THE SINGLE GREATEST WEDDING THAT EVER WAS OR SHALL BE

Alright. It's been a while. Sorry to everyone who has been waiting. All two of you can rest easy now that there is more meaningless inteligence-sucking drivel to read from me.
This post is about two friends of mine. One with whom I worked and her (now) husband. This is the tale of their wedding day. If by some slim chance this post meets their eyes, I want them to know it is out of love and respect for you both. And also out of the laughter I withheld during your blessed ceremony.
To protect the innocent we will not name names. They shall be referred to simply as Jack and Jill. Note also that some things will be slightly blown out of proportion for comedy........but not much.

ACT I: THE PROGRAM AND THE FORESHADOW

As a friend of Jill's, of course I was going to attend her wedding. I knew Jack a bit too. Nice guy. Off beat. but, of course, so was Jill. I attended with another co-worker and her boyfriend, and my girlfriend at the time (as my marriage to another woman may suggest, we are no longer seeing one another).
We sit. We mingle. We watch the pre-festivical (that's a new word) slide-show. It's the same slide show that alot of couples these days feature. It offers a rare peek into the entire life span of the betrothed. Polaroids of todlers and awkward pre-teens go whizing by the screen as you listen to "their" music. It's always cute, it's always effective, and makes for good fodder. The notable difference in this slide show from others I've seen is that it featured the most horrible and irritating punk/metal/rap/hard-core/ear-bursting/suicide-inducing/call-the-cops-on-your-party/no-seriously-make-it-stop music ever. And also a couple of tracks from the "Carpenters." Great mixing of styles.
The close of the slide show ended with some very loud angryish sounding song with the screaming refrain of: "DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE!!!!!!" And then in the midst of the collective concious rubble the crowd shared, the delicate tones of the piano began.
We take a minuet. We start mingling again. We listen to the softer, live pre-show music. We wait. We recuperate.
I open the program. I'm looking at names, and song titles and musicians, and then I read the title of the "piece" set aside for the entrance of the bride. Tribal Drums? I internally inquired. Yes, it said Tribal Drums. I mean as in a title not a componant. Just then the pastor spoke. "Rise." The musicians put down there guitars and stepped away from the keyboard and approached the assorted hand drum display. I thought they were just for looks..........I was wrong.

ACT II: ENTRANCE OF THE CHIEFTAN'S DAUGHTER

Now, most girls have an image in there mind about when they enter their own wedding ceremony. That gentle, sweet, once in a lifetime moment that can't be described or forgotten. Some picture a grand archaic looking sanctuary. Others have in mind a small, quaint chapel. Some might picture themselves in an unorthodox setting like the beach or a spontaneous, "shot-gun" feel like a justice of the peace. Still others invision rocketing into marriage with spunk and a wild, care free spirit like in Vegas with Father Presley officiating. They're all different, and whether they admit it or not, every girl has known exactly what it was supposed to be like from the time they wore patened leather on their feet.
As the drum beats began it was apparent that Jill imagined a bonfire and the smell of buffaloe blood as the meat from yesterdays kill roasts. While many girls pick up their ideas from, say, "Sleeping Beauty" or "Cinderella." As they watch they invision themselves as the melodramatic royal beauties themselves. Jill obviously watched the wedding scene in "Dances with Wolves" and thought "I am Stands With a Fist."
Understandable. Every girl wants to be a princess waiting for their own "Prince Charming". Jill just wanted to be an Indian Princes waiting for "Brave Walks Very Fancy."
Had this been for a show or concert of somekind the drums would have been very effective, and entertaining, perhaps even exhilerating. But, being that we just watched a girl in a classic white wedding gown march down the church aisle to the percusive tones of dried skins being beaten in honor of the god of war, I chose different adjectives. Here are a few of them: Unerving, Uncomfortable, Inappropriate, Random, and an honerary adjective: Huh??

ACT III: THE VOICE, THE VOLLEY, AND THE VOWS

How do you follow that? I mean the entrance was so far out of the realm of reality or tradition or rational, it was entirely unrelatable. There is no way anybody could connect to this as a moment. I understand they were trying to be original and do there own thing and display who they were as individuals and a couple and other such nonsense. I get it. But if this displayed their personality than it left only one question for me: Who are these people?
Anyway. Advancing the story. In a continuing effort to conceal any identities to talk about the next person I will just use a variation on the former name used and call her Shmill. Shmill was a close friend of the couple. I knew her periferaly. Shmill was also the chosen singer for the asigned "tender moment" of the show.
On the program it listed "Close to You" as the tender moment song. I was more than a little anxious about a Carpenters song, especially THAT Carpenters song being sung. We'd already heard one of their songs during the slide show, which was also ill-placed, but after the rain dance wedding marchI feared the corpse of Caren Carpenter may sue for the frivolous application of her work.
Well, Caren could rest easy. It turned out to be another song with the same title. Even though I'd like to stop and make fun of someone writing a song anytime post 1975 and titleing it "Close to You," the song isn't the story. The story is Shmill.
In Smill's eyes, this was no mere wedding. This was not just a tendor moment for some selfish bride and groom to exploit. This was her time. She was a star and the whole sactuary was going to know when they saw her sing this song that wasn't originally by the Carpenters.
She milked that lousy song for more than it was worth. All the little faciel expressions and the Celine Dionesk hand motions. Girl was feelin' it. She made eye contact with Jack and Jill and with the audience and with the preacher and with the band members and with the sound guy and with the grandparents of both parties. She even made that face that sunday school teachers make when they're explaing stuff to kids. You know the look. That wide eyed, over-excited, exagerated pronunciation thing that they do. Like she was telling a story. A story of love.
Shmill may have been able to pull this off if she also brought it with the singing. But she did not bring it. She left it home. She hasn't ever even taken it out of the box. She borrowed it from a friend that had it, and forgot about it.
Blah blah blah. Yadda yadda yadda. The vows. Jack is basically weeping at this point. There's something just very uncomfortable and awkward about watching a guy who normally dresses very punk and listens to, well, music that refrains in DIE, DIE, DIE to be Captain Wimpersalot at his own wedding. From spiked collar to a minor sob. But what makes it look even worse is that Jill looks mildly bored and maybe even a little embarased by her teary groom. The role reversal on stage probably lent itself to some assumptions on their future.
"Jill do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded Jack as long as you bo....."
"Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"
The first quote would be from the pastor. The second quote would be from the film camera owned by the fat lady who apparently can't count, sitting on the opposite end of the sactuary from me.
Now, I've done stupid things. Everyone has done something stupid. So I'm willing to let it slide. The problem was her next choice.
If this mis-hap had befallen you, what would your course of action be? Probably to bury it under you shirt or maybe sit on it. No matter the method, you would most likely choose some kind of sound stiffling option followed by burying your head because you're officialy "that person." Well, that's not what she did.
She chose to do what you do when you trip in public. You know, you trip. You look stupid. Everyone saw it and you know it so you face everyone and wave your hands in the air for no reason and look like an idiot and say something like: "I'm an idiot." There's no sense in covering it up, so you wollow in it.
That's what she did with this. As everyone turns to look for the source of the noise, as that's currently more entertaining, she puts a goofy smile, raises her camera high into the air, giving it more volume, and waves it around while laughing wildly so as to incite us to join in the jockularity. We didn't.
At this point I'm just waiting for the next thing. I've loosened up quite a bit and I'v decided to just enjoy it for what it is: the best free show/train wreck ever attended or even attempted.
Rather than stopping the ceremony temporarily to let everyone enjoy the embarasment of camera lady, they try to speak over it, which of course, doesn't really work.
Finally, the paster pronounces Jill and Weepy McWeeperton man and wife. This is the part where Jack pulls out his mouth spray to freshen up and to bring some levity to the ceremony. He obviously had not anticipated the level of comedy that was going to be already present. The mouth spray thing looked totally bush league. The kiss, however, did not.
As I was sitting there, I thought to myself, "you know, this weddings got it all. Bad music of both the live and tracked variety. A generaly embarasing lack of direction. A fat lady with a loud camera.In fact the only thing I think it's missing is a little butt pumping." I spoke to soon.
As Jill went in to demolish Jacks face, she grabbed a good percentage of his feeble hind quarters to balence herself. There was tongue, there was passion, and then there was the butt pump. Not just a grab or a squeeze. A pulsated rhythm of continual choking of his cheek like she was trying to work some kind of machine. Really, the entire scene or tableau, if you will, was just endearing. Especially behind the pulpit and in front of the crucifix.
If God actually were into the whole lightning striking you down thing, He would have had at least a baker's dozen chances to show His stuff.

EPILOGUE:

So the two were one. They're married. They have two children. They love each other. They're great folks. They also had the most terrible, wonderful, deliciously frightening wedding ceremony that has ever been or shall be.
And if your wondering; no, the picture at the top is not Jack and Jill believe it or not.

WHY MY SISTER IS A TERRIBLE, BAD, NASTY PERSON

DISCLAIMER: MY SISTER, MANDY, IS A WONDERFUL PERSON (now) AND I LOVE HER VERY MUCH (now) (certain details may have been blown out of proportion or overshadowed to make me look spotless and her like a O.J. Simpson, but all for the sake of comedy)

Summer was the best. Nothing could beat summer when I was kid. Hot weather has never been my favorite, but not going to school was ALWAYS my favorite. My sister, however, at the time was hit or miss. She could be great fun and all laughs or she could make me feel like the overpowered hampster in a science lab. She, at the time, was not only my big sister in age (as she is four years older than me), but also in size, power, and just general build.
This particular summer I must have been about five or six, putting her in the nine or ten range, if math serves me. Being older and admitedly smarter than I on top of the afore mentioned power of which she had greater supply, she often sought ways to either get me in trouble, get me back, or just all together get rid of me. Over the years, her devices swithched to just simply lording her strength of body, wit, and her words over me to keep me under her big sister thumb. Thereby reducing me to nothing more than a toy or a slave. She tried but she failed.

ATTEMPT 1: Upon hearing that she had a new baby brother she replies "Why couldn't it be a girl?" Now, birds and bees aside, I realize that this was a relatively innocent question and I was really too young to be hurt by it, but let's just call it foreshadowing.

ATTEMPT 2: Jumping immediately from slander to abuse my dear sister waits for the proper moment. A moment when the screams of an innocent little boy wouldn't be able to be heard. As our mom was washing the dishes Mandy struck. Mom, in the other room simply hears giggling, and makes a sweet, motherly assumption that her only daughter is playing with and caring for her only son. Mom turns the water off and suddenly hears a mixture of tones. The giggling remains as loud and as jovial as before but beneath it she detected the sound of an infant crying. Crying as if for his very life. She approaches the room only to find Mandy bouncing. BOUNCING on her new brother. Whatever harm done to me must have only been to the part of my brain that remembered that day because I don't.

ATTEMPT 3: "Hey Ian." "Yeah Mandy, what?" "I've got an idea."
How many times did I hear these terrible words? How many times did they lead to pain, dissapointment, or punishment? On this particular day it was a kind of mixture of the first two. My parents were going to be out side. Not too very far, but not in the house. I was rather a particularly well behaved child and, to my knowledge pretty low maintenance. They told me that Mandy was in charge. Okay. A five year old doesn't really have a very accute sense of words. They are usually quite literal in their understanding of things and I was no different. They say Mandy is in charge. I take it to heart. Mandy understands all too well that this is my interpratation.
"Mom and Dad said that I'm in charge Ian." "I know." "So...........lick the carpet."
I did. I'll give you a moment. Your'e probably thinking now about all the things that could be found on your carpet at home now. Ours had at least as much. There's no point in telling any more. I'm sure you can infer the rest. I cried. I washed. Mandy laughed.

Back to the summer we started out in.
"Hey Ian." "Yeah, what?" "I got an idea." "Okay." This time the big plan was to take a small plastic table that I used when I was quite young and stand it up in my red wagon, taking up about half of the surface area of the wagon. Then we draped a blanket over the table creating a shade. Now we have a royal carriage of sorts. The final touch was a plate of grapes, because as we all learned from pictures in history books, the height of oppulance and Roman like lavishness is to eat grapes while being dragged around somewhere.
"We'll take turns in the wagon, and pulling the wagon," she says. As I begin to pull here I find out just how weak I am, how heavy she is, and how hot it is when your'e a mule in the summer. I take her up the block a little. "Is it my turn?" "No, you gotta' take me the whole block and then it's your turn." I press forward with the thought of fresh juicy grapes in the shade as my reward. We reach the end of the block. Finally my rest has arrived. "Okay, let's switch." "Oh. No, I meant all the way up and down the block." "Oh. Alright."
I was down, but not done. Most of the rest of the trip was a blur. Sweat. Labored breath. More grapey dreams. By and by, we made it to the other end of the block. I peered 'neath the blanket and saw the beads of water still resting on the grapes from their earlier sink-cleansing, as beads of sweat still rested on my brow from dragging my freakin' older sister around in my red wagon.
"Alright, let's switch now." "No no no. What I meant was you gotta' get in front of our house 'cause that's where we started."
I was an even tempered child. I had great patience, and great desire for grapes, but more than that I had an irrational fear of my sister. So off we went.
Alas! We arrived. There were no more loopholes. No more excuses or delays. It was my time. As she finally got out, the first of two dissapointments hit. She hands me the plate and sitting atop it are the ravaged remains of what was a plate of delicious green grapes. It lay there like a shriveled up old tree. I was too tired to argue or complain, I just wanted shade and rest and a little kingly ride down Bryan street.
I get in. I get comfortable, and we're on our way. As she begins to pull, I see the look already on her face. This was not fun. This was not like eating grapes. This was like work. I didn't care. I'd put in my time, and now I could not only enjoy, but appreciate the quaint leisure of a carriage ride (power wheels/flinstone style). You know it's small moments like these when you really just think that mayb............wait. Why have we stopped.
"Okay, my turn." IS SHE SERIOUS?! We were about 3/4 past our next door neighbor's house, she turned, wiped her forehead of the sweat it had collected and said "my turn." No grapes, no ride, no fun, and no way was I dragging her sorry presumptuous hinder up and down the block again!!
She knew that my fear of her was trumped by my fear of mom and dad. I generaly didn't do anything if I even imagined there was a way I was gonna' get in trouble for it. Knowin this, she made a last second strategic move on my paranoia. "I'll tell!!"
And off we went. She in the shade and me in my lowly little brother bridle at the helm.
HYAH! HYAH!!
Epilogue: I am nearly a foot taller than her now, I can physically throw her, and my fear of her has reduced considerably. I do still love a fresh green grape though.

THE SINGER AND HIS SONG

This is the first among what will probably be a very few non-humorous posts from me. It's generally more fun for me to make myself laugh, but when the subject was right, it pressed upon me the need to write on it.
Amidst the every day routines in what most would consider to be an extraordinary city, it's easy to lose one's self in one's self. Something about the magnitude of this place forces me to be inward. There's no way to conquor the city. There's really no way of fully comprehending it, so you begin to float in it. Often the only thing seperating one day from another are the little different conversations had and little circumstantial "nothings."
Part of my own rhythm in every day is, of course, the commute. It's almost as predictable as gravity. Because as long as all the many millions of people here stay within their usual rhythm there won't be any breaks in anybody else's. I close down my computer applications. Say goodbye to whoever is left in the room. Make my way down to the basement to get on the 4 or 5 train, and I'm headed first to Grand Central to meet Aubrey.
It's a Friday, so there is a particular sense of emancipation on the ride away from work. Aubrey and I head back down to board a 6 train to 59th street and Lexington Ave where we will switch to an R train. But before we get on an R, we will probabley wait for the N and W trains to arrive and leave. And while we wait we listen to this "singer" that's down there sometimes. He's terrible. He almost has a good voice but he's got no clue how to use it. He sings at the top of his lungs to a track tape in a small speaker. It's fairly irritating. Maybe we won't have to wait for the R. Maybe we'll be lucky. Rhythm. Rhythm.
We head down the stairs from the 6 to the R. I can see the "singer." But he's not singing. He's packing his things. He has a look of humiliation. But it's more than that. More desperate. It's a specific look I remember making as a child when someone made fun of me, or I made a public idiot of myself in class or whatever combination of factors it took to make me want nothing but to be home and in mom's arms. He's crouched down with two NYPD officers standing over him. You're not supposed to sing on the platform. I'm sure he knew that. Everyone knew that. You're not supposed to hold the doors of the subway open, or walk when you don't have a walk sign, or outside of a crosswalk at all, or throw your Nutrageous wrapper on the ground, or a million other little circumstantial "nothings" we all take part in. I've never had an officer blink an eye at me for it. We have rules for a reason. Protection, order, and justice among other reasons. I believe we also have understanding. The ability to understand when understanding is what's needed. The same understanding that created those laws of protection to discern who's being protected, and from what.
I'm sure I'm not the only one on that platform who's had his friday rhythm interupted by this young man's singing and wished he'd stop. Maybe even considered paying him on the condition that he shut up for five minuetes. I'm also sure that not any one of us ever hoped he would get ticketed. Like that moment when the words you'll always regret left your lips and you can't breathe them back in, I wanted nothing more than to not have wished him silent. I don't think one person was ever threatened by this singer. No one is going to sleep better knowing they finally got him. And I look upon these two police officers with the obvious question in mind: "Do you really have nothing better to do?"
As they stood there over him like statues monitoring to make certain this "menace" was taken care of, I looked at him, clutching his ticket, and with suddenly absolutely nothing in this world. What little of his pride he had left was stripped of him. I'm almost jealous. I've got too much in this world. Too much hindging on my own success or faliure, or at least my percieved version of the two, to really be able to do good. What would'nt I give him now? Just to sing. Not because I want to hear it, but just so he can.
A man approaches the singer and the police. He kneels down, and places some amount of money in the singer's bag. I couldn't see how much. It didn't matter. It may as well have been a thousand. One officer in a very demanding tone asks what he's doing. He, half bashfully, and half enraged, responds very plainly: "I'm giving him money. This is rediculous." That was it. He was the example we needed. At least a third of the people there on the platform, myself included, pulled out their wallets and approached the three of them. There was no question now who was being protected. The police officers that were using there stature physically and officially were now outnumbered and over-ruled. Something they had not counted on. A combination of compassion and courage in one man to call for the same in everyone else.
I extend my hand to him with a few bucks in it. I wait. He has a humbled look of relief and at the same time still embarassed. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sing. I wait. Others come up around me, continuing to give. I wait. Rhythm. Why won't he take my money? "He's blind." The lady next to me informs me. I never knew. I couldn't tell. Maybe because I didn't look closely enough before or maybe because when he sang he sang with sight. As technicaly "bad" as the singing may have been it was his time to open his eyes for a few moments. A little embarassed at my ignorance I quickly placed the money in his hand and my wife and I returned to our spots to wait for an R.
It's good friday so there is a particular feeling of emancipation. Across the track on the wall the name Jesus is written in the dust. I've seen it before. Why was it written? When was it written? How did it even get there? It didn't really matter. It was just appropriate. There were so many symbols surrounding me in these few minuets.
Sacrifice on good friday. The first one. In a moment where those with the power pressed the law upon one that had little choice and little alternative. When the law created to protect was used to destroy, one man with a combination of compassion and courage approached, knelt down, and gave of himself. And His example changed everyone else.
That universally insignificant moment on the subway was a reminding and sobering representation that this wasn't the first time for grace, and redemption. Rhythm. Rhythm. Broken.
The R train arrives. As Aubrey and I get on I look back at a blind man having his worst and greatest moment, talking to a lawyer that happened to see what had just transpired. The lawyer has the ticket, and is already making inquiries with another officer about the two officers that watched their influence in full force and then fail in a matter of minutes among people that understood when understanding was needed.
A singer who, without reason and without seeing, had, for months, been singing his song facing the name of Jesus. I traded my rhythm in for his.

WHAT I LEARNED FROM THE PRINCESS BRIDE; A Sonnet penned in admiration

You showed me that heroic thrills,
when told just right, could cure my ills,
You made me think books were okay,
as long as there was film segue,
You made me smile and want to be,
violently kidnapped while at sea,
So I could learn some good sword-play,
and randomly show up again someday,
You made me wish I could wear a mask
in a time where people didn't ask:
"Hey, what are you, some kinda' nut?"
or "Are you trying to hold us up?"
There is no time for selfish vanity
when you climb the cliffs of insanity,
Because you may need the helping hand
of a guy who thinks you killed his old man,
You can always count on friends
like a Spaniard, a giant, and Robin Wright Penn,
You made me fear life-sucking widgets
built by men with extra didgets,
You taught me to avoid such messes
as Asian land-wars and R. O. U. S.es,
You showed me health and good nutrition,
and how to haggle with magicians,
Educational in your very essence
with big words like inconcievable and putrescence,
Your dialogue was blatently part sub-textual,
and Humperdink was latently homosexual,
(Nothing was learned in that last line.
I just thought it was an exceptional rhyme),
You taught if I'm looking for a tree with a door,
I can just blindly poke around with a sword,
And if you tie a girl up and you gag her,
she'll later threaten you with a dagger,
If you're seeking "an eye for an eye" ,
allow someone time to prepare to die,
I knew when I found my true love
we'd fit just like a FIVE fingered glove,
And I found out that young Fred Savage
could act only slightly above average,
But no way he could be a dumbo
when his grandpa is Columbo,
The premise of this blog is quite thin,
but I can't seem to get out again,
I'm feeling much like Dr. Seuss,
but with the talent much reduced,
I think my thoughts are rhyming now;
a thing I simply can't allow,
I'm close to pulling out my hair.
I feel I'm in the pit of despair,
Which brings us back to Princess Bride,
a subject which should long have died,
I've got to stop this now or soon.
If I can't then I am doomed,
To live a life a little too lyrical,
Great! Now aliteration!! I need a miracle,
Alright, now, I'm gonna' stop rhyming. I mean it..........................
Anybody want a peanut?

TO ALL OF YOU WHO WEAR YOU POLO SHIRT COLLARS UP:

First of all take your sunglasses off when you get in the subway. I'm sure the dim, mental-hospital style lighting in there is burning your very sensitive retinas but, please, just prop them up on your head between a couple of the gelled-to-perfection pieces of hair sticking up. Don't worry, you'll still look like you don't care about your hair (even though you do) or the rest of the world (because you don't).
Secondly, I officialy give you permission to quit perma-flexing. You don't need to prove anything to me (mainly because I'm not interested). I know you want to look "rough and tumble," I'm also quite sure that you're stronger than I. That said, I still get the feeling that If I was cornered into a situation where I had no choice, I could beat you in a fight. How? Either by sheer will and passion, or by giving your pre-worn Abercrombies an actual rip. Wouldn't your face be red if you show up to the collar-up meetings with jeans that are part calculated, manufactured tears and frays and part real life tears and frays. I also have the option of a supplying your noggen with a good noogie. Not only would this mildly iritate the skin on your head, but it's also going to flake off a good 8% of your gel. In short you would look like a real mess in front of your girlfriend that moonlights as a straw.
Which brings us to the third in our list. Please, for the love of clean and pressed underwear, will you get your girlfriend to at least have a snack every now and again. While being a size 0 must have it's benefits (ie. the ability to pack her and get free air fare) it seems that it would be legistically impossible. That means you can't even multiply her to make substance. No matter the equation you plug the amount of her mass into, the answer will always be zero. So on top of everything else she's just mathematically unsound. I realize that you've probably considered this subject from several angles. One very cruciel angle, however, that I don't think you have considered is that she is dieing. Yes, the thought of dating a big size 4 fatty is sobering, but on the plus side, when you pick her up you won't have to fake flex to get those arm vains standing out. You'll have to actually lift.
Next, I would rather you didn't try to make eye contact with me on your quest to find somebody else that wants to snicker at the homeless guy because he smells a little ripe and talks to the seat next to him. I've got better things to do than to nod heads back and forth with you in the knowledge that some poor guy you don't know has dirt on him, and is a little crazy. Just remember that if daddy ever cuts you off you could end up with the same stench.
Fourth and finally, unless you are Tom Cruise (pre-Scientology), Evil Knievel, Shazaam, Shakespeare, The Fonz, Myles Standish, A dog being kept from licking it's paws, Leberace, Biff of "Back to the Future", a priest, Dracula, or really really cold, PUT YOUR COLAR DOWN!
Thank You.

DOWNTOWN UPCHUCK (A Short Pulp Noir Script based on true events from this morning)

IAN: (inner exposition monologue) We were headed to work. Like always, the town was'nt cuttin' anybody no slack. We were late. As usual. The weather was a bone-shattering 67 degrees farenheit. Little kiddies were skippin' off to school, and I had my girl, Aubrey, by my side, but I could tell from the red sweatshirt on the ground with yesterday's lunch from some dog on it that today was not all roses and sugar cubes. It was like an omen. A sign. Only time could tell what would be the sweatshirt and what would be the poo. Poo that looked like a pile of rotten fingers. I know. Disgusting. The resident bum that usually inhabits the corner wasn't there this morning. Foul play? Not mine. Maybe another sign.
AUBREY: Sorry about the delay, but my hair needed fixing, and you know I'm only comfortable when I'm late.
IAN: (to her) It's alright. Besides, dames were made to look pretty. You wouldn't want the bum competing for my attention would ya'?
AUBREY: Makes since if he did I guess. Your both the same species.
IAN: (inner) Aubrey was a firecracker. In more ways than maybe she knew. (to her): You better watch that mouth sweet-cakes. One a' these days it's gonna' give something back to you.
IAN: (inner) The train finally arrived. The R train. R for rescue. R for refuge. Or maybe, R for regret. We got on and it was crowded and smelly and just generally no good. That wasn't a sign. That was just the R train. Everyone looked like they'd had all there problems and worries surgically attached to their faces. The kind of crowd that if things got ugly you wouldn't be able to tell.
AUBREY: This wagon had better pick it up, my stomach's tellin' me stories I don't want to hear.
IAN: (to her) Then you better plug your ears baby, 'cause this bullet 'aint outta' the barrel yet. (inner): We got off to switch to a 5 train. 5 for five times the smell, five times as crowded, and, even though I didn't know it yet, five minuetes to disaster. I was standing in between broads, broads, and more broads. Not including the prissed up guys that oughta' be called broads. Still, it wasn't quite as crowded as normal. A blessing. Or a sign.
AUBREY: Listen tough guy, I got somethin' to say and your'e not gonna like it.
IAN: Oh yeah? What's that?
AUBREY: I'll tell ya', but first, hold my gum.
IAN: Your gum? Alright there. Now bark, before I swat you with a paper.
AUBREY:Alright. Here goes. BLUGHHWHAAH!
IAN: (inner) And there it was. Like St. Patricks Day orange juice. It was similar to a slot machine. You could see it in her face and something green came out, but brother, if that's the jackpot than I'll keep my dime for a rainy day. I give her her share of credit though. She kept more down than she let loose. It was an unfortunate turn of events but we coul........
AUBREY: BLEEGOOWAHAH!!
IAN: (inner) And there it is again. Like a two and a half year old egg yolk. We had to think; and fast. My hand served as goaly for both rounds but St. Patty was thin and quick on his juice.
BROAD 1: Are you alright?
BROAD 2: You should sit down.
BROAD 1: Heres some tissue.
FAT GUY: Would you like some cold water?
BROAD 3: You can have my seat
IAN: (to broads and fat guy) We got it under control. Thank you though.
(inner): We got off at Grand Central. We left a little "note" to the good folks on the five and made a B-line for the B-rooms. Lathered up, took a breather, made some calls, and it was back home for a costume change.
AUBREY: It's alright I didn't really want to wear this old thing anyway.
IAN: (inner) Yeah, she's a firecracker.

LIUTENANT DAN-BOT

When I was five years old I took a couple of my Transformers to school, where very early in the day a "friend" of mine who probably suffered from various and new strains of A. D. D. asked to play with my Optimus Prime. I concented and within seconds he unwittingly and, for the most part, uncaringly broke one of the legs off. He then quickly handed it back to me, gave a quarter-hearted apology and ran off in that annoying way that kids with A. D. D. run. This is a letter to my old friend:

Dear Optimus,

A great deal of time has passed since last we hung out. I'm married now. It's good. She's great. Her name is Aubrey. She's everything I could've asked for. She did, however, steal my Transformers shirt. She says we're "sharing" it, but we both know she stole it. It's okay though because it was a Decepticons shirt anyway. Don't get the wrong idea or anything. I haven't turned over to the other side or anything. I'd never aid those scumbags in their evil path of destruction. You know more than anyone that all mankind would suffer in their reign.
Look, let's just go ahead and address the "elephant in the room." I think we've got some air to be cleared up here. Or I do anyway. I'm sorry for what happened. Youv'e got to know that I would never have let any harm come to you on purpose. I know it's not an excuse, but it's true. Of all of my action figures, you were chief among them, and amidst all of my toys you were second only to Tenderheart. But that's only because I'd known him longer and it was just one of those things, ya' know, where he'd be like "Let's hang out" and I was like "Yeah, okay" even though sometimes I didn't necessarily feel like hanging with him, but he's like my "official" best friend 'cause he's been around so long. There can be no doubt, though, that you were an infinitely cooler toy.
We shared so many priceless moments that will never fade for me. I hope that could be said for you. Do you remember when we built the Destruct-icon together? It almost didn't happen, but you never let up. And no sooner did we build it than you were on the front lines ready to fight it. Sometimes I just couldn't figure you out. I couldn't remember how to bend you back into the semi-truck form or I couldn't get your trailer properly hitched. On several occasions I myself almost broke you, or at the very least threatened to give up on you. But you never gave up on me. And I will never forget the time you stole Megatron's tires off of his Gremlin and put it up on blocks. I mean I was the one who came up with writing "Honk if you have groceries" on the back windshield, but you were the one that really pulled it all off with out his dad hearing. Your'e crazy, you know that?
Anyway, I guess I just want you to know that then and now you stand tall above us all on TWO legs of purity and justice. Not just for Autobots or for other inhabitants of the galaxy but for all man and machines everywhere. I salute you Optimus Prime; even if you now need a wheel chair-icon to get around. You are truly more than meets the eye.

-Ian

THE ICE, THE GARBAGE, AND THE PLAN

(The following was originally written in March)
Let me begin with a question. What's wrong with me? Now let me explain why I make this self inquiry. My wife, Aubrey, and I were cleaning our apartment this afternoon, and I reached the point of the process where I was preparing to take out the trash/recyclables (As per mine and my wife's agreement that I take out the trash and she replenishes the receptacles with new trash sacks. 'Cause that's team work).
We recently had something of a frost, or a dusting of snow. I wouldn't say that it snowed. We were kissed. We were given a little snow kiss. Anyway, as a result of that moisture and the freezing to sub-freezing temperatures, ice has formed on the concrete behind the apartments in the trash/recyclables area. No problem. I took short, steady steps; no hurry. I placed the trash in the provided cans and placed my bag of mixed recyclables near the provided cans without separating the two families of recyclable waste (as per New York City's agreement with it's citizens as an attempt to keep the streets cleaner. 'Cause that's team work) because I want to sort of make an effort, but not really.
As I lay the bag down I hear the door to the trash/recyclables area open behind me. I turn to find a very feeble, little, silver-haired woman who looks to be roughly 153 years young with a grocery sack full of trash. She sees me. She sees the ice. Then she says:"Oh, it's so slippery. This is dangerous. All this ice." Being the kind, thoughtful person I am that wants to make an effort but not really, I immediately decide to offer my assistance to the lady (and being fair to myself I truly did have the very best in mind).
Now, here's where the aforementioned self-inquiry comes into play. Rather than doing what you have probably already thought of and taking the sack of trash off her hands, I think to myself: "She's old. She's weak. She said herself that it was dangerous and slippery. Why don't I help her by tyring to hold her up by her brittle gumby arm as she takes her little bag of snotty rags to the garbage." WHAT? What's wrong with me. It's like I want to do the right thing but I want to do it the hardest way possible for all parties involved. This was seriously the first thing that leaped into my head to do. Brilliant. So that way if she slips on the ice she'll still probably fall but instead of the cracked rib she would've gotten she'll only sustain a hairline fracture to her miniature hip and a broken arm because I crushed it as it was violently ripped from my grip on the way down.
Luckily she was smart enough for the both of us and as I reached my stupid arm out to "assist" her with my stupid plan, she reached her arm out to hand me her sack of trash. "That's a really good idea" I thought to myself. "I mean I've got the ice walking thing down. I've even had recent practice. I should definitely just take her five ounces of trash to the can sitting two and half feet away." I don't think she could tell that I was that big of a moron. She still thanked me. In the end, the old girl didn't fall and the trash did get deposited in the proper location via myself (as per our accidental trash relay. 'Cause that's team work).

JINGLE JANGLE

I'm from Texas. My wife and I moved to New York City about seven months ago. We went from a city of 200,000 people (take or take a few) where you wave at people in the cars you pass because they are people. You make eye contact. You even smile. And all of this is with people you DON'T know.
The NYC works a little differently. This is a city of several million people each trying to assert themselves in a variety of ways. Some incorporate a variety at the same time. Some assert themselves with their unwillingness to waver from their path in the least for any reason whatsoever even at the risk of knocking an elderly handicapped, blind man to the street. Some use their sheer volume to let you know, or at least make you think they are very strong and important. Some employ the use of natural bodily oders that the English language fails to be able to qualify with name or description; but it's a scent that is sometimes difficult to discern between greek seasoning or fat sweat.
Others assert themselves through the subtle art of subway space-taking-up (I haven't come up with a better term yet.) It's as if they stand in such a way that there is obviously enough room near them for at least two more people, but that room is not all in one place. It's around them so nobody can use it, and they specifically want to challenge you to say something or make eye contact. Now, this usually happens with very large, naturaly assertive men, but it's really funny when it's a five foot tall pencil-neck with a receding hairline that obviously makes more money than I do, but not so much as to feel like a complete success.
So they stand there with their all leather messenger bag, all leather shoes, and all leather chip on their shoulder just waiting for you to bump into them and mess up their Sudoku, because then they're going to really get you with a zinger like: "Nice one, Buddy!" or "Seriously?!" or "Somebody make me taller, with more hair, with more business conections, and charm so as to attract women so that I can have kids one day that I will ignore for work and they can blame me for everything including their poor taste in fashion, and ill social-temperment, and call me a yuppie Nazi until it drives me to the bottle and their mom to leave me, until I just want to scream, puke, or cry, and then kill a bum just to feel powerful when all I really want is a hug or a perfectly executed Sudoku!!! Thanks!!" That's my favorite, but it's a little used up.
So I've been trying to figure out how to assert myself, but not completely lose myself into the sea of my polite-challenged bretheren. I am after all a Texan. Don't get me wrong, I really do like it here, but I want to retain a certain amount of my character and civility. So how does one do that but still make sure that everybody knows that he's serious?
I'm thinkin' spurs. Yeah, spurs. Everyone could hear me jingling from 100 feet away. Like justice approaching, they would stand aside and be nice and stop cutting people (in line or with knives. Or in line with knives), or cussing in front of kids, and for that matter, stop letting their kids cuss. There would be a courtesy shake down with serious spur driven consequences to people who continued to be needlessly rude or curt. I could say "No I don't have change I could spare, but you can look at and admire my righteous spurs." And sure you could make fun of me behind my back and laugh at the matching up of sneakers, Gap apparel, and a pair of shiny spurs. It's your right to scoff. But just know that if you do, there's a good chance of getting a swift howdy to the junk with my spurs of truth and freedom. Let freedom ring. Let freedom jingle.

THE TWILIGHT BOZO

Among the many weightless, and purposeless conversations that I've been a part of, and that indeed most people have probably encountered themselves at some point, is the question of clowns: "friend or foe?"
I think the question has been simplified to much though. "Do you think clowns are scary or not?" That is to broad a question, and for me to say that I am always frightened of clowns is too blanket a statement for me to make. Do I think they are funny? No, but I will say that I once did enjoy them. Few thoughts pleased me more as a child than the thought of watching other kids on the Bozo show throw a little ball into little cups in an attempt to win some little prize. The big top amused me. All those clowns in the little car was brilliant childhood care-free entertainment. Of course now it's annoying, but scary is more about context I think.
If something or someone is very much in it's own element, It's hard for it to be disturbing. I think either fright or humor is born of things being out of place. A stripper at a kids birthday party: funny. An old man's voice coming out of a little girls mouth: scary. Brooke Shields on Broadway in "Chicago":both. The point is it's going to take more than the natural attributes of a clown to scare me.
So what is out of place or out of a clown's element? The clown figurines with the five o' clock shadow creep me out a little, but then again all clown figurines are a little creepy because clowns should be in motion and exagerated motion at that. So being in a frozen state is already a little out of character as it is. One could argue that anywhere out of the circus is out of place, but you could find a clown on the street on his way to entertain children or the like. After some thought on the subject I have decided that the most definitive frightening place to come accross a clown is without doubt the forest.
There should never for any reason be a forest clown. If you see a clown in the forest you are probably going to die a particularly heinous death. Imagine camping and seeing that white face and red whispy hair and little patch-work-hat half covered by an oak. It's incorrect, it's out of place, and it's decidedly horrifying. I've gone so far as to name this hypathetical forest clown: Oopsie. That's right, Oopsie the Clown. Not only is it his name but it's his catch phrase and the only thing he knows how to say. Oopsie the clown with the blood of squirls and tree sap dripping from his mouth, giggling and playing mind games with forest dwellers. So, am I afraid of clowns? Yes.

GREY'S ANONYMOUS

The world of television is vast and winding. There are many worlds in which one can get themselves caugt up. In fact you are probably deeply involved in several worlds at once throughout the course of an average week.
Some of you may be caught in a time warp where "24" hours will take several months of intense yelling and protruding angry neck vains to get through. Others like myself may be "Lost" in the jungle of the story that never ends like the ones you told in elementary about your weekend: "and then.....and then....and then...." All lies by the way. Still others may be cornered by a certain family not to be taken lightly; "The Sopranoes."
Among my other tv obsessions ("American Idol," "Scrubs," "Local on the 8's") hides one that I'm not normally going to be forward about in public. I, similar to most men, would like to think that I posess enough qualities to leave no doubt in anyone's mind that I am masculine. Sure; I have a descent grasp on style, and I don't mind a little broadway tunage, or even some occasional gossip about friend's and their doomed relationships; but I also like to leave everything I own on the floor, flick things, scratch stuff, adjust some of the same stuff, and laugh occasionaly at the word poop. I'm a guy. Yeah. YEAH. Grunt. However, a certain television show may challenge my position even more severely than a solid shot to the netherlands. That show is "Grey's Anatomy."
I love it. And yes before you even suggest it, I would give marrying it strong consideration. My wife and I sit every sunday night and watch this soap opera (with better production quality) like a couple of old friends you'd see on Sex and the City, or Charmed, or Waiting to Exhale (in other words: all chicks). I'm officialy my wife's best girl-friend save for the scratching and readjusting. Does the fact that I enjoy the show make me question my masculinity? No. Does my ability to relate to the characters make me wonder how I am viewed by other men? Maybe. Does the fact that I, like the characters on the show, refer to Doctor Shephard as "McDreamy" make me feel like less of a man? YES DEFINITELY.
If there is a line for this type of thing, I have probably crossed it. But in my own defense, it is a notably well written show and well acted. Not to mention probably the best put together sound-track on television (closely followed by Scrubs). Every week I'm amazed at not only how good the music is but also how well suited each chosen song is for the moment. This, by the way is another not-so-masculine observation.
So what can this mean? Does this mean I am demoted into a lesser team of men like the JV c-team in basketball that I was once a member of? -Yes, I said C. They created a loser team to put all the losers on so we could lose when facing better loser opponents. (I'll write on this some other time.)- Am I to wear a patch signifying that I'm concerned for Merideth's and Derick's "almost-relationship". Am I to be forever branded simply because I want to know if George will ever bounce back from recent heart-break, or because I think Izzy is walking a dangerous line with a certain patient?
I don't have the answers. My genes say I'm decidedly masculine. My sunday night affliction dictates that I'm only nearly masculine. So ultimately it comes down to my anatomy vs. Grey's Anatomy. In which case, as long as there is scratching and readjusting to be done, no programing schedule will ever label me anything but a testosterone factory. Grunt!