three years later, Kristin and I are invited to the same birthday dinner. When I arrive, the only empty seat is next to her. Utterly heartbreaking development, that. And so we chat for hours over drinks, and she only becomes better. She sparkles and beams. She listens and jokes. We love and hate the same music and movies. She knows the answer to my Perfect Woman test question. We'd loved the same cartoons as kids and quote them verbatim. She not only loves football, she plays football in a league. We talk about our lifes and loves, our successes and disappointments, and she heaps unusual amounts of empathy on me and everyone else.

Katrina sure knows what she's talking about, I think for the first and last time in my life.

When dinner ends, I walk Kristin to her car. And then I completely pussy out. She was just too...too. My knees wobble.

2009

After ten years of my kicking myself, this weekend Kristin and I are invited to the same party again. No longer a cute 22 year old, she's now a drop-dead beautiful 35 year old. She shows up alone, sans ring. Chance for redemption, coming up!

"I cannot work up the nerve to even talk to her," I text Katrina.

"Do it! You'll hate yourself if you don't!" she replies.

An hour later, I'm talking to Katrina on the phone. She's trying to help me to muster some courage that, with this one woman and only this one woman, has inexplicably deserted me for a sizable chunk of my life. Ten minutes into the call, Kristin spots me. She smiles and waves across the room.

"I gotta go," I said and hung up.

And so I chat with the Perfect Woman again, 13 years later. My buddies were there, and I zing then, and she laughs and sparkles and lightly slaps my forearm. All systems are go! What can possibly go wrong?

"It's official. I pussied out again," I text Katrina two hours later.

"Is it too late?"

"Yes. I'm in the ferry line."

"Sigh."

Exactly: sigh. If you think it's exasperating being around me, you should try being me.

posted by john at 08:06 AM  •  solamente

May 15, 2009

stoned

"Don't smile," barked the guy taking the photo for my new passport.

"Seriously? There are rules against that now?"

"Yep. The gummint uses facial recognition software, and smiling messes it up." Then he softened. "You can smile a little. Like a half smile."

And this, my friends, is how you look completely baked in your passport photo.

posted by john at 09:24 AM  •  solamente

May 14, 2009

weird science, part ii

Thanks to uber-geek troll Jennifer for sending this article about the science gaffes in Star Trek. If for no other reason than now I've been introduced to the word spaghettification in its proper context.

posted by john at 08:10 AM  •  solamente

May 13, 2009

weird science

I don't generally demand actual science from my movies. If spaceships screech as they go past the camera, well, perhaps that's what they sound like from the inside. And if Star Trek wants me to believe something called "red matter" can create black holes, I'm so there. The problem isn't with the red matter, whose science I don't understand. It's with the black holes. It's with ships escaping them, emerging from them. Huh?

In the woeful Generations, we had a guy make a star go nova in order to alter its gravitational effects. Except that gravity has to do with mass, and the star's mass would be unchanged. But at least we saw the star's explosion in real time when it should have taken light 20 minutes or so to reach the planet. So there's that.

Titanic's active fourth boiler notwithstanding, the one that bothers me most was in, of all things, Superman II: an astronaut on the moon tries to escape the bad guys by firing the lunar module's descent engine, not its ascent engine. Is this a nit? I say no. Anything that knocks me out of the reality of the movie into regular reality is a failure, no? You surely don't want my brain anywhere near reality when I'm listening to people talk on the surface of the moon.

posted by john at 07:01 AM  •  solamente