Short Story for the Helluvit

I have a strong disliking for people who wear baseball caps backwards.

Not that I, myself, haven’t at some point turned an otherwise normal cap and spun it backwards, of course. That’d just be silly. No, some drastic situations can call for the brim to be forced in this unnatural directon. For example, wearing a baseball cap the way it was intended while hammering a small nail in the dark would be immensely more difficult than hammering the same nail with the cap flipped around, therefore not blocking your vision anymore than the aforementioned dark you’d be standing in while hammering. Of course, why you’d hammer in the dark I haven’t the foggiest of ideas. But if you had a backwards cap on then, I wouldn’t call you on it.

So, maybe just by chance, the asshole wearing the backwards Philadelphia Phillies cap sitting five people to the left of me at this bar is doing some well trained research into the mysterious lives of night hammerers. Either that, or he was just a regular asshole. Which would actually be a little disappointing now that I’ve established that there’s at least a microscopic chance that the young gentlemen could be establishing the basis for a character for some great movie roll about nailing shit with the lights off.

I’d watch that movie.

It was around this point I realized that I was casting stones regarding somebody’s barroom wardrobe choices, when in fact I was wearing a $550 black, pinstriped tailored suit I’d picked up in Needham that day in the middle of a dreary college bar.

I suppose the asshole with the backwards Philadelphia Phillies hat sticks out like a thumbprint on a doorknob compared to the bigger asshole wearing a suit inside of a bar.

Whatever. The suit was part of the plan. So what if I look like my wedding party forgot me at a dive bar in Worcester for some reason?

The suit was part of the plan.

Here’s what I’d gathered from sitting at the bar inside of a place that called itself “ShamRoks” for the past hour and a half:

1.) Phillies cap asshole’s real name was Mitch. He had a torrid love affair with the words “guy,” “dude,” and “bro.” He smelled like Fritos.
2.) Amongst the four people in their drinking party, two of which were of the female persuasion, Mitch was the only one without a significant other. I know. I was surprised too.
3.) At some point in the foreseeable future, they were going to get “fuckin’ high, bro.” The time-table on that was a little fuzzy, mostly because, as far as I could tell, they were already pretty fucking high.

While it would have been nice to focus on anybody else at ShamRoks for the one and a half hours I’d wasted my life there, I unfortunately had limited other choices. There were literally only three other people in the entire 30x40 closet they called a bar. And one of those was the sleepy eyed, fully bearded bartender who specifically referred to himself as “Blob” and wore an expression that screamed either “I want to go home now” or “I want to go home now and stab myself in the neck with a shrimp fork.”

Conversation pieces, these people were not.

As I contemplated asking Blob the origins of his nickname (perhaps Shakespeare?) a cold burst of air exploded into the building from behind me, sending instant shivers up the spines of anybody unlucky enough to stand it its way. The man left in the doorway was roughly 6’4 and 230 pounds of sirloin steak compacted into a human mold. Clearly balding, he had obviously intentionally cut his hair into a military cut to really hammer home that “I’m Tougher Than You, Want to Compare Cock Sizes?” look that probably consumed at least 30% of his free time. The Human Steak took long strides across the right side of the bar and sat down at a free stool in the corner. Despite the lack of people to impress, The Steak did his best to flex through his two-sizes-too-small white t-shirt when he draped his arms on the bar.

This guy had entered the bar like a sergeant entering the barracks, and nobody had so much as flinched. Either he was a bad mother fucker, or everyone here knew this asshole already.

Then it hit me.

Oh, what the fuck? I didn’t even have to ask. Blob beat me to the punch.

“What’ll it be Andy?” Blob stammered out in the direction of The Steak.

The steak processed the question as if Alex Trebek had just asked him the Daily Double. “Miller for now.” Steak eventually replied.

Of course, the man sitting down the bar from me wasn’t known as Steak. He was known by his real name: Andrew Charles Kilby Jr. Thirty-five years old, native of Shrewsbury, MA, graduate of Providence College class of 1999 with a degree in Sociology and a minor in education. Son of Andrew Charles Kilby Sr., otherwise known as the Dean of Arts and Sciences at Clark University in Worcester, MA since 1992, himself a professor of Sociology at Clark since the fall semester of 2005. No wife, no kids. Srong passion for “As Seen on TV” workout equipment and an even bigger hard-on for Ultimate Fighting Championship.

I knew who Andrew Charles Kilby was because I was supposed to be watching him tonight. I knew who he was because he had been harassing a twenty year old Clark junior named Katie Holstein for the better part of three months, and I was supposed to send the message tonight that unwanted groping from a professor did not equal college credits for Katie.

My problem now lied with Katie’s mom. Katie’s mom being the one who had lied to me about who, or more problematically, what Andrew Charles Kilby was. In the photograph Sandra Holstein Macklin gave to me during out last meeting, the man, affectionately known as “Andy” to his buddies, was a short, sawed-off pile of chins and belly weight no younger than forty-five. Either Katie’s mom had lied to me, or Andy Kilby had discovered the greatest fucking diet pill known to man and was keeping it a secret from the rest of the world.

I fumbled to my cell phone in my left pocket and dropped it on the bar in front of me next to the nearly empty glass of Sam Winter Lager. Not one for making a scene, outside of the tailored suit in a bar anyway, I found Sandra Holstein Macklin’s name and text messaged her:

ANDY KILBY. NOT WHO I THOUGHT HE WAS. WTF?

Two minutes later, my phone buzzed back at me:

SRY. DIDNT THINK YOUD TAKE CASE OR BELIEVE KATE.

No point in arguing that. I probably wouldn’t have believed Katie Holstein was against fooling around with a professor if I’d known he looked like an American Gladiator. No offense to Katie Holstein, but she’s a total whore. Everyone knew that. Even me. And I’d never even met the girl.

It was a Thursday night. Katie’s mother had informed me that her daughter spent Thursday evenings at a place called ShamRoks after the sun went down on Worcester. She apparently pieced that information together from drunken pictures Katie had posted on her Facebook page during the previous semester. I wondered out loud at the time why in God’s name a 20 year old girl would be “friends” with her Mom on Facebook, but all I got was The Evil Eye. So I backed off.

Katie had accused Andy Kilby of stalking her and making lewd and unwanted advances during her time in his class. Being a political science major, Katie apparently felt her grades hinged on not upsetting a man who’s father was the overseer of her particular program.

Instead, she went to her mother who in turn came to me.

And now here I am, wearing a suit, standing slightly taller than a cardboard cutout of Betty White, faced with a potential confrontation with a walking oak tree.

Not ten minutes after Kilby entered the bar, Katie and another young female burst in from the cold as well. Both were dressed in what I guess could be called “Club” attire, even though they were just going to a shithole like ShamRoks on a Thursday night. The friend wore a loose fitting purple blouse, diving past her shoulders into a V at her breasts, skin tight black pants, and knee high suede boots. Though not unattractive, Katie would be deemed “The Pretty One” upon viewing the duo. Shorter than her friend, maybe 5’3, Katie Holstein wore a pink and blue striped dressed that barely reached the bottom of her ass. When it ended, it was met by black leggings that covered her the rest of the way. Unnaturally chestnut hair swept over one ear and down to shoulder length. She was most predominately wearing an unsatisfied frown aimed at her blonde better half.

Katie’s friend immediately dragged her across the bar directly to the two seats surrounding Andy Kilby. Katie refused eye contact and the embrace of a hand on her shoulder from Kilby, while the friend giggled and clawed at the man’s left arm. Kilby seemed none to satisfied with the advances of Katie’s friend, as he had his own version of prime rib sitting on his other side.

I sat and watched this Olympic exercise in awkward flirtation as Kilby attempted to converse with Katie, with all the charm and facial expressions of a constipated cobra. The friend laughed loudly at all of his jokes and insights, while Katie monitored her cell phone and the TV airing a college basketball game to her right. As the conversation plowed ahead, I began feeling better about my chances of not being turned into a well tailored hamburger patty by the end of the night. I mean, Andy Kilby wouldn’t be foolish enough to make advances on Katie with her friend right there.

I assumed.

Frustrated by his failure, and his balls clearly a shade of blue that would make Papa Smurf blush, Kilby abruptly stood up and swung his jacket over his shoulders, removing a pack of Marlboro lights from the pocket. His disgustedly announced he was going to go out for a smoke. An effort to rethink his game plan. Before he could hit the door, Katie’s friend smiled at her, whispered something, then took off for the door behind him.

Halfway done with another beer, slightly buzzed, and a trifle unprepared for Kilby’s exit, I had my opportunity to save Katie Holstein from her predicament.

I threw my suit jacket on and walked to Katie’s end of the bar with my beer in hand. She was focused on the TV again, and mentally in another universe far from the rest of us.

“Where’d Captain America head off to?” I asked, taking Kilby’s seat next to her.

I expected her to be startled, but she wasn’t. She turned and locked icy green eyes with mine. They rose a little. I had peaked her interest at least.

She sarcastically grinned and gestured to the door. “Went out for a smoke with my friend. Cigarettes aren’t for me. Plus, it’s fucking freezing outside.”

I shot a glance at the window to the sidewalk. Kilby was already burning down his smoke.

Act fast.

I settled into the seat. “Me neither. Those things will put you in an early grave. Just booze for me. If I’m going to die, I don’t want to remember why.”

She chuckled and gave my suit a once over.

“What’s with the suit? Are you a professor or something?”

I looked down at myself and acted surprised. “Nope, nope, nope. Just coming from a get together with some…uh….friends and felt the urge to drop in for a drink. Not exactly the kind of friends that inspire feelings of sunshine and bunny rabbits, you know?”

She looked out the window at her now friend, who had attached herself to Kilby’s chest.

“Yup.” She paused, “I know. Well, it’s a very nice suit.”

“Thanks. Nice to meet someone who appreciates a nice suit. Even if it’s being worn in a place like this.”

She chuckled again and took a sip of the cocktail in front of her.

“What can I say…I love a man in a suit.”

See. Told you the suit was all part of the plan.

The door kicked open and Kilby entered with Katie’s friend at his side, tucked warmly under his right bicep. At some point in the last three minutes, he’d grown quite fond of the friend was now smiling a resigned “I guess I’ll have sex with you instead” smile. That was, until he saw me sitting on his stool.

Marching over, he loomed over me casting a shadow that I could swear made the room colder. He took off the coat, placed in on the bar, and folded his arms at me. Yes, he was folding them at me, I swear to God.

“Your sitting in my chair, friend.”

I kept my focus on Katie, who’s face had become flush and aggravated.

“Didn’t see a name plate on it, pal. All I saw was this beautiful young lady left alone while her friend left with Jose Canseco to bum a smoke, leaving me with a nice warm, open seat.”

He smiled at me and flexed a bit more.

“Leave.”

I smiled back.

“No.”

I told myself what was going to happen next was also part of the plan, but it didn’t really help when Kilby’s fist actually connected with the side of my face, sending me flying off the stool and through Katie Holstein. Through the ringing in my ear, and the still faint sound of Dick Vitale screaming about the basketball game, I heard Katie plead for Kilby to leave me alone. She said something about the suit too, I think. But that’s only speculation.

He didn’t leave me alone. In fact, he did the opposite. I felt a hand grab the back of my shirt and jacket, lifting me off the dirty linoleum.

Sucking wind and a little unsure about whether or not I was standing or he was holding me, I caught his eyes this time.

“Jeez, Andy. From the sound of it, doesn’t sound like the young lady likes you very much. You give her an F or something?”

Another closed fist, this time to the stomach, sending the wind soaring out of me and a fist shape bruise to appear where pale skin used to be.

I exhaled, just to see if I could. “Maybe you gave her an F because she wouldn’t give you one, eh Hercules?”

“Call me Andy, motherfucker? I don’t fucking know you and you don’t fucking know me. When I say leave, you leave. When I say shut the fuck up, you better close your fucking mouth.”

On the word “mouth” he jackhammered another fist into the exact same spot as the last. Classic bully move…hitting the same spot twice. I swear, my older sister used to do the same thing to me.

However, there was good news: I wasn’t on the ground anymore. The bad news was I was fairly certain now that he was just holding me up like I was a kitten and he was my den mother. In the background there was more pleading from Katie, and now Blob had shuffled over from his perch to see the action. Katie’s friend, meanwhile, seemed mighty pleased by the entire ordeal.

“Fucking guy think’s he’s a fucking comedian.” He laughed, his neck throbbing with every reverberation. “I’ll show you something to fucking laugh about.”

A closed fist reared back from his head and connected square with my jaw half a second later. A pool of blood had started to form in my mouth and my neck suddenly felt like it was being held together by rubber bands and toothpicks.

“That wasn’t that funny.” I managed, spitting blood back up into Kilby’s face. “You must watch a lot of Dane Cook.”

Closed fist number two to the face. This one caught three of five knuckles under the eye, narrowly, and thankfully, missing my nose.

“I guess I see your angle, Andy,” I gummed, trying to get a feel for how many teeth I may have been missing, “I mean, if a twenty year old student of mine didn’t want my dick even when I tried to force her on it, I’d be fairly pissed too, I suppose. Then again…is there even anything left down there, Andy? I’ve seen those steroid commercials with the shrinking balls and stuff. I read that book about Jason Giambi and Barry Bonds. There’s got to be truth to that stuff, right?”

I braced for another fist. This time, nothing came at me.

I peeked out from two closed eyes. By some grace of God, Kilby had let go of me.

Suddenly, I was feeling pretty god damned tough.

…Then I noticed he had left me to make acquaintances with a beat up pool cue from the billiards table under the big TV. He didn’t break it in two like in the movies. He just kind of held it like a lightsaber or something.

Managing to stagger to two feet, thanks in small part to the support of Katie’s shoulder, I raised my hands up to Andy Kilby.

The gentle “Don’t Knock My Face Off” Look.

“Take it outside, Andy” Blob said, I assume to himself because Kilby wasn’t paying much attention. “I don’t need Sully to see this place blood stained in the morning ‘cause some dumb asshole took your fucking stool, dude.”

And then, Andy glanced at Blob and shifted his weight.

Leaving my feet, I dropkicked the inside of Andy Kilby’s right kneecap, bringing him down to ground level and sending a jolt of electric pain through his body. Next, my elbow shot upwards in the area I knew would either be the bridge of Kilby’s nose, or his neck and chin depending on which way his head was pointing. Gauging by the crack and the sharp sting of pain that ran through my arm, I wagered it to be the former.

I jumped to my feet. Kilby still had the pool cue in his hands, supporting him as he grunted and snorted on the floor. There was a small pool of blood collecting around the lower portion of his face. A broken nose and, my guess, a severely sprained right knee.

Looking past Blob and the other horrified patrons, including the stoners and backwards cap kid, I nabbed one of the half empty beer mugs from the bar counter, throwing it down on the floor at Kilby’s hand. The result being an explosion of Miller Lite and microscopic razors digging into flesh. Kilby dropped the pool cue and gagged in pain, quickly jumping to his feet with a new found rush of adrenaline.

“Oh, shit.” Katie’s friend said, taking a half dozen steps back.

Anger, despite what some may tell you, is not a good virtue to bring to a fight unless the other person is equally angry, or completely defenseless. Anger is brought on by emotions, which cloud your judgment, impair your actions, and otherwise leave you a victim of your own mind. When in a fight, like say the one Andy Kilby and I were currently engaged in, a rapid change from Bruce Banner to The Hulk doesn’t mean you turn green and wear surprisingly still in tact pants. In fact, it does the opposite. It makes you uncoordinated, jumpy, an inaccurate. Andy Kilby had just allowed his emotions to turn him into nothing more than an adrenaline blinded cartoon character.

Screaming through the blood, he lunged at me…forgetting his right leg had been incapacitated just moments earlier.

A stumble. A quick look of searing pain.

His knee buckled to the left, just a touch.

A dodge to my left, his fist missed easily. I lifted up my leg and drove it as hard as possible into the bone of his left knee.

A pop.

A scream.

Andy Kilby: down for the count. He’s lucky nobody dropped an ACME brand anvil on his head for good measure.

Katie grabbed her friend by the arm and attempted to rush past me to the door, only to be stopped by a six foot five pile of mashed potatoes that vaguely looked like a human being.

XXL Boston Red Sox jersey, head shaved to Lex Luthor proportions, and a neatly trimmed Amish beard.

I put a foot on Kilby’s head and looked up at the doorway.

“Nice to see you, Murph.” I said.

“Likewise, Lee.”

“You can let the blonde go. She’s seen enough to know it’s easier to just cheat off the kid next to you than suck a teacher off to pass a college class.”

“Damn. And all those wasted years giving up my body when I was at Amherst.”

Katie wiggled and contorted to escape the bear hug she was in, but that was about as likely as Blob moving from the stool to the exit in under three and a half hours.

“Katie,” I said, keeping an eye on Kilby, “I’m a friend. So is Rulon Gardner here. So if you’d please…”

Ten minutes later, I was standing outside explaining to Katie Holstein that we were the potential answers to her little stalking problem, and Murph was dragging the sort-of-conscious body of Andy Kilby from the bar and into the street.

“How did you know he was bothering me, and why do you care?” Katie asked.

“I know,” I started, “because I protect people. That’s my job. I care because Andrew Kilby is a bad person who was doing bad things and deserved to be punished. I’m just not the kind of person who puts people in ‘time-out, though’”

Handsome stare. A nod of the head.

I could feel Murph staring a hole through me.

“Asshole,” he was thinking.

“My associate, Mr. Hamilton here, is going to be doing a little more persuasion on the beloved professor to leave you alone. I can guarantee you that he will not be bothering you in the slightest from now on, and you can also expect to get…what grade is it you want in this class?”

“At least a C+. I mean, it’s just a gen-ed.”

I smiled. “Make it a B+ or higher, Murph.”

Murph, had already strapped Kilby’s hands together with leather cord.

“Can do boss.” He said, loudly. “Shine your shoes for yah?” He also said, slightly less loudly.

Katie pouted her thick red lips, slightly chapped from the cold air. She bundled herself into her hood.

“You’re not going to kill him or anything, are you?”

We both looked at Murph, squatting over Kilby’s body.

“No, Katie. Nobody’s getting killed tonight. We’re just going to teach Mr. Kilby a lesson in manners and maybe school him in how to treat a beautiful young lady, like yourself.”

She smirked. Why not? I was wearing the coat.

“Well…thank you. You’re a regular hero….”

She let it hang there, waiting for me to say my name.

I lied.

“Eric. Eric Betancourt. Can I offer you a ride home?”

The wind whistled through the empty street. Neon lights from a dozen fast food joints lit up the nearest major roadway, three blocks away from Clark University. Just myself, Murph, Andy Kilby, and Katie Holstein standing amongst run down three deckers and a shitty hole in the wall pub.

“Yes. If you’d give me a lift that’d be awesome. I live on Oak Grove Ave a few blocks from here. Just an apartment across from campus. Not too far away.”

I smiled and offered my arm to show her to my car. Looking over my shoulder, I made eye contact with Kilby…just before Murph grabbed him by his legs and dragged him down the ice filled corridor running between ShamRoks and the neighboring pizzeria. Then, I saw nothing.

“G’night, gentlemen.” I said, waving a hand.

“You know,” Katie said, looking up at me with hazy emerald eyes, “I love this coat. I love a guy who knows how to dress nice.”

“I know, Katie.” I said, grinning to myself, “I know.”

My Friend, The Unfrozen Cave Person

I just took on a new intern in my office a few months back, and I think it's fair to say that this young man is the closest thing to an alien I've ever met. No joke. If he came in tomorrow, ripped off his face like Edgar did in MIB, and told me he was from the Nexxulon Galaxy here to study human culture, I wouldn't flinch. I'd ask him how the weather was there and if they were the mean kind of aliens like "Independence Day" or the nice kind of aliens, like from"Close Encounters" and that'd be about it.

After two months, here's what I know about this 26 year old, communications major, intern:

He doesn't know what a Republican or Democrat is. Furthermore, he doesn't know what/how senators, representatives or any other level of government function.

He doesn't watch movies, TV, or football but is eerily fascinated with the Celtics.

He does not have an email address or a home computer. In fact, it wasn't until August that he got his first cell phone.

He was unaware of the oil spill, trapped minors, or any other news story of the past year until he began interning here and was forced to hear news.

He did not know what Facebook or Twitter were until I told him in late September of this year. Still doesn't have one or completely understand why they exist.

He has no desire to go to Las Vegas, drink, gamble, or move from his couch unless it is to play basketball, work, or eat Micky D's. His girlfriend wants to do the opposite.

He has a girlfriend. Somehow he has a girlfriend.

It's been unequivocally the most bizarre two months I've ever spent with somebody. I swear to god a metor could destroy half the continental U.S. and he would still drive here for noon and say "You see that traffic outside? That's crazy, man. What's going on out there?" How could a 26 year old be so illiterate to the world?! At first, I found this predictably frustrating seeing as I work solely with computers and news...but after a while it was almost like interviewing a 26 year old from 1955, not 2010. The conversations became more poignant and I suddenly felt like I was showing the preverbial caveman what the world had become low these past 2000+ years. His questions slowly went from insultingly simple, to unintentionally astute observances about our society's dependency on information.

Why should he know how every level of government works? He enacts his right to not vote due to lack of opinion and knowledge and therefore is doing the responsible thing according to everybody else.

Why should he have an email or cell phone? He lives at home, has a land line, and rarely goes out in the first place. He likes his job and his lot in life so why attempt to alter it all the time? If he had the internet, he'd only be forcefully exposed to information he is neither seeking out nor wanting, which everybody tries to do everyday.

Why does he need to know about news anyway? He doesn't live in New Orleans, so he ain't getting drowned. Hearing about some poor bastard getting shot down in the south end of his hometown doesn't decrease his chances of getting popped in his car, so why worry himself?

His explanations are so stupidly simple, they start making sense after a while. I'm constantly questioning our reliance on media and information as a whole...and then here comes this person that literally is a walking example of what would happen if we suddenly just "shut off" in 2010. The answer is we would be a hell of a lot less world weary and socially aware, but otherwise still capable of putting on clothes and not pooping in public. The world would keep spinning, but the questions would go away. That's both a bad thing (knowing why your paycheck is being cut would be a good slice of FYI) and a good thing (wouldn't know Ashton Kutcher or Twitter to save his life. Something I think we can all agree would be awesome).

The Intern is now really feeling the pressure's of the modern world and is very awkwardly being bombarded left and right to "get with it." My relationship with him is now duplicating the storyboard of "Avatar." At first, I was totally on board with making this kid change his ways, but after time and a little perspective, I'm standing in front of him pleading with everyone else to stop spoiling his perspective on things and to just let him live in peace!

Leave him alone! He's in his natural state and you're going to contaminate him!

Is is possible to keep living like he has been his whole life? Is it socially responsible? Don't we as humans owe it to our species to evolve and embrace what is "new" and "better" for us? By locking ourselves out from all pop culture, information and news do you become dumber or just less informed? Is there even a difference?

Let's put this kid behind glass and find out.

I Shall Follow My Dreams, Nomar

When I was 12 years old, I didn't want to be a policeman. I didn't want to be an astronaut or a firetruck either. I had no aspirations of being a rapper, rock star, or roadie for Metallica. Being an army man or a lawyer or a doggy doctor was never in my cards. I spent my youth focusing on one prize:

I wanted to be Nomar Garciaparra.

And you know what? God dammit...I still have a chance.

I still have my oiled up Rawlings glove (which, ironically, had Derek Jeter's autograph on it). I still have the shaved down tennis balls I used to whip against the brick foundation in my backyard in preparation for my debut at Fenway Park. My toe tap is still as brilliant as it was 12 years ago and all these years of not being Nomar have clearly just enhanced my OCD abilities to waggle a bat, adjust by gloves, fix my gold chain, point to Jesus, then adjust my gloves again. So why not go for it? Why not do my best to be Nomar?

Am I too short? Well, at 5'8 and 160 bills, I'm exactly the same size as Dustin Pedroia so OBVIOUSLY that's not going to be an issue in today's modern age. Are my wrists to strong? Shit no! Before I take my first major league swings, of course I'd have some burly motherf***er break them to toughen me up. Hell, I haven't even gotten a haircut since July so I'm just three buckets of industrial strength cooking oil away from having the awesome, trademark pompadour. A few injections of horse testosterone and a marriage to the best female athlete of this generation I'm I'll be golden.

(Side note: Can we lie and say that Maria Sharapova is the elite athlete of this generation? I really don't want to see Diana Taurasi naked.)

I'm sick of looking back at middle school year books and laughing at how ridiculously short everybody comes to achieving their dreams! Aren't our little kid dreams so much better than our adult ones?

"Hey Johnny, what do YOU wanna be when you grow up?"

"Well, I'm thinking I'll play high school football for a few years. Make varsity, smoke a lot of pot, and forget that you have to apply to colleges to get in. From there I'll probably go to community college for a semeseter, drop out because school sucks, then work part time construction with my Uncle Manny until I knock up that chick down the street who totally has the hots for me."

Where are the lawyers and astronauts?! Shouldn't our population be overrun with veteranarians and pop singers?! Where are the short, Portuguese guys running the point for the Celtics in the NBA?!

Nuh-uh. Not me. No-siree. I'm sick of working this Monday-Friday, 45 hours a week regular working man garbage. Would Nomar Garciaparra work in radio? HELL. NO. He's too handsome to be on radio! I bet ESPN came to Nomar and said "Hey, Nomar! How'd you like to work production at our radio station in Bristol? Work behind the scenes, voice some things, and really put your nose to the....uh....ok, don't put your nose to anything. You might hurt whatever it is you've put it to." And you know what Nomar said? Screw you, ESPN! Get me on TV because that's what I want to do. I may be dopey, lack opinions, insight and apparently razor blades...but I'm Nomar Garcia-f***ing-parra!

That's why I'm heading to the batting cages tonight. I'm gonna strap on the gloves and get to swinging the bat because I won't give up on my dreams. I haven't swung a bat in five years, but I assume with age comes both power, agility, and enhanced hand-eye coordination. Bye-bye, working in local radio...I have a higher calling. Once the scouts from the Sox see me gracefully tracking down balls into into the third base gap they'll be amazed. I'll dazzle them with my ability to hit to all fields. Wait till they see me negotiate a contract too...I'll pout and frown harder than a new born without a binky. Theo will melt like freakin' butter.

All my years of hard work and number 5 jerseys are going to pay off. This time next year, I'll be the starting shortstop for YOUR Boston Red Sox.

Oh...wait a tic. I'm thumbing through my Middle School year book and apparently I wanted to be The Foo Fighers when I grew up. Oops.

I'm coming for you, Grohl.

Hot Dog Flavored Mistakes

Every generation has a "What the f*** was I thinking?!" moment. A once-every-ten-or-so-years event that at least partially explains why they grew up the way they did, and also links them to others they're own age in a "touched by the same uncle" kind of way. Sure, the positive experiences we all go through are ulimately more important to our developmental phases (the 70's had dancing, the 80's had hip-hop, the 90's had video games, etc...), but the negative stuff that we all collectively jam into the back of our brains has to play at least some role. They're like festering memories of embarassment and horror that other generations get to mock while we cower into corners trying to deny their very existence. You think people who grew up watching "Happy Days" like hearing every good thing gone bad called "jumping the shark?" Hell no! That probably eats them up inside, because that's what our generation associates with Fonzie...not his slew of sexually transmitted diseases or broken jukebox hands.

It can't be healthy to keep it in, so I'm just gonna say it outloud for everyone. Our generation's weakest, lowest, darkest point. An event we all got sucked into, probably spent money on, and have spent years pulling a Mel Gibson's Dad pretending it didn't happen. It did. And we have to look it in the eye and deal with it. Ready?

Chocolate Starfish and the Hotdog Flavored Water.

I know, I know...I cried a little bit just having to type it. But you know what? Screw it. I'm going to own what we all should own up to.

I bought Chocolate Starfish. I looked forward to buying it. When it came out, I took 20 of my hard earned, Dunkin Donuts made dollars, and bought it. I went home with a big ass smile on my face, popped that baby into my CD player, and listened all the way through. What I, and everybody, should have done was slam my face against a wall of rusty nails then burned 20 bucks with the nearest blowtorch. But we didn't do that. We got excited about what was supposed to be the biggest album of the year and fell into a bear trap made for millions, and everybody walked away looking like they just watched their dog get run over by an oil tanker.

What made this catastrophe worse was the epic, class transcending ability Chocolate Starfish had to disappoint. Genuine rap-rock fans stood in line to get it at the same time pop-loving girls with "PINK" splashed on their asses got it. Metal heads bought into the hype and picked it up at the same time the first wave of Juggalo's did the same (side note: Juggalo's deserved this. Assclowns.) Personally, I was probably a little more attached to the early stages of emo music than I'd like to admit and I bought the crap out of Chocolate Starfish. I figured "Hey, 'N-Together Now' is a good song and 'Rearranged' was ok...let's do it!" I wasn't expecting 12 different remixes of the song "Rollin'" and other audible pieces of brown noise producing garbage. But then again, nobody was.

I should point out, up until this point, I was totally against the modern rock scene too. To this day, I will stand on firm ground and argue that Stained and Creed are the worse things to happen to rock music since rehab and condoms. I distinctly remember arguing my freshman year with two kids in $50 GAP sweatshirts why the d-bag from Stained had absolutely nothing to be so depressed about and how he was just pandering to upper-middle class white kids who thought they had social problems. And this is coming from someone who bought a Rufio CD. Don't know who Rufio is? Good for you. I really wish I felt the same.

A couple of years ago, I went rummaging through the cd rack of an old friend of mine. Like everybody else, his cd rack had more dust on it than Cloris Leachman's hoo-ha, but I was able to wipe it away to reveal an absolutely epic collection of horrible music from our youth. New Found Glory. American Hi-Fi. The cd that wasn't 14:59 by Sugar Ray. Eiffel 65. Lou Bega.

Yah. That's right. Lou Bega.

Then I found Chocolate Starfish. Seeing it's nonsensical, mushy oompa loompa cover brought back "Deer Hunter" esque flashbacks. Of all the hot garbage that was festering in that rack, this was by far the worst offender and we all knew it. So then the same argument everybody our age has had...

" Two Dollar Bill Y'all was a great CD! Then the one with Nookie on it was pretty great, too! What was I supposed to do...not buy Chocolate Starfish?!"

"Yes! Yes, you could have not bought it! You should have sold high on Enron stock, not wait until it got better! And what the f*** do you mean Two Dollar Bill Y'all was 'great' CD?! Are you retarded?!

"It was! And didn't you buy Chocolate Starfish too?"

"SHUT UP, MAN! NOT FUNNY! OK, MAYBE I DID BUT F*** YOU!"

I think it's high time we all come together, sit around the camp fire, and talk about what we endured. It's healthy to talk about it and let out all of our anger and frustration. Yeah, Stained and Creed were terrible and we can take comfort in the fact that this generation is going to have to atone for making Nickelback gazillionaires, but Chocolate Starfish was our version of Dave getting taken away by the stranger in "Mystic River:" We all saw it, we all know exactly what happened, and it's never going to go away no matter how hard we wish. Think about it...if you see a guy in a backwards, red hat....what do you want to do?

I think we can all agree that hitting him over the head with a broken bottle then ripping his face off while crying "WHY!?" is a fair answer. And that's not normal. I don't think.

Let's heal. Let's talk. Let's all of us put the past behind us and start fresh.

Let's agree that Chocolate Starfish and the Hotdog Flavored Water did happen, but it's not going to define our generation's biggest mistake. Because, as clearly stated before, that is totally the entire idea of the I.C.P.

F***ing assclowns.


(A great link on this topic: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20100824061145AAC3Dyv)

"Indie"...Why Does the Floor Move?

I'm pretty sure that (500) Days of Summer is the best movie I've seen in a few years. I saw it a few months back, after a couple of months of being unsure about it, and...per usual...I'm an idiot. In case you haven't seen it, or were like me and just heard really vague descriptions, it's a non-linear story about two smart, funny, yet completely self absorbed people who fall in love, then abrubtly break up without any particular reason. Ok...so that didn't help the vague description thing at all. It's not an anti-love story...it's just a story. A realistic look at a goofy relationship with goofy people that told it's a bold, often hysterical, cartoonish kind of way.

Naturally, this was an "indie" movie. Because that's the only kind of movie that gets made nowadays, I think.

To be honest, I'm not really sure what even constitutes being "indie" anymore. It used to be a movie that was not picked up by a major studio that had limited release. Now, major studios are picking them up but still limiting release thus making any movie that's not directed by James Cameron an "indie" movie. That's not a criticism either...I'm actually just really happy that movie studios, more than ever, appreciate that audiences are just as willing to see good movies than bad movies. Historically, "indie" movies are just better than big studio pictures that are released into every theatre on the face of the planet. That's why more people saw the last Madea movie, but not too many people saw Rachel Getting Married.

Before I get ahead of myself, I'm not going to be the douchebag dressed in all black wearing Costello glasses telling you to "appreciate" movies more. I just like good, well made movies as do most people. If you take the time to go see a lot of movies, than odds are you like well made movies too. So I don't need to play the role of snobby, art-house guy and pretend like this is new news. This too is a welcome revelation: more people just like "indie" movies. Mainly because they're easier to get to now, but also because the way technology and the medium has advanced...there's no tolerance for bad "indie" movies. Even a slightly obnoxious "indie" movie, like "Cyrus," gets pushed down because it's not perfect.

I kind of like that.

The best part of the mass marketing of "indie" movies is the effect it's had on everybody else. Big budget movies now have to keep up with compelling characters (Iron Man, Star Trek, Spider-Man 2, The Social Network, The Town, etc...) as well as high budget, crowd pleasing action and story. Gone are the days of Steven Segal getting top billing on the facade...instead, we get to be gleefully entertained by bad movies for free. It's called SyFy and it's f***ing awesome. The standards "indie" movies have brought to major cinema have quietly taken a foot-hold in the market. Major studios now want quality instead of quantity. Ok...maybe a little of both. But at least it's not just luck if a big budget movie is also well written.

In turn, this has kind of hurt the appeal of "real indie" movies, I suppose. (500) Days of Summer was really great and director Marc Webb is now manning the Spider-Man reboot, but we'll never see him direct a real, true "indie" flick again. Once more...that's not a criticism. That just means his immense talents will actually be given the time of day by studios, hopefully like what happened to David Fincher. It's only rarely now that a flick like Blue Valentine comes out and people are genuinely shocked by an "indie" picture.

Of course, Blue Valentine is only getting pub because it's rated NC-17....but still. I'm thinking people just want to see Ryan Gosling have sex with Michelle Williams but hey, whatever sells tickets.

Here's hoping to the long term success of pseudo-"indie" films continuing the pop up under the guise of major studios who are handling them better than ever.

Don't Hate the Player...

Imagine for a second that you are 18 years old. You're the typical fresh-out-of-high-school punk who just wants to mess around with girls and have a good time...only, you're also a savant at a particular craft. So gifted, in fact, that you are all but guaranteed to, at some point, be given the opportunity to perform this ability for an extremely lucrative career.

You are recruited to a college that specializes in that craft, given a full scholarship to master the craft, and are given a rather inclusive internship where you get to showcase your abilities in front of thousands of prospective employers. This is an amazing opportunity that is only enhancing the number of zeroes your first paycheck will have when college is finished.

You go to the campus store, and what do you see in the window? A big, ol' honkin' t-shirt with your smiling face on it. Thousands of students, and creepy adults, are causing the shirts to fly off the shelf. Every newspaper in the state is singing your praise for the immense amount of talent and attention you've given the school. Those t-shirts are now the highest selling item in the campus store.

And every single penny made off of your name and abilities is going to the school.

So one day, you take off your own t-shirt, sign it, and give it to the girl sitting next to you in chem. lab. She winks, you laugh, knowing that you're probably going to get laid by that girl in the very near future.

Only you've just been suspended from your internship, scolded by the school, and penalized by the state legislature because you sold your t-shirt and made a profit. You're future is ruined, your reputation tarnished, and the once free ride is now one with lots of shifty eyes. Because you attempted to cash in on your own fame, created and marketing by the school who is allowed to cash in on the same fame, you've been socially and professionally torn down.

Sound fair?

Welcome to the world of NCAA athletics, where even sports fans who don't care about major college sports know that the "system" of the NCAA is more screwed up than than Chris Johnson's teeth. Putting aside the easy target of the money grabbing, self serving joke that is the Bowl Championship Series, let's look at the way student athletes are treated: like cash cows.

By all regards, NCCA football is arguably the new "fourth major sport." The athletes are known before they even commit to a school, and once they do they are major discussions on ESPN and every other sports media around. Stadiums sell jerseys, video games are made, and other heaps of praise are showered on the players with all the revenue made off of these names and likenesses going back to the NCAA and the schools. If a student athlete, most of whom come from poor backgrounds, attempts to make a buck off of their own fame...they are suspended from their team and their reputations are dragged through the mud.

Case in point: A.J. Green, the consensus best WR in college football from Georgia. Green sold his own jersey, which was being sold for $50 in the campus store, to turn a little profit. He was suspended for six games and, in the era of "OH MY GOD!" sports journalism, got lumped in with student athletes who take booster money or accept gifts from greedy agents looking to get their feet in the door of a potential million dollar piggy bank.

I'm not in favor of paying student athletes. I think that's completely unjustified and unfair to students who are helping their campus and communities in other ways. You pay a college football player, you damn well be ready to pay engineering students while they intern as far as I'm concerned. However, it is completely unfair to disallow a student to make money, especially when the college that is admonishing them is doing the exact same thing. Call it "Do as I don't, not as I do, or else you'll be on your ass so fast your head will spin." If AJ Green or Tim Tebow or any other athlete can't make money on their own fame, then neither should the NCAA. No more jerseys or video games or ESPN shows. No more BCS bowl games and multi-million dollar TV deals for conferences or underhanded money grabbing for out of conferences games that will demand hundreds of thousands in TV ad money.

If the NCAA is allowed to blatantly make money off of their athletes...then the athletes should get to make money from playing in the NCAA.

God Dammit I Love YouTube

This video has 834 views. I account for probably a little over half of those. Why does YouTube exist? Because if it didn't, I would have never have seen this guy's facial expression.