Fitting

"You’re probably gonna think I’m crazy… and the thing is, you might be right.  The world stopped making sense the day I saw her in a bathtub full of blood.

"And I could even guess what you think happened.  You find your sister like that and you’re gonna be a bit traumatized.  Anybody would be.  So you think I built up this delusion as part of PTSD or some shit like that.  And if that’s how you’re looking at it, it makes sense.  It fits.  People like it when things fit.  But sometimes they don’t.

"Sometimes you can’t explain away what happens with a pre-existing understanding.  You can’t just categorize everything, slap a label on it and file it away.  Cause some part of you (maybe not the logical part, but some part) knows it doesn’t fit.  And when that happens, you gotta wonder.

"Like when they pulled her out of that tub- she should have been dead.  And I think she was.  I know she was.  No one agrees with me, but I know my sister.  She died that day.  They may have pulled her body out of there, stitched up the cuts and pumped it back full of blood- but she was already gone.  I knew it as soon as I saw it in the hospital.

"They let us go in (my dad and me), and as soon as I saw those eyes I knew.  They were the same blue eyes as my sister’s but they weren’t hers anymore.  Something else was looking out of them.

"And I’m sure it’s about now you want to see if facts and logic contradict the story.  You wanna point out that anyone would look different after trying to kill themselves.  That I was looking at someone who was too depressed to seem like the person I knew.  But I did know her.  I knew my sister and I knew her depression.  She’d been depressed as long as she’d been alive.  It was just part of her personality.  I know that sounds weird, but it’s true.  And that wasn’t it.

"It wasn’t depression that made it lie and manipulate every single person it came in contact with.  It wasn’t depression that made it start sleeping with every guy in school.  And it certainly wasn’t depression that gave it seemingly magical powers over everyone.  And it wasn’t those meds they prescribed, either.  Every kid in school, every teacher, every neighbor, even my dad- they were all under its spell.  Jumping and posing and bouncing like marionettes.  Depression won’t do that.  Meds won’t do that.  And my sister sure as hell wouldn’t do that.

"And I’m sure you wanna point out that my dad knew her, too.  Say that a man would notice if his own daughter wasn’t there anymore.  But the fact is he was too busy worrying about her to really see it.  See it where she had been.

"I don’t know what it was.  I don’t know what they pulled out of the tub that day.  I did a lot of research trying to figure it out.  And you want crazy, there’s plenty of that on the internet.  I may be crazy but I’m not crazy.  I never figured out what it was.

"We stopped going to church when my mom died and since I was so young I don’t remember much of it.  But there was one thing the pastor said that stuck with me.  He said that evil was opportunistic, that it preyed on the weak willed and that we had to secure our will in God in order to protect ourselves.  I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about at the time.  Not until I saw my sister’s body in that hospital bed.  Then I remembered.

"I said I didn’t know what it was and that’s true, I don’t.  But I know it was evil.  You don’t do that kind of shit if you’re not.  My sister wouldn’t do that kind of shit.  And don’t tell me that sexual promiscuity or whatever you call that bullshit is normal in disturbed people- that’s not what it was.  It was control.  It was removing the order from the world and putting chaos there instead.  It was breaking things down and creating… I don’t know what.  I just know that within three months things were so irrevocably fucked up that there was no repair, there was just damage control.

"Telling my friends that it wasn’t her who sacrificed them in the public eye and left everyone whispering in the hallways every time they walked to class.  Telling the quarterback (who I don’t even like) that there was more to life than football after it crashed his car and left him in a wheel chair.  Trying to get my dad to go to the doctor when he kept having those pains. 

"I should’ve done something sooner.  I think he might still be alive if I’d realized the twisted shit it was doing sooner.  Or if I hadn’t been such a fucking pussy about doing something about it.  And I know you think that was a heart attack- but it fucked with his pills, I know it did.  I don’t know what he was taking instead of his heart meds, but whatever they were they killed him.  And there’s nowhere else they could’ve come from.  There’s no logic you can use to argue that one away.

"It looked at me at the funeral, you know?  It held my hand, to make it look it good.  And that’s when I realized what had happened.  Why he was dead.  And that’s when I realized I had to do something.

"So I know you think I’m crazy, because you think I shot my sister.  But I had to use a gun- cause the slit wrists and legs didn’t do it.  It had to be a shot to the head.  Well, several.  But that was the only way I could be sure. 

"And I know that’s a crazy thing to do, so I accept that I might be crazy.  But that’s not the question- is it, doc?  The question is, if there’s a diagnosis for that.  The question is if I fit.  Cause if I don’t fit the label you gotta wonder… know what I mean?"

Why The Leaves Change Color

I always get a little awe struck when I watch the Discovery channel and they explain that that seemingly mundane phenomena that I observe every single day is actually a relatively complex physics process. Like the sun bursting with flares or the moon rotating around the planet. There are so many intricately weaved cycles relying on something we so take for granted.

Well, leaves are one of those things. To me, with my artistically minded right brain in charge, I tend to focus on the fact that the whole world looks like a painting come to life. I'm feeling more than thinking when I take a stroll in the autumn leaves. But I imagine a lot of people look at the leaves and see the science. Like "Boy, look at all the glucose in that tree" or something like that.

For those of us interested in the science part I'm going to run down the list and explain, as it's been explained to me, why the leaves change color.

Green: The reason we see green everywhere we look for the duration of the year is because those tress- those amazing oxygen-producing factories that they are- are busy doing photosynthesis. Photosynthesis is the process by which trees turn carbon dioxide, sunlight and water into oxygen (for us) and glucose (for the trees). Chlorophyll is the tree's natural fuel for this process and it's what gives the leaves their green color.

Red and purple: When the season picks up and the days get shorter the trees gear up for hibernation. So, they stop doing photosynthesis and start saving up their energy for the long winter. As the chlorophyll fades from the leaves all the other chemicals change their pigments. That bright red and deep purple colors we see comes from Anthocyanins which are chemicals that also lend color to cranberries, blueberries and the like. These colors are most commonly seen in oak,dogwood and sugar-maple trees.

Yellow, Orange and Gold: These colors come from Carotenoids which also come in carrots and bananans. They're most commonly seen in aspen, yellow-poplar and black maple trees.

All the different trees have different timing to begin their hibernation so you get a steady stream of color across the few (far too few in my opinion) months of autumn. In general, the more moisture the trees have gotten and the more mild the temperature change (i.e. the temperature gets cool rather than freezing) the more glucose gets trapped in the leaves. The more glucose in the leaves, the more brilliant the color.

There are, of course, a lot more variables to consider when looking at color- soil composition, local vegetation, amount of air pollution, etc. But you can watch the discovery for that.

Life, Examined

Finish school. Get a job. Buy a house. Get married. Have kids. Buy a bigger house. Retire. Hang out with your grandkids. Die. This is the basic set-up that was laid out for me, and I think most of us with what would generally qualify as a “normal upbringing.” When you grow up in a house in the suburbs, you tend to be told to follow suit. When you don’t grow up in a house in the suburbs, you tend to want that because you never had it. The American dream, mass marketed.

But what if you don’t follow the “normal” route? What if you decide to live in a commune out in the middle of nowhere where the emphasis is on living off the land the way our primitive ancestors used to? What if you get a job that requires you to travel so frequently that the idea of “settling down” is incredibly foreign and bizarre to you? What if you go to live in a monastery and give up all worldly possessions in order to seek spiritual enlightenment. Or what if you have what looks like a generally normal life, but you can’t follow the map they gave you? What then?

This is not an existential debate about the meaning of human existence. This is simply a question of the general life path that people follow. A question of how you know you’re on “the right path” when you depart from the one that everyone tells you is “the right path”. A question of what happens when your life doesn’t include any of the milestones that it’s “supposed” to. A question of what you do when you don’t do what you’re told.

I’m smart enough to know that no one really has the answers. And I believe that the reason most people follow the script is because they’re just no good at improving. And I’ve seen enough to know that the script- as is, with no variation, does actually work out pretty damned well for a lot of people. Which, I assume, is why so few people deviate from it. So I’m not in any way knocking the traditional lifestyle, the one I was raised to believe in. (I can’t and would never assume to speak for other cultures and other upbringings, this is just my experience.)

But, in my experience, it doesn’t work that way. The older I get the more I see that all of the traditional beliefs I was raised with just don’t match my experience. And the harder I tried to change my life to re-fit it to that outline the more internally tormented I was because it just didn’t fit. So I stopped trying to make it fit.

But the question emerges, from this newfound sense of independence from the norm, of what measurements I can use to know that I’m on the right path for me. When everyone else you know is doing the traditional lifestyle, you can’t look to your peers for validation. And those who live their own lifestyle tend to be very adamant that it is their lifestyle- not one anyone else should necessarily follow. It seems like the only meter I can use to measure my life accurately is an internal one, one based on my own, unique value system. So where’s my meter?

I try, I honestly do try to be at peace with not knowing. To forget about whether or not this is “normal” or if I’m on “the right path” or any of the rest of it. I try to get more knowledge so I can make informed decisions. I try to tell myself that I don’t need to know, that I don’t have to define or judge or validate. But when all the tools we normally use to plan goals revolve around knowing where you’re going it’s tough to let that go. And as those that I’m close to plow full speed ahead into marriage and babies I can’t help but wonder where I’m headed.

A lot of science, particularly physics, is theoretical. They form these incredibly complicated theorems to describe the tendencies of things which way or may not even exist. They calculate mathematical equations and create new technology to measure things that are undetectable. And the only way they know they’re on the right path is when things go differently than they would have if current laws applied. They don't usually go the way they thought, but they don't go the way they should have- so they tweak the model.  It’s incredibly creative and amazingly brave so far as scientific endeavors go.

Perhaps my life is an exercise in theoretical living. I know it doesn’t fit the model but I don’t know why and I don’t know what new model it would fit. All I know is that if I keep experimenting and seeing what doesn’t fit I will move forward. Perhaps, and I have good reason to believe this, I’m just going through what so many of my more creative fellows already have and I will eventually come to a place where I don’t have to search for external benchmarks to know. Perhaps, as I learn to trust myself and my own internal voice, I will develop my own measures. I like to think so.

If I wasn't me...

If I wasn’t me then other’s words might be my own. Their ideas, their thought processes, their flashes of creativity and plot twists might come from my mind. If I wasn’t me I might have written a novel and even shown enough talent to be published.

It I wasn’t me I might have that thing which is so elusive and unfathomable to me- confidence. I might possess the sort self- aware grin that only comes from knowing that you have it. (Whatever it is.) If I wasn’t me I might possess a powerful sexuality that I could wield like a weapon- using my body in subtle ways to get what I want from the opposite sex. If I wasn’t me I might demand respect.

If I wasn’t me I might not fight so hard to be heard or shut down when I wasn’t. I might let others come to me and ask for my knowledge, my insight, my help or instructions. I might sit, calmly, quietly while the rest of the world fought and simply wait my turn to speak my peace. If I wasn’t me my words might have an impact greater than even I could know.

If I wasn’t me I might find it impossible to sit back and watch. I might have a million different activities taking up my time, my energy, my strength. I might be that person that everyone says is always racing around like an energizer bunny- their hands in everything, stunning others with the amount of energy they have to conquer so many different areas so easily. If I wasn’t me this might be easy.

If I wasn’t me I wouldn’t see the world like I do. I might see the good in each and every single person I met. I might even bring out the best in them. Or, conversely, I might not see any good in the world at all- not even friends or family. I might sit on the edges of life watching others like a tiger stalking an elk through the long grass. I might see people as food, or fun, or simply distraction and I might use them for nothing more than that. If I wasn't me I would see the world through a different set of eyes.

If I wasn’t me I might know why the hell I was here, or at least believe I know. I might pursue a goal with the sort-of stead fast diligence that can only come from the truly devout. I might never question, never wonder, never doubt. I would simply know, and no one would be able to dissuade me. If I wasn't me I might hold true to a set path.

If I wasn’t me I might be one of those people that I’ve seen way too many movies about. The ones that are beautiful without knowing their beauty, influential without knowing their influence, wanted without being able to ever accept such wanting. I might be fearful of committing myself fully to anyone in any respect, afraid to lose myself. The sort of fierce independence that looks really good on the young and rebellious, and really sad on the old and retired. If I wasn't me I might be one of the beautiful untouchables.

If I wasn’t me I might not care like I do. I might be one of those assholes who screwed other people over with such ease and ended up getting what they wanted. The sort of ease that only comes from truly not knowing how your actions affect others, and not caring if someone points it out to you. Being me, I always like to think those people eventually get their comeuppance- but I’ve yet to see any evidence to support that idea. If I wasn't me then my guiding motivation for every action might not be guilt.

It I wasn’t me… then the world wouldn’t be the world. It would look, feel, seem different. I would interact with it differently. Events would happen differently. Conversations would end differently. If I wasn’t me- then I would be a different me, and I probably wouldn't be wondering what it was like to be someone else in the first place.

Flake

I'm flying!

No… wait- I‘m falling.
Yep, definitely falling.

Damn, it’s cold.

Hey- what are you doing here?
Falling too, huh?
Yeah- this sucks.

What’s that?
That thing coming towards us.
Or that thing we’re falling towards.
It looks… solid.

Ow. Ow!
Get off of me!
Great, now I’m cold and wet.

It must suck to be snow.

Forgive Me for a Moment While I Wax Philosophical

I figured out last year, as part of my big break-down, that my life plan was not going to work out. I imagine this revelation has hit many people over the course of their lives so I don’t see myself as terribly special for having had it (especially because I’m reading a book about how it is the common life passage of everyone around my age).

The thing that surprises me is that I figured out that it isn’t simply my life plan that didn’t work out. It’s that life plans, in general, never work out. What’s that John Lennon line? “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”? I always loved that line. So profound, yet simple. (The most profound things usually are.)

I get that, truly, for the first time in my life. Whatever my job, wherever I live, whoever I try to secure relationships with- nothing is guaranteed. My health may vanish before I recognize how lucky I am to be healthy and able-bodied. My job might be taken away from me despite my best efforts and innate abilities. My house could (god forbid) burn down. My car could be stolen. The people I love could die, or just change into people I don’t love anymore. Nothing is guaranteed.

As I list off all these vital things that may vanish in a second’s time I may sound like someone who doesn’t really get it- how devastating it is if these things do happen. And I agree that of the list I’ve only experienced a few. But I’ve experienced enough to believe that last statement. And, amazingly enough, I think I’m beginning to actually accept it.

The whole job thing, for example. I used to think the whole 9 to 5 thing wasn’t a choice, it was a survival tactic. It was something you had to do. And yet, all around me are people who have made a living and continue to do so by working in areas I never thought of as real jobs and in areas that are as far removed from an office as you can get. Not to mention that me with my safe 9 to 5 got screwed over like everyone else, so I know that doesn’t actually work.

I’d like to say that, knowing all this, I have the bravery that comes from knowing you have nothing to lose. And yet, as I look for another job I find myself searching in offices, preferring schedules that resemble 9 to 5. Is it fear? Partially, I’m sure. Habit? Again, it must be partially that, too. But the main reason is that, even though I KNOW from experience that the whole 9 to 5 office life doesn’t work, I don’t KNOW what does.

And there’s the rub, as they say. You can do the leg work, collect the evidence to disprove your world view and your operating theories about how things work. But you can’t destroy an entire belief system without replacing it with something else. Once you wipe the hard drive you have to put on a new operating system in order to get anything done.

So that’s where I am- trying to find a new operating system. It’s scary, for sure. I don’t know what to believe. And because my previous OS crashed and burned so painfully I’m trepidatious when examining new beliefs, understandably so. I don’t want to fully buy into anything because I don’t want it to blow up in my face.

My fear, I think, makes perfect sense. You get burned, you handle with care next time. What doesn’t make sense to me, and what actually confuses me, is how everyone else around me is continuing on with their life plans as if nothing’s changed. Getting married, having kids, getting excited about new jobs… Despite my disillusionment the American Dream continues, unabated. Except that now as I watch those around me pursue theirs I don’t feel envy anymore. I just wonder when it’s gonna blow up in their face.

Perhaps this is just another phase in the process…

Losing Faith

I was ten years old when I found out there was no Santa Clause. I used to be terribly embarrassed by that fact because all of my wiser, more mature friends had known long before they hit double digits. But now I look back at that- that ten years of believing so fiercely that whatever doubt may have been introduced in my mind by my peers was almost instantly dismissed because I refused to let go of something so magical- and I am proud of who I was. I was a little girl who didn't just love fairy tales and magic creatures and science fiction and fantasy and all the other things of that nature. I was a little girl who believed.

I believed in magic. Maybe not with wizard hats and magic wands- but in the quiet, invisible kind. That electricity underneath the static of life that you could only hear humming if you stopped listening to all the people telling you to pay attention. That possibility of something extrodinary, something oustide the bounds of reality that only the true believers can see.

I believed in love. Maybe not TRUE LOVE like in The Princess Bride or love at first site. But in the humble, almost unnoticeable kind that exists between two people who choose to spend their lives together. Who grow and change together. Who become better people because of each other.

I believed in greatness. Maybe I wouldn't grow up to become the famous author I dreamed of being when I was really young. The one who would write a book so good that not only would it remain famous for centuries after its publishing, but it would even crack its way into High School lit class cause no one could argue that it didn't need to be taught. But I would do something. Something important. Something that would last in some way long beyond my years of life and have a bigger impact than I could foresee while living.

I believed in these things so wholeheartedly that I refused- vehemently, passionately, rebelliously refused- to give up on them. Even after my family started to unravel when I entered adolescence. Even after High School proved far more rejecting than any of my childhood imaginings could have possibly prepared me for. Even after my first relationships proved that all the ideals I held about being in love had nothing- NOTHING to do with reality. Even after life got hard.

I still believed, I still held out hope. Partially because I went to a college that encouraged its students to hold onto those beliefs. We were supposed to be great. We were supposed to be artistic. We were supposed to be revolutionarily creative. SO many that had come before us were, why couldn't we be?

I entered my adult life with some fear, but a lot of hope. Hope that my dreams could still come true. Not the way I imagined them. More real somehow. But that they could come true.

I'm losing that hope now. I'm losing those beliefs. Magic? Only in the movies, only in stories and books and graphic novels. That's why that fierce creativity is so damned important- because being able to live in that world long enough to write it takes a willful forgetting of everyday life. Love? Sure, it happens. But it happens with palimony agreements and mortgage payments and years without sex while you raise kids and lots and lots of therapy. And that's if you're lucky. Greatness? Read my past few blog posts and you'll see that that belief is firmly dead, replaced by a generalized moroseness that I can't seem to shake.

Sometimes when I'm walking out among the trees, listening to the wind, feeling the hairs on my arms pick up the temperature so I can feel it deeper than skin level I remember that little girl. So full of dreams, so firm in her beliefs, so full of potential. I remember her, but I don't feel her anymore. I can't lose myself in that childhood world view and allow myself to fantasize the way I used to. There's always something pulling me back to reality and a voice chastising me for being so silly and wasting time when there's work to be done.

I work with crazy people. Not neurotic "I have relationship issues" or "I drink too much" people but "I think you have a camera implanted in your forehead to record my thoughts" kind-of people. My boss talks about how scary it must be for them. To lose touch with reality, to be unable to distinguish what is real. Part of me- the logical part- agrees with her. I can't imagine how frightening it is. But another part of me can't help but wonder if maybe, in some ways, they're the lucky ones. Sure, they'll never have what we call a normal life- jobs and mortgages and marriages and teacher conferences. But they don't have that voice telling them that this can't be real, either. They can be lost in that other world. Scary at times, isolated, uncontrollable. But maybe, just maybe, magic.

Loss of Perspective

What if you'd never seen a thunderstorm before?  The world suddenly darkening, the wind blasting you in the face, the sky rumbling over head as black, ominous clouds blocked out the sun... what would you think?  That the world was ending?

What about a sunset?  If you didn't know that light would come back?  If you watched it creep back towards the horizon and disappear leaving you in utter darkness.  Wouldn't you abandon all hope?

What if you didn't know there was a tomorrow?  If this day- today- was suddenly all you had?  And you spent it as you did- paying bills, working at a soul-sucking job, doing dishes, laundry, mowing the lawn, cleaning your bathroom... how cheated would you feel?

See, that's the problem with Carpé Diem.  It goes in direct contradiction to what we have to do in order to survive.  In direct contradiction to responsible (and often dull, stressful and completely un-enjoyable) living.  And yet, that's what we wish we could all do.

All I know is, if today were suddenly the last day of my life- I'd be pissed.

Anti Swine Flu

Despite the warning from the birds that protests, government petitions and the other standard methods of social dissidence would not produce any kind of response one particular pig remained determined to fight against the name for the new flu. Maybe they just hadn't organized well enough, he reasoned. Maybe they were too cynical to begin with. With whatever explanations he could muster he convinced himself that his race would not suffer the same fate.

Things were bad enough already, he rallied. What with the name pig being synonymous with fat, lazy, dirty people the world over. It was bad enough being considered valuable only for the meat of one's bones and segregated to muddy pits and troughs. To coin the newest panic-inducing epidemic by the same name would just be too much.

So he held public demonstrations outside of congress. He tried to organize unions to strike. He sent more pamphlets, fliers, e-mails and other information-disseminating correspondence to various public health organizations than any anti-cancer movement had ever managed. And yet, the name remained.
Maybe it was because scientists honestly believed that they were the source of the flu. Maybe it was because people were just too desensitized to listen. Maybe the language barrier was insurmountable. Or maybe it was because pigs were, despite his belief to the contrary, just not that bright and one angrily oinking pig just wasn't enough to change that.

Learning to Sign

Is it just me or do doctors have the most illegible signatures, and writing for that matter, ever?  I always thought that there must be a class in medical school for learning to write that badly so that you could unlearn all the basic tools of letter formation drilled into you in grade school.  With that preface, I present the following story:

He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in over 45 hours would. Bags the size of walnuts under his eyes, tinted the bluish/redish purple that comes from hemoglobin degradation- he knew the term now- and hair and clothes that obviously needed a wash. It was a condition that everyone else in his class was suffering, some just wore it better. But it wasn’t the puffy eyes and hobo chic that bothered Greg when he looked at his friend. He was worried. No one else would notice it, but he did.


“Hey Ben, wait up” he called to his friend as they exited the library.

Ben looked over his shoulder and, not paying attention to where he was going, walked head-long into the glass doors that opened onto the quad. His arm full of books prevented him from doing any real damage to himself, but he dropped his load in a big pile at his feet. Greg came over and helped him gather his books.

“Wow, you’re worse than I thought, man,” Greg said as he picked up the painfully heavy anatomy book.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know you’re tired and all but you’re better coordinated than that.”

“No, dude- it’s just these fucking finals have got me all up in my head and I’m not paying attention,” Ben explained. “I’m fine, though.”

“You are not fine, and you’re coming with me,” Greg said, standing up with the stack of books he’d picked up and walking out with them.

“Wait, gimme my books!” Ben called after him. He received a poisonous glare from a co-ed in his bio class and realized that shouting after making a huge scene with the books was probably not the best idea.

“Dude, gimme my books,” he whispered after him.

“Nope, you’re coming with me and if I have to hijack your books to get to follow then I will.”

Greg kept a steady pace across the quad and Ben followed on his heels, trying to wrangle the papers and other loose items that he’d hastily stacked back up. He almost barreled into him when Greg stopped short to peer over his shoulder and make sure he was following. They arrived back at their dorm and Ben expected to stop and receive his books so they could split off to their different rooms. But Greg kept going up the stairs the common room and Ben begrudgingly followed. When he arrived he roughly and loudly plopped the books down on the table which caused one of their dorm mates who had fallen asleep on his reading to bolt upright and let a startled “Whah!”

“Sorry,” Greg said in a hushed tone.

The man glared at him momentary then went about violently rubbing his eyes, seemingly trying to re-start them. Ben settled his stack on the table next to the books Greg had finally released and went about trying to reorganize the pile into its original form.

“Sit down for a second, talk to me,” Greg said. He was going for caring, concerned friend with the kidnapping but realized he might have come off as slightly more asshole. Ben’s refusal to look at him as he sorted through his papers supported the theory.

“Man, I so don’t have time for this. I got two exams tomorrow and at this rate I’m gonna flunk both of ‘em,” Ben complained.

“Well, which one are you more worried about?”

“The signature final.”

“Seriously? You’re actually this worried about the signature final? Dude, that is, and you’re not gonna find a single person on this campus who disagrees with me, the single easiest class we get. Sign your name illegibly, easier than breathing,” Greg argued.

“Ok, so I’m retarded, I can’t sign my fucking name so no one can read it, what an asshole I am,” Ben berated himself. Greg realized that demeaning his friend’s troubles might not have been the best tactic and tried to think of something he could do to make up for it. He wanted to help him, after all, not make him feel worse. He looked down at his hands somewhat sheepishly and noticed the stack of books. He had an idea.

Greg stood, grabbed the pile of books, picked them up, and raised them to his chest. Ben pushed up from the table to follow suit, thinking that they were moving again. Greg quickly slammed the stack back down on Ben’s right hand. He screamed and pulled his hand out from beneath the books.

“Fuck!” Ben said with the kind of passion that can only be created by intense physical pain. “What the fuck are you thinking?” he said, massaging his hand.

Greg grabbed a piece of scribbled-on loose leaf paper out of the stack, put it down on the table and handed Ben a pen.

“Sign your name.”

Ben cautiously took the pen from him and tried to hold it in his injured hand. He placed the tip down on the paper and applied pressure, then promptly let out a small yelp of pain.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Greg said. “Just sign it.”

Ben slowly, painfully scribbled the letters down on the paper. He inspected it afterward and found it to be completely illegible. He couldn’t help but smile despite himself.

“You are such a fucking piece of shit,” he said as he looked up with that smile.

“That’s the thanks I get for helping you ace your final?”

“You didn’t ask me what the other exam tomorrow is,” Ben reminded him.

“What’s the other exam?”

“Microsurgery,” Ben said angrily.

“Oh.”

Brain Drive

The American Red Cross wants my blood. They sent me a brightly colored e-mail letting me know that enough time had passed since my last donation that I was eligible to donate again. That nice man Ira Rosenberg from the temple where I last donated called to let me know they were having another blood drive. A volunteer left me a voicemail saying that there was one located near my apartment this weekend. And they were all very nice.

And I’ve got good reason to respond. In addition to the thanks of the American Red Cross and the patients I will help, I’ll have the gratification of knowing that my blood could save a life. And I will be entered into a drawing for a $50 gas card. And I’ll receive a complimentary stainless-steel travel mug. Not to mention the free cookies, pretzels and juice I’ll get when I donate. Pretty nice incentive.

Now, I can’t help but wonder why other people can’t use this tactic. People like to get stuff for their efforts. That old expression, you catch a lot more bees with honey than vinegar. Employers get it, for the most part. Overtime for extra hours worked and, increasingly rarely, bonuses for high production. Non-profit agencies seem to get it: a tax break for giving in your old clunker or donating money to disaster victims. Hell, even parents get it: bribing their kids with toys, outings and sometimes even money for good grades. So why not, I have to wonder, Zombies?

I can tell you that if the American Red Cross invaded my neighborhood, broke down my door, strapped me down and stuck a needle in my arm I would not respond well. And if they did that to everyone else I knew I’d be pissed. And if the world as I knew it pretty much ended because they did that to everyone all over the world? Well, no wonder people hate Zombies. They’ve got it entirely wrong.

What they should do is send out e-mails to people letting them know they’re eligible. Let them know how many zombies will be saved from starvation thanks to them. Offer raffles for gas cards or other perks. Bribe them with cookies and juice. Come to their office or church or community center with a van and well-trained brain technicians who will make the process as quick and painless as possible. I gotta think they’d get a better response.

So on behalf of zombies everywhere I ask you to donate. Come on, you’re not using it anyway. Might as well give it to someone who really needs it, right?

The need is constant.  

The gratification is instant.  

Give brains.™

Why there's no IT guy in the mafia

My apartment was a complete mess and it occurred to me that simply disposing of the trash and cleaning off the coffee table wasn't going to do anything more than make more space for me to mess up. I needed an entire overhaul of my entire organizational system. I needed professional help.

So I went to google, typed in "cleaning help" and came up with around 99,500,000 hits for everything from Stanley Steamers to semi-professional cleaning ladies. One particular site advertising "trash management consultants" caught my eye. I clicked on it and was redirected to a brightly colored, sparsely texted web page with a single telephone number and the phrase "Let us take care of your problem." It was so simple, so reassuring, so mysterious- I had to call.

A man with a relatively thick north Jersey accent answered and asked me how I came upon the site. "Uh, google?" I answered. He asked if I was aware of the services they provided. I said "No, that's why I called." He asked if I had a package that needed to be picked up. I said, "Huh?" I could tell he was trying to ask me something specific without actually asking, but I hadn't the foggiest idea what.

Finally he asked: "What is the nature of your problem?" So I told him, messy apartment, regular influx of garbage, lack of organizational skills, in need of a cleaning consultant. I must of said something that made sense because he simply made an "Uh-huh" sound and asked when I might be able to meet with one of their consultants. He gave me an appointment for the following Tuesday with someone he referred to as "Mr. S." I thought it odd to schedule a meeting for a cleaning service in Riverside Park but he simply informed me that they were "remodeling" and it was "safer" that way.

The following Tuesday I was at the park benches by the duck pond at precisely 1:30pm with a folder containing some photos of the biggest problem areas in my opinion, a list of questions I'd thought of and a pen. At precisely 1:35pm a bald man in a cheap-looking suit with curly black hair sticking out from the open collar of a bright red shirt walked by. I didn't think much of him. Two minutes later he came back and sat down in the bench next to me. He looked over and said "You looking for Mr. S?" Flustered, I responded in the affirmative. He moved over to my bench with an outstretched hand.

I gave him mine to shake. He kissed instead. Taken somewhat aback I pulled it away as gently as I could and asked him about the strange meeting place. He asked what the person on the phone had told me. I explained that I'd been informed they were remodeling the office. He said that's what it was, as if he hadn't known.

He said that he'd been expecting someone very different based on the problem described. For such a big job, the pricing would have to be negotiated before regular services could be guaranteed and a business arrangement could be entered. I told him it wasn't all that big of a deal, it was just one apartment and I brought out my list of questions. I explained the problem in detail, the annoying mail piling up, the clothes in disarray, the lack of spaces to put everything. And I showed him my pictures, explaining that I'd seen Martha Stewart do some amazing things with some plastic bins and a lable-maker and maybe something like that would be helpful, especially in the kitchen.

He listened, looked over the pictures, waited for me to finish. He looked at me for a full minute, seeming to study me. I couldn't understand what the issue was but I didn't want to seem rude so I just waited. He simply said "Good luck with your label-maker", got up and walked away. I couldn't understand what had happened. I thought I'd been very polite, very informative about the help I needed. I left the park without any real grasp as to what had gone wrong.

A few months later I saw that same bald man on the 6 o'clock news in a sea of flashing cameras getting pushed into the back of a police car with the headline "Minasola family goon captured. Prosecutors believe he may be the key to bringing down the head." I blinked at the tv and promised myself I'd go back to the yellow pages from now on.

Apocalypse Now and Now and Now

I've come to the conclusion that there is some contract within the movie industry that the world as we know it must be destroyed on film at least once every summer. Giant tidal waves, asteroids, alien nanomites, random explosions, environmental catastrophes, zombie pandemics and plain old biblical curses- one way or another it's gotta happen at least once a year. Much the same way that a re-make of the Christmas Carol must be made at least once every five years. (Maybe less, I haven't paid that close attention.)

I wonder what would happen if these movies weren't made? What are the terms of the contract? Is it plain old boring bankruptcy or the CEO getting fired or is it something more technical? Like you lose your CGI rights for your action movies or you're not allowed to use Meryl Streep in your new independent film which would be destined for an oscar if she signed on. Or maybe you're banned from making formulaic romantic comedies for a period of no less than 3 years and therefore lose half of your revenue for each quarter you're out of production. Or your slasher movies can't show blood or body parts of any kind or your family movies can't have kids in them.

These are just some of the things I wonder about when I go to the movies.