Good Lord!

Imagine my surprise today when, while checking Post Secret,which I've been habitually reading weekly for at least a solid calendar year, towards the bottom of the page I see....

I'll neither confirm nor deny whether I've submitted a postcard or two to Frank over the months, but I can assure this one is not from the Rev.

The dog collar is making the rounds, though!

Ah, The Teen Years...

After spending an evening videotaping my sister’s school chorus group’s performance, before which several other groups, including a boys’ choir, performed, I can honestly say one thing: Thank God I’m past that awkward preteen/growing-into-your-body stage of life.

Don’t get me wrong, the kids were, for the most part, great, sans the two Harry Potter kazoo pieces, which were admittedly a tad strange, and my sister clearly put the others to shame with her solo, but it was almost painful to watch some of the kids nervously squirming on stage. While I have no way of knowing whether these kids volunteered to be in the choir, were chosen indiscriminately by teachers, or were simply coerced by parents, there was a very clear distinction between those that aspire to be the center of attention and those that would prefer to be either singing from behind a curtain or not performing at all.

In the boys’ choir, for example, one small blonde boy absolutely stole the spotlight, singing more loudly than almost the rest of the choir together; combined with that, he had concocted his own rhythmic dance moves to the songs. As such, the show was essentially dominated by one very loud, gyrating boy, while the rest of the singers more or less blended into the background; in all honesty, though, he did actually have a good voice and carried the show along fairly well.

On the other end of the spectrum, however, was a boy who clearly was uncomfortable in front of the crowd, nervously wiping his palms on his pants, tugging at his shirt tail, glancing quickly at the others in the choir, and barely opening his mouth the entire performance. The girls’ group was no different, with a particularly lanky girl uneasily staring alternately at (presumably) her parents in the crowd and her feet, remaining vocally inactive throughout the performance.

Physically, these two students were both taller and thinner than their classmates, to the point that their self-consciousness was physically manifested in their behavior, and it was noticeable, though not obvious, that their outfits cost a good bit less than those of their cohorts. As cruel as kids can be, I can only imagine the taunting and ridicule that these two endure. I’ve never been able to figure out why our preteen/early teenage years are spent straining to gain entry into social circles, the main activities of which often seem to be ostracizing and belittling those outside the circle. At least as far as my personal experience goes, the spitefulness and vindictiveness of children far surpasses that of any adult I’ve yet to come across.

I suppose my brothers and I paved the way, suffering enough through those years to learn the ropes and pass some of that wisdom down to our sister, because she was as comfortable on stage in front of a crowd as she would have been in our living room with just the family watching. Hopefully we’ve also instilled enough insight that she not fall into that pattern of perpetuating social stratum and instead approach everyone with open arms (well, not everyone - strangers with candy are still frowned upon).

After the show I hung around to congratulate the sis, who arrived of course with the usual gaggle of girls that seem to appear every time I pick her up from school or drive her to any number of social / sport activities. I, of course, quickly made an ass of myself, congratulating the group on their “Amazing performance,” a compliment that was answered with blank stares and eventually, “We weren’t part of the choir…” My faux pas was apparently quickly forgiven and forgotten, however, as the group huddled around me and, one by one, coquettishly exclaimed that I smelled "awesome!”

I think I'll file this under Older Brother Syndrome.

Yet Another Snapshot of My Life

Exhausted after working ten hours on three hours of sleep, I got in line at the drive-through lane of the neighborhood Starbucks:

"Hi! My name is Brian! Welcome to Starbucks! What can I get started for youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu?" [These people are always inordinately cheerful.]

"Um, yes....just a medium coffee, please."

"Quick! What's the name of the announcer on The Price is Right?!"

"What?"

"The announcer on The Price is Right! What's his name?!?"

"The current announcer or the one I'm sure you're thinking of?"

"Huh?"

"Rod Roddy."

"ROD RODDY, YESSSSS!"

Even through the tiny drive-through speaker, I hear the entire place, employees and customers alike, absolutely erupt in celebration: screaming, clapping, and in all likelihood cartwheeling around the store (or so I imagined).

"So...how much was that for the coffee?"

"Dude, you win! Drive around!"

Suspicious yet highly amused, I drive around to the window, at which I'm treated to a round of applause from the entire store. (Just how long had this discussion been going on before I arrived?)

Regardless, I was the hero! I had saved the day! Over the cheers, I was told, "Your money's no good here, man!" and handed an additional prize:


So, even though I'm currently eating what is quite possibly the world's tastiest, most perfectly cooked M&M and chocolate chunk cookie and drinking free coffee (finally my exorbitant amount of trivial knowledge has paid off!), each bite is admittedly fractionally lugubrious.

You see, Rod Roddy, the man known worldwide as the voice of The Price is Right, died in 2003, replaced on air thereafter by Rich Fields, a man, in this Reverend's humble opinion, not fit to fill even one of Roddy's shoes (then again, who really is?). Yet the world seems blissfully unaware of this tragic loss.

And so, Rod Roddy, this one's for you (picture me here crumbling a bit of my cookie onto the ground, pouring a sip of coffee over that, then pointing to the sky afterwards).

To My New Neighborhood Bum:

When you first entered my life, shamelessly sauntering into the middle of our house’s Cinco de Mayo party, explaining that you, your wife, and three children had been stranded far from home after your van died three blocks away, I extended to you the benefit of the doubt. Admittedly a bit inebriated and feeling the spirit of the holiday, I earnestly listened to your tale, and, sympathizing with your predicament, quickly handed over my change jar, containing between $13 and $15 in one dollar bills and coins. You thanked me sincerely, offered to mow my lawn (with my mower) when you next were in the neighborhood, and then we shook hands, presumably permanently parting ways.

Imagine my surprise when, only three days later, I arrived home from work to see you again at my front door, this time speaking to one of my roommates; I remained in the car, observing the situation. Money exchanged hands, and, though I could hear nothing from my vantage point across the street, I assume you presented my roommate with a chronicle of anguish comparable to that given to me only days prior.

Indeed, after watching you amble away, I entered my house and was immediately regaled with a tale of a strange man suffering car trouble arriving at our doorstep, asking only for a few dollars to help his wife and children get home, a request that was instantly answered with a fresh $10 bill from my roommate, only too eager to help you out. Even then I entertained the notion that you and yours were truly in need, somehow unlucky enough to have your car inexplicably break down and strand you in the same neighborhood twice in half a week, and I kept secret your previous visit.

Last night, however, you finally overstayed your welcome; as my roommates and I opened our front door to leave for dinner, we found you comfortably seated on our front porch swing, as if you’d been waiting hours for us to show ourselves. You abruptly informed us that you had stepped on a nail that had pierced your shoe and then travelled into your foot, which, to your credit, was actually bleeding (onto our porch); however, I’m still a bit hazy on one thing, and perhaps you can provide some clarity: Why, before even asking for a bandage or medical help of any sort, did you again ask for “seven or eight dollars?” Did you not remember my face from eight days earlier, or did you possibly think I wouldn't remember yours? I don’t want to seem rude, but you’re a very memorable character.

Regardless, the ruse was up. I pulled my roommates aside and, out of earshot of you, explained to them your chronic car trouble and subsequent perpetual financial dilemmas, after which we decided it was best simply to offer antibiotic cream and bandages, which you begrudgingly accepted and applied.

While I appreciate your tenacity, the frequency of your visits have sparked serious suspicion of your authenticity. As such, unless you can somehow produce a disabled car containing a woman and three children, I must ask you not to return to our residence asking assistance.

Don’t worry about those blood spots on the porch, though, we can take care of that for you.

Thanks,

The Rev. (and roommates)

The Asshole Tax

While finishing my last year of school in Florida, I opted to, rather than return to Memphis for the summer, remain and take summer classes in an effort to expedite my graduation; since all the dorms and on campus apartments ceased to operate during the summer months, I searched for and found a reasonable apartment to rent for the remainder of my college career. By definition, the vast majority of college students are poor, and I certainly fell within that majority. As such, I made every effort to recruit a roommate for the apartment, lest I bankrupt myself simply trying to obtain an undergraduate degree. Unfortunately, out of the hundreds of friends [read: seventeen] I had amassed during my time in Florida, only one was planning on remaining there for the summer, and, though we were basically only brief acquaintances, he seemed harmless enough, so we pooled our resources and signed a seven month lease.

For about three months, everything went swimmingly; I attended class from about 8:00 a.m. to either 12:00 or 2:00p.m., depending on the day of the week, after which I worked until about 10:00, so our time together was limited to a maximum of approximately two hours a day. Additionally, he would play open mic nights at several local bars, further limiting our time together, which was just fine by me. Three months, however, seemed to be just the precise amount of time needed to transform from a relatively pleasant, genial living situation into a dwelling I literally dreaded and approached with trepidation at the end of my days.

This metamorphosis, mind you, was not a sudden, overnight event; rather, seemingly small events over the course of time gradually intensified the resentment between James and this Reverend.

For instance, my routine on Saturday mornings was relatively languid, since I had no classes to attend and work didn’t start until Noon at the earliest; James, on the other hand, left quite early in the weekend mornings to go to work at a local construction company. This left me alone in the apartment for several hours, during which I usually sluggishly consumed coffee and cereal while watching reruns of Saved by the Bell (Zack Morris and his posse’s madcap adventures at Bay Side always had an odd way of invigorating me in the mornings). On one such morning, however, as I sat, clad only in boxer shorts, completely transfixed by Jessie Spano’s sudden unshakable addiction to caffeine pills (Season 2, Episode 9: Jessie’s Song, originally aired November 3, 1990), I heard our front door knob jiggle back and forth, followed quickly by the rattling of keys. Surprised and fearing a robbery, I leapt to my feet and ran to the front door; in retrospect, if we had been getting robbed, the spoon and cereal bowl in my hand probably would not have served as much of a deterrent to the burglar. But I digress…

Instead of a weapon-wielding maniac, in walked James’ girlfriend of two months, just as stunned to see this near naked Reverend as I was to see her; I managed a, “Uh…what’s going on here?”, to which I was told that James, in his infinite wisdom, had decided to make a copy of our key and give it, along with permission to come and go as she pleased, to his girlfriend.

Perhaps it is of note to mention two things here. First, other than the front door, there were no locks anywhere in the apartment, so once you entered the residence, you had free reign to any area you desired. Secondly, I had met this girl maybe four times, one of which I drunkenly hit on her, unaware that she was my roommate’s betrothed. So, all in all, the morning had taken a pretty foul turn.

When I brought my concerns to James’ attention, he reacted simply by yelling at me, frustrated and puzzled by my suggestion that perhaps he should have at least discussed the idea with me before simply handing her a key; after tersely promising that we would “deal with this when we get home,” he hung up on me. We “dealt with it” later that night by all sitting down together like mature adults, and he and his girlfriend yelling at me for being “such an asshole!”

Such was the beginning of the end. To detail all of James’ transgressions and failings would take me months, so if you want the full account, I suppose you’ll have to wait for the book to come out. I’ll keep you posted on publication dates.

I will, however, leave you with this: About one month after his girlfriend essentially moved into our apartment (I lost the key distribution argument), James decided that it would be wise to invite an ex-girlfriend, whom he had dated seriously for over a year, and a friend of hers, from Germany, where she had been living for several years, to our apartment for eight days. That his current girlfriend might not want to spend time with his ex, or perhaps that she wouldn’t like him spending so much time with the ex, had never crossed his mind; neither, in fact, had the idea that perhaps his roommate might not want to live in a two bedroom apartment with a grand total of five people, two of whom hated each other even before physically meeting. To say that those eight days were stressful would do absolutely no justice to both the situation itself and my writing ability. Suffice it to say that the day after the girls left to return to Germany, I returned home to find nailed to my bedroom door the key that had up until recently belonged to James’ girlfriend, who had vacated the premises; there it stayed until the termination of our lease, as a trophy of sorts.

Even the termination of our lease was filled with problems: when I left Florida to return to Memphis for Thanksgiving, he sneakily packed up everything that belonged to him, left a check only for owed rent, and simply vanished, leaving me to pay for over a month’s worth of shared utilities. I got the news from a friend who just happened to be passing by and caught a glimpse of James hauling out his bed and kitchen table. And so, I spent the last month of my lease in an apartment with a television, one futon, and nothing else, save for my bedroom furniture. Ultimately, however, the pleasure and satisfaction I got from finally living alone wore off, as I had to clean the entire apartment alone before leaving and had to take care of the utility bills. Begrudgingly, I got out my checkbook and laid all the various bills on the table in front me, ready just to end that particular chapter in my life, when it dawned on me, like a light shining down from Heaven: every single utility account had been opened in James’ name; as far as the electricity, water, and garbage collection companies knew, I didn’t even exist. In light of said revelation, I simply shredded and discarded $300 worth of late bills, all in his name, packed my things, and moved back to Memphis, never to speak to the man again.

Thus, the Asshole Tax was born.