Ambivalent Amphibian

After a vacation last spring, I returned to my New York apartment and found my towel, “Stripes,” missing. Fortunately, I had another and was able to dry myself after my regular morning shower. I searched high and low for Stripes. I was 30 minutes late to work because of my feverish search. I thought about Stripes all day. I returned home from work and began searching other rooms in my apartment. I found Stripes in my Hispanic, bi-sexual roommates' room, which he shared with a married man. Stripes was draped over a chair. “How did you get here, Stripes?” I asked myself.

I confronted Bi-Man. He denied taking Stripes. “This is my towel,” he said. I questioned him more. I asked for Stripe’s age, gender, height, and weight. Of course, Bi-Man failed my quiz and finally admitted to stealing my towel friend. I asked him to wash it and return it promptly. He refused. “I’ll just buy you a new one,” he said. Stripes must have grown on him as he did me. I hesitantly agreed. Weeks later, I was still Stripe stripped. So like the salamander he is, I entered his ambiguous room and stole my stolen towel. I hid Stripes in a safe place in my room. The next morning, I confronted Bi-Man as he opened the bathroom door after his morning shower. He stood in his underwear—dripping wet. It was the very same night that he bought me a new nameless towel.

Bi-Man also put a hole in my air mattress, “Betty.” She was a tall queen and so comfortable to sleep with. I noticed she was blowing air the moment I laid down to sleep. You see, Bi-Man stayed in my room while I was gone. I confronted him. He, of course, had no recollection of what happened. “It wasn’t losing air for me,” he said. After more questioning, he finally admitted to the problem. While I was away, Bi-Man stole my friend, Stripes, and burst Betty’s self-esteem! This time, however, he did not offer to remedy the problem.

I don’t have a problem with Bi-Man’s sexuality—it’s his morals that bother me.

All Aboard

Sitting on the train, I feel like a science project, a Petri dish prisoner—trapped inside a cell with protons, neutrons and electrons. It’s quiet except for technology and two women speaking at the end of the car, their conversation too faint to distinguish. But the train, the train speaks to me.

Grand Central, organized cell structures stuffed inside, a pregnant woman enters. Hundreds of eyes fix to her belly. The first sitting eyes to meet hers lose. An Asian man stands and the black woman sits next to me. A Hispanic woman nearby sneezes. A culture sandwich, I begin to culture. The conductor observes, takes notes, removes and adds more subatomic parts.

59th Street, his experiment slowly darkening. An Indian man and I bump toes. Our eyes meet to apologize and return downward quickly. The black marble-speckled floor causes me to wonder what times like this would be like if children were taught to talk to strangers. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think, I think. Instead, most of the cell’s occupants find ways to fight the silence—pretend sleep, MP3 player, newspaper, book, portable video device, laptop, portable gaming device, so on.

A panther in the corner reads the Koran. Kittens next to him close their eyes. A tall, slender cougar stands near the door wearing four-inch heels and a short, tight skirt. Her golden hair waves in the air-conditioned wind. It’s 90 degrees outside but a bit nippy inside the cell. For a moment I’m no longer trapped. My vision blurs. I’m somewhere free—free inside of her … until my eyes focus again.

A child is holding something in a McDonald’s bag and I smell syrup. I long for the days when Mom made waffles for breakfast. A gold wrist watch flashes in the dim light. The man’s diamond studs overtake the watch, and I notice his attire. Here’s a guy that can’t let go of his Ecko, I think, 86th Street.

My skin tightens, my hair is on end, and I’m standing now, encircled by five, no six, wait, seven people that are actually touching me. Now I’m a culture donut, I think. I hear dialogue. It’s rap. I hear someone’s music. I hear religious banter. People talk to themselves, to no one, to everyone, but rarely to someone.

125th Street, I emerge from the snake’s underbelly and the carbon train is broken. I collide with hundreds of electrons on my walk home. Finally, I can rest in my personal nucleus. Soon, a family will complete my cell and the experiment will be complete. Well, until the conductor observes, takes notes, and removes and adds more subatomic parts.

Mickey Mouse Sins, Too III

News Flash: The flyer has been released to the general population. I've included the email. Again, I have altered names to protect reputations.

Dear Fundamentalists,
Attached is the flyer for the Halloween activity. Thanks to Mickey for making it for us! Please distribute it in your buildings, hang it on bulletin boards, print out small copies to pass out with the program in your wards on Sunday. Also, have it posted in your ward emails and announced verbally in the meetings. Remember - if you are the only rep in your ward and you don't get the word out, nobody does.
Thanks!!
Molly

Seems fine and dandy ... BUT the flyer was altered.

• Young Single Adults and Single Adults were exclusively invited.
  
• Baby Hitler was removed,
• This line was added, "Also, keep costumes free of blood and gore and NO CROSS-DRESSING!"

Scars (Part2)

I remember sitting tied to a large white circle as a small child—the toilet. My siblings still deny it. Needing relief, I struggled mightily for freedom. What did I do? I’m not sure. I was probably willing. It may have even been my idea. I remember a single drop of blood rolling down my arm. A scar on my wrist where the rope burned through my skin proves the event. Boys will be boys.

That vague day filed deep within my mind resurfaces each time I again become intimate with the great white circle. Now, I see this seemingly insignificant childhood memory as an obvious warning. A higher power foreshadowing my future with bizarre and cruel humor. Aha, even He uses bathroom humor. Hindsight is 20/20.

I don’t recall if I was playing Nephi tied up to prophecy or Dexter’s next victim ready to die. I do know, however, that life is not a circle—not my life. My life is a satire. And today, pain and happiness swirl with every lavatory visit. Happiness is not an easy choice. Untie me, please.

Mickey Mouse Sins, Too II

Due to my lack of experience and access to proper software, I apologize for the integrity of the flyer images. Please click on the image to enlarge. The message is now a little more subtle. Notice each of the baby costumes.

My email response to Molly's request:

Molly,
Hmm, while I disagree, I suppose I can comply. I was under the impression that this was an adult party, oh well. I have attached another flyer. Feel free to change it however you see fit.
Thanks,
Mickey

I sent the flyer to other members of the committee as well. One of the senior members replied with applause. Still, I have not seen the flyer in circulation yet. I may never be asked to help again ... darn!

Mickey Mouse Sins, Too

I was asked to create a flyer for an upcoming Halloween Dance/Costume Party. I hesitantly accepted the request. I have included the flyer and some of the email dialogue. I changed some names to protect the ignorant. I was asked to make this flyer on a Saturday night. I was urged to have it submitted before church on Sunday the next day. I complied. Four days later, I received this email:

Dear "Mickey,"
I loved the creativity in the flyer. It was really catchy. For the purposes of this activity, however, we are looking for something a little more conservative. We encourage people not to wear bloody costumes so would you mind changing the picture to something more warm and fuzzy like a jack-o-lantern or something similar? Also, would you mind making the disclaimer more gentle? Think G rated Disney movie. I'm excited to see what you come up with because I really did like your flyer. Sorry for taking so long to get back to you.
Best,
"Molly"

The flyer was similar to the one posted here. Please click on the image to the right to enlarge. You should be able to read the woman's fanciful question and the fun, yet dark, disclaimer at the bottom. Again, I had to block out the real name used in the disclaimer. For fun, let's call him "Peter."

Please stay tuned for a "G Rated" updated flyer.

Scars (Part 1)

Major League Baseball’s season is coming to an end. The New York Yankees, a team for which I played in Little League and now despise in the big leagues, are a favorite to win this year. The news here in New York is littered with A-Fraud. Still, baseball will always hold its place in my life.

Boys dream of playing in the World Series, I did. I played baseball before I knew the rules of the game. My father would have me throw countless balls into a tire nailed to a fence. He taught me dedication and discipline. Dad coached my big brother’s team, and I was happy to be the batboy. I have many fond baseball memories. I also have these:

• Before organized baseball, I played what we called “pickle” or “hot box.” Two bases and three people. Basically a glorified version of keep away. Once I ran head-on into a baseman. Spitting and swallowing blood, I lost a tooth.
• After one of my brother’s games, an older boy asked me to throw him a pitch. He hit a line drive into my side. I dropped in pain and cried. Eventually, the baseball-sized bruise grew to that of a soccer ball.
• One evening I was playing catch with my dad and brother. Something caught my attention, so I turned my head. Then, I heard Dad calling my name. I turned back and a ball met my eye. I remember screaming.
• As a batboy I saw my brother swing his bat into a friend’s face while on deck. I believe it was the same game when another batter foul tipped a ball directly into his own face. An ambulance visited the field twice that day.
• I was pitching a near flawless game, but as I threw the last pitch of my baseball career, I remember feeling a pop. My arm dangled to my side.

After the injury I traded a small, hard 2.9 inch diameter baseball for a softer, large 8.7 inch diameter soccer ball. My days of playing baseball were over, and I joined Shoe Hunter’s soccer team.

As New York begins to chill and the MLB World Series approaches, warmness resides within. A baseball is something legitimate and forever, not like the hormone-filled players that riddle its game. It’s at this time of year I miss the 88 inches of red, waxed thread used to hand-sew the 108 double stitches of every baseball. My father sewed those stitches into my side. I have a scar to prove it.

RYU-I

Street food is good, but only Street Fighters really appreciate it – Sonic BOOM! Actually, Guile was more my brother’s style. I fight like Ryu – Hadouken! Try to dodge that—back to reality.

Yesterday, a pretty girl, Chun-Li, delivered street food to two great warriors past their prime, Ryu and Blanka. She collected the Halal food on the corner of 53rd Street and 6th Avenue near the MoMA in New York City. Chun-Li weaved through the crowds of people, penetrated the 40 mph winds and finally arrived to the final battlefield, Union Square Park.

For Ryu, this was just another fight. Be aware, eating street food is always a battle. For Blanka, this was altogether a different experience. The uniquely prepared rice and lamb flashed Blanka back to his lonely days in South America after his horrific plane crash. Timid with distant memories, Blanka chose the easy way out. He drenched his food in white dressing and ignored the fire sauce. He would later claim it a mistake. Ryu laughed but didn’t show his disapproval. Gouken taught him to hide his feelings to even those closest to him. Ryu and Chun-Li shared the dangerous meal. Years of fighting and now they fight their battles together. While Chun-Li fed the last grains of rice to the domestic beast creatures of the park, Ryu’s old nemesis made entrance – Sagat!

“This one is for you, Ryu. What is the best nation?” he spoke audibly and with flashcards. Ryu remained silent. “Answer me!” Sagat said, “DOUnation!”

Ryu, Chun-Li, and Blanka were confused. Was this another one of his mind tricks? Such an obvious misspelling could only be intentional … unless Sagat had lost his mind. Could it be???

“Fine,” said Sagat. “Chun-Li, what goes up and must come down?”

“I don’t know,” Chun-Li answered with a frown but smizing (according to Tyra this is smiling with the eyes).

“Down … the best, sexy bum in town,” Sagat replied.

Mysteriously, Chun-Li was somehow defeated and surrendered some spare change. In one last move of desperation, Sagat turned to Blanka and said, “You look bored. You need a girl to sit on you. My sister will do it. She is 500 pounds.”

Ryu took note of Sagat’s new creative battle tactics. He noticed Chun-Li smiling and feeding the beasts. He sat and watched Blanka combat street food without fire sauce. His instincts, his battle know-how, his innate desire to conquer, and his street fighting skills were left sharpened and keen as ever. He left the battlefield and returned to work.

Speak with Some Frank

Statistics and research- that's what I do for a living. So I've been hard at work: 457 is not a model or type of plane, it's the office average consensus. I tried to be partial, factual, and fair and balanced ... but the scale is one-sided.

Large Man works for a TV rating company. He resides in a space meant for two employees. His chair, or lack thereof, is a topic of great debate. Some believe he has a special chair to accommodate his mass. Others believe he needs no chair; rather, he sits on parts of himself. He arrives to work via “special car.” He can’t fit through the turn-stops in the subway. Lunch is fun. Typically McDonalds is delivered from around the corner. He is notified by phone when his order arrives. He then walks 100 yards to the elevator, descends 14 stories, and walks 50 feet. Next, he collects his number 2, 4, and 7 combo meals. Large Man double-checks his order to ensure two chocolate milkshakes arrived in place of two sodas. He returns to his desk dripping in sweat.

His phone is permanently set to the loudest possible volume. It must be difficult to hear with excess skin in and around the ears. On October 6, 2009, Large Man ordered from an unknown restaurant. The end of the order conversation:

LM: Make sure you put lots and lots of salt and pepper in the bag. Last time you said you would and you didn’t.
Fast Food Employee (FFE): Yes Sir, we will do that for you.
LM: Do it right now, please.
FFE: Right this second?
LM: Yep.
FFE: Uh … OK. (Pause) I did it.
LM: OK, reach back into your stash and put two more handfuls in my bag.
FFE: Sure, we’ll be there in 15 minutes. (Click)
LM: (CLICK) BLEEPity Bleeping BLEEPS!

His superiors demand he wear suits on days when he must meet with clients (rumors and speculations of a company force-quit spread like butter). He is trying to oblige. He spends countless hours on the phone discussing the dimensions and specifics of the custom-made garments. “Don’t make the pants like bell-bottoms,” he says. Days later he says, “The pants are too tight on my calves.” His calves are baby cows. Sometimes he orders-in veal.

Large Man speaks ill of co-workers. He speaks loud with vulgarity. Large Man doesn’t hear well, so he is unaware of his own earsplitting voice, which is probably worsening his already bad hearing. There are many bathrooms located on his floor. He can use only one stall in one bathroom. This stall is the furthest possible point of relief from Large Man’s desk. He is a living (knock on wood) reminder to all those with whom he works. It has been said, “You are what you eat.” Eventually, some people turn into their job. He is a desk job.

Things Large Man Shakes:
A group of 10 cubicles
Anything on any desk within 20 feet
Confidence in Mankind
His breathing pattern
His voice
The ground
Mice - Screen savers on nearby computers do not activate when left unattended

Lastly, he is a Notre Dame fan. He and the team's coach are two compelling reasons for me to choose another team. Oh, and he snorts.

My Friend Roy

Shawn Luckey, author of He Said, She Said, likes to pun. He was fortunate he didn't lose his audience after the opening line. It began with a psychiatrist calling her patients by name, "Hope and Les ..." The play continued.

We were there to support Jane, the psychiatrist. The theater seated thirty to forty African Americans - and us. It was strange to hear audience members finish actor's lines and approve of dialogue with audible slang. "Word," a girl blurted and nodded her head. During the intermission I noticed two people kissing in the mirror-lined walls. It was hard to distinguish where the stage started and the actors ended.

Contrast this experience with the lights and glamor of The Little Mermaid, which was seen with some of the same company. It's hard to forget Ursala's beautiful evil and classic lines like, "Flounder, don't be such a Guppy," which reminded me of Spanky, my first pet. He was a guppy. He died and Spanky II and Spanky III followed. Next came Roy. His name was an honor of his colorful scales: red, orange, and yellow. They all suffered various deaths.

Anyway, Ariel bored me to tears. Jane was interesting but not worthy of ovation. Although, both shows were equally enjoyable in very different ways. Events, plays, musicals, jobs, illness, and life are opportunities to choose fun. And fun is a choice made easier by its company.