Humor Columns by Syndicated Writer Jason Love

Perfect World

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 07:11:00 +0000

In case you didn't notice, the world is not a perfect place. There's war, pollution, hunger, and of course Paris Hilton.

One night after being flagrantly overserved by a bartender, I scribbled on cocktail napkins a list of things that I would change about the world. You know, if I were a deity.

The unabridged list is, unfortunately, swirling above a local landfill, but here are some napkins that survived the beer spills.

Ahem.

In a perfect world ...

* pug dogs would have a reasonable amount of skin on their face.
* boot would rhyme with foot.
* we'd get paid for the time we spend preparing for, commuting to, talking about, and unwinding from work.
* radio stations would keep their contest money and play some bloody music.
* a man could fix all of his relationship issues with WD-40 or duct tape.
* answering machines would come with a get-to-the-point button.
* breeding laws would limit couples to one child per 75 IQ points.
* athletes would retire only once.
* cat burglars would break in and steal your cat.
* traffic lights would change when we honk at them.
* O.J. Simpson would marry Lorena Bobbitt. I'm assuming they're both single.
* priests who hear confessions would get paid the same as shrinks.
* our TV's brightness control would turn up the intelligence.
* if an officer has to tackle the suspect to make an arrest, the officer would be entitled to three free punches.
* when people graduate high school, they'd also graduate high school mentality.
* the game of "peekaboo" would have an official end.
* decaf coffee would come in a different color.
* political speeches would be delivered by the people who write them.
* there wouldn't be so many needless, unneeded, unnecessary words.
* freeways would grow at the same rate as the population.
* somebody would confiscate Dennis Miller's thesaurus.
* when the computer gets hung up, we could just shake it like a pinball machine.
* all movies would be formatted to fit your screen without apology or explanation.
* when a woman gets a perm, that's it—no changing.
* lawyers would speak a language that humans also understand.
* walkie-talkie cell phones would exist only in hell, where they were invented.
* sick days would include when you're sick of work.
* when teams lose on Fan Appreciation Day, spectators would get their money back.
* Cupid would have better aim.
* naming your son Zavery or Oceana would qualify as child abuse.
* weight gain would be caused not by food but by some undelicious thing like televangelism.
* the Meyers would get together with the Myers and settle the spelling once and for all.
* the calf bone would have more meat on it.
* every driver would understand the Merge Concept.
* a man and woman would never know which one will end up pregnant.
* football games would not end on a field goal.
* we could surgically remove that part of our brain that plays the same snippet of music over and over and over.
* everyone would die on their one-hundredth birthday while having sex.

But the world is not perfect, so we have storms and train wrecks and Paris Hilton, left to wonder about a deity who would have it this way. It would be too much to handle but for a gift from this same creator, something to iron out the wrinkles and put the world back into perspective. And that is lots of beer.

Scam

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 20:42:00 +0000

You may have noticed that I haven't been writing. I also haven't been sleeping or digesting.

Rumors of my death are largely exaggerated. You know those suckers you see on the news? The ones who hand over to con artists large sums of money and you wonder how such boobs make it through the day without a foam helmet?

That's me. The boob. I lost my nest egg to the nicest cheat you'll ever meet. We'll call him Bob McKnob.

Bob has a reputation among D.A.'s for sliming entertainers. He's good at accepting money but not so good at producing the shows. In fact, the shows never actually, technically, take place.

I believed so much in our star-studded event that I fronted the money myself. It cost approximately, not including finance charges and cash-advance fees, everything.

That's what I said when I handed the money to Bob: "This is everything I've got. I'm all in."

A week later, my buddy Pete called to say, "Jay, you know that guy you're doing business with? Don't. He's a shark. He's been tried for grand theft and fraud."

My world got quiet the way it does in that instant between the scissors hitting your foot and the pain reaching your brain -- only it happened slowly, over a week of unreturned phone calls.

At the police station, I fielded questions from a detective who referred to my standup as "the comedy acts that you conduct." As if I weren't unfunny enough.

The detective turned into Charlie Brown's teacher -- wa wa wa wa wa -- and I, exhausted, thought about how the Dodgers could use more pitching. Strange, huh? It reminded me of that song by Tori Amos: "Funny the things that go through your head when there's a man on your back. Like, ‘I haven't been to Barbados.'"

I remember when Bob and I sat outside the Improv sharing our plans for the future. Bob put his arm around me and promised brotherhood to the end. Then he ran off to feed the homeless with his church group. Seriously. That's what he said.

The question is whether I'm naive enough to collect disability.

In my defense, Bob is smooth like the Hillside Strangler. He convinced me to the bone. Maybe Norton could invent an anti-virus for humans -- Con Scum Deluxe -- so that when you shake McKnob's hand, an alarm goes off: "Norton has detected malicious intent. Begin background check?"

Pete said that he knows a guy who collects money in nontraditional ways (i.e., Louisville Slugger), but I couldn't make it in prison. Not without Soap-on-a-Rope anyway.

Until now I've been lucky enough to work full-time doing columns, cartoons, and comedy. My accountant, Grim Reaper, says that if I don't find punch-clock work soon, I'll begin a new chapter in my life: Chapter 13.

So I am forced to worst kind of triage: deciding which of my babies to feed. For now, I will in my leftover minutes do standup (do-or-die writing). With standup you always get feedback. Sometimes in the form of flying cigarette butts. I'll yearn for the columns and cartoons, of course, and may nurture them should I outgrow the need for sleep.

I've already gone through the stages -- anger, denial, Long Island Iced Teas -- and now I'm comfortably dumb. The real loss isn't money but the privilege of entertaining you. I may apply at Trader Joe's, but that's my fault for majoring in English. I just hope they don't expect me to handle money. It's too soon.

I couldn't return to Corporate America without surgery to the frontal lobe. You can still find claw marks and fingernail chips in my last cubicle, like that well in Silence of the Lambs. My one tie is for emergency use only. It hangs in the back of my closet like a noose.

Sorry it has taken so long to explain. It's tough to write when you don't know where you'll wake up. Or whether you'll be parked legally when you do. Humor guys don't call in sick; they call in serious.

For all the hours I log in comedy clubs, I hold a special place for readers. Smart, friendly, all-too-precious readers.

In some states you don't even want to get caught with a book.

"You know where you are, boy? Out here we don't take kindly to people who … read."

If you happen to know a patron or a venture capitalist or Oprah Winfrey, my stock is priced to sell. I don't need much: food and shelter, a little toilet paper to decorate Bob's house. Should we ever find Bob's house.

On Monday I meet with and attorney, at which point I may resort to Plan C -- holding the attorney for ransom. SWAT will have to flush me out with tear gas or bright lights or Blue Collar Comedy.

I have become almost businesslike, a bee with an itch, Erin Brockovich minus the cleavage (I couldn't be trusted with cleavage). In comedy, they call it "popping" -- when you finally stop caring. So while I haven't been writing, I have been snapping, or popping. Crackling. Whatever.

Besides, I still have my health. If you're interested, I'm selling it on EBay for ten bucks a vial.

I will continue taking notes on cocktail napkins, same as always; and should you need me, I'll be conducting comedy acts in aisle four at Trader Joe's. I'm the one wearing a foam helmet. So it goes.

Gym

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 22:10:00 +0000

I joined 24-Hour Fitness because the salespeople don't slide notes across the table and say things like, "How 'bout this? Can you live with this number?" My answer to that question is always the same: If you can't say the cost out loud, it's too much.

Some people avoid the gym for fear of others staring, but that's unrealistic because it means those others would first have to stop staring at themselves. Seriously, you don't want to come between the regulars and their reflections.

When a man falls in love with his own body, it's called an Adonis Complex after the Greek god of protein shakes. These guys develop their upper bodies until, like the Tyrannosaurus rex, they cannot reach their face.

"Hey, Bob. Can you get this itch on my chin? It's drivin' me nuts."

In the weight room they strain so hard, you can actually see their beards grow. I leave when they start making porn sounds -- all that grunting and groaning while the spotter carries on. "Come on, baby; do it. Show me what you've got."

When I bench-press, a machinist named Booker hovers nearby like an incubus, volunteering pointers. "I hope you know you're cheating your pecs with that exercise."

Booker demonstrates more painful ways to lift the weights, which brings us to Gym Rule #1: If you want to know the correct way to perform an exercise, the answer is, "Whatever hurts most." When you yelp involuntarily, you've got it!

I listened to Booker until that day I found him smoking Marlboros in the parking lot. After all the squats we'd been through! Booker averted his eyes the way Elizabeth Taylor might if you caught her giving marriage advice. So it goes.

You wonder why we don't take all this pushing and pulling energy and do something useful -- build a monorail or something. The treadmill extremists could power the whole city, clip-clopping along until management finally steps in.

"Sorry, Kitty; you've become entirely too thin. We're going to have to cut you off."

When did we become obsessed with xylophone ribs anyway? Our current Miss Universe has a size-22 waist, which makes her, technically speaking, a stick figure. Her boyfriend, also a model, reports four percent body fat. Can you see them rubbing around in bed? Talk about your fire hazards.

And why does Miss Universe always come from Earth? It's like the rest of the planets aren't even trying. Unless you count Tyra Banks.

Then you have the Spandex pants with the writing on the rear end. Ladies, what are you thinking? Don't you know how big men are on reading? One girl wore on her butt the Nike swoosh symbol, which in this case does not mean "just do it."

I prefer to jog al fresco. As comedian Daryl Rummens said, "I was going to join the gym but decided to use the ground for free." Maybe we should just build gyms on top of really steep hills. That way, by the time you reach the door, you're done!

I like to hang out in the steam room with the large, furry creatures who grunt but don't say much. It's like Gorillas in the Mist in there. Some brag about their steam-room stamina, which I believe calls for a sweat-off. Judges can stand outside while contestants stagger out and swoon in their little numbered vests. Last one out wins a pack of Marlboros.

For all the teasing, though, I've come to admire the simplicity of gymfolk. One guy wears a shirt that says, "I'm not smart, but I can lift heavy things." That's like one step away from enlightenment.

So I've decided to leave behind philosophy and current events in favor of my own upper body development. I will match wits with neckless men and use my sleeve as a nose rag. I will lounge naked in the locker room and dry my pubes with the bolted-down hair dryer. And if anyone comes near, I'll have them scratch this godforsaken itch on my chin.

Punctuality

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 04:44:00 +0000

My issues with time started early, when I kept my mom in labor so long that Dr. Rabban finally came after me with tongs.

In grade school, I routinely missed the bus and had to be driven to school -- manually -- by same mother. How, she wondered aloud to the dog, could her son spend 30 minutes playing with floaties in the gutter?

The bus driver called me his "tardy tot" and waited as long as he could. He had fancied me ever since that day I asked who closed the bus doors when the driver got out.

In high school, I grew my hair long and rebelled against the whole "time thing," a horrible approach to curfew. Without a clock, we relied on neighbors for the time:

"Would you quiet down already?! It's two in the morning!"

Can you blame us for boycotting a world where people wake up to ALARMS and fight RUSH hour traffic to meet arbitrary DEADlines? It's enough to make you drop out, cat, and recite poetry in beatnik cafes:

"This watch, a parasite on my wrist, a tick ... tock ... a tick ... tock ..."

My dad was surprised to hear that I owned a watch. He had always been more fussy with the time. Like Big Ben.

Recently, during a family outing to the park -- Santa Anita -- my dad called me for an ETA (estimated time of apology). He seemed to be gnawing on his Rolex.

"Why," I asked, "is it so important for us to leave two hours before the bugle?"

"Because," he said, "we like to get there early and relax."

So it goes.

On-time people invented the sharp. "We're leaving on Sunday, 10:00 sharp ... machete sharp." And tardy tots countered with the ish. "I'll be there 10:00ish," which could mean 11:00, 12:00, or Monday.

My long-hair philosophies broke down in corporate. At job interviews, I deflected the time question, saying, "Punctual? You betcha. I always use commas and periods."

The manager would laugh and move on, freeing us from the cold, hard reality: I had no idea how time works. I was late for so many meetings that I finally ran out of alibis. Eventually, it was just, "Sorry I'm late, but I was somewhere else."

We who suffer from time denial don't allow for things like showering, traffic, floaties in the gutter. It's like we all own telepods and can materialize anywhere at a moment's notice.

"The play is at eight? Perfect! I get off at eight!"

Fortunately, most people soften if you show up with make-good -- flowers for the girlsies, beer for the boysies. You might also bring a joke.

"If I were a mayfly, I would have been born in June. But seriously, how late am I?"

I also carry a speeding ticket, which acts like a doctor's note in case of emergency. This policy was inspired by the bona fide emergency of five fuming bridesmaids.

Tardy tots mean no disrespect. It's just that the only thing worse than being late is being early. Sure, the early bird gets the worm, but he also sits around reading Highlights magazine. And that time is never refunded.

So in our effort to be neither early nor late, we skitter through life like chickens with our heads cut off, only chickens have the good sense to die. Twice I've locked my keys in the car WHILE IT WAS RUNNING.

My Scottish mechanic had the same expression both times ... "bloody eejit."

People suggest that I simply start earlier, but what they don't understand -- thank you for sharing -- is that time rises to its own level. There will always be floaties in the gutter. I could start showering the day before and still reach my ETA.

Friends may gnash at their watches and fume from the ears, but someday, when that tick bleeds me dry, they will realize that it was nothing personal, that I was basically a decent man who lived before his time -- before the telepod.

And they will be given to ponder these things as they sit around at my funeral waiting for the casket of the late, late Jason Love.

Tennis

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 00:06:00 +0000

I'm teaching Yahaira how to play tennis. I myself learned from an instructor at the public courts. He didn't know me or anything; I just hung around while he gave lessons to paying students. I also watch women's tennis. Frame-by-frame sometimes.

Yahaira doesn't lose well. When we play cards at a restaurant, she has no problem chucking breadsticks. One time we decided a bill with rock-paper-scissors and she stuck out one finger for dynamite.

So while I teach Yahaira the ropes -- er, net -- I take pains to be gentle. She is, after all, wielding a racquet.

My big fear in tennis isn't losing, but accidental flatulence. It's not like the ab room where you can just frown in other people's direction.

My regular partner actually crows when she plays, but she's on the DL with procreative swelling. So it goes.

At first Yahaira and I just rallied, free from the score. Sometimes I'd hit one over the fence and trot the bases like Kirk Gibson.

"I like tennis," said Yahaira. "It's like running around on a giant ping-pong table."

And that, children, is exactly why you should not take drugs.

We wore out two pairs of shoes just "hitting" until one day, when she was feelin' it, Yahaira asked to "play for real." It marked the end of an era.

It took an afternoon to cover scoring: "The first two points are worth 15, then the third point is for some reason worth 10. Ad-in is when you're one point ahead. Wait, no. Ad-out is when ..."

This is what happens when you let the French decide the rules. "Love," of course, means zero, which makes Jason Love an awful name for tennis.

Playing for real, I won the first set 6-0, and Yahaira did not threaten my person. She didn't even hurt the racquet. In return for her largess, I played the long balls and gave her all the close-enoughs.

The problem is that Yahaira, a Dominican, develops quickly. Seriously. She could be a boxer. And if I were her manager, the bouts would all coincide with menses.

Yahaira, who will punch me when she reads that, started to win points on her own and then, in a Roe versus Wade moment, asked to take a shot over.

"You mean like a mulligan?"

"I don't know. A doey overy."

She used her baby voice -- dirty politics indeed. I allowed the doey overy, and her horns grew a little bigger. Dominicans have a saying: "Give 'em your hand and they'll take your arm." Over the next few weeks, Yahaira took my arm and my shoulder and large portions of my sanity.

Here are just a few of her cases for doey overies:

"I had an itch on my foot" ... "My mind was on that other ball rolling in the corner" ... "My sunglasses came loose." She took one shot over because I had looked bored. And it concerned her.

Now before every serve, I go down a list: No leaves are blowing anywhere -- check. Her zipper is closed -- check. My zipper is closed -- check. She is completely set and 100% ready to play -- check, check, check.

Maybe it'll be a relief when it happens, when the student overtakes the teacher. Then we can stop with the doey overies and play each point just once. And when that time comes, I will definitely pelt her with breadsticks.

Skydiving

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 23:36:00 +0000

I'm not the brightest dude in the shed. When my parents asked what I wanted to be when I grow up, I said a horse. As a teenager, I thought that air kept the bread fresh, so I'd blow into the bag before putting it away.

Still, I knew enough to stay inside an airplane when it's flying at 13,000 feet. Only one thing could change my mind: a merciless triple dog dare by my friend Anthony.

At Taft Skydive, it was literally raining men. They reminded me of the G.I. Marine Force Paratrooper that I owned as a kid. His chute would open about half the time, a percentage that seemed suddenly unacceptable.

In the hangar I met my tandem partner, Voodoo, who only happens to be the adult film star Voodoo Child. His wife Nicole -- six feet tall, mostly legs -- also freefalls from airplanes. Now you know what porn stars do in the daytime.

Outside his tribal earrings and rockabilly sideburns, Voodoo could have been your neighbor. I mean, you wouldn't leave your wife with him, but you could trust him on your back. I mean --

"When I go up on my own," he said, "I get a little crazy. But with students, it's always by the book."

I make cheeky innuendo because I'm immature like that, but Voodoo was the best jump partner you could ever want ... if you know what I mean.

While I was suiting up, someone in the sky experienced a "malfunction," which called everyone to the tarmac. The jumper had cut away his primary chute and, proving himself to be clinically insane, tried to catch up with it like James Bond. Finally he gave up and decided to try the reserve chute, his only remaining connection to this whole life thing.

Fortunately it worked, so we put away the giant spatula.

"It happens every few weeks," said Voodoo. "That guy packed his own bag, so there won't be a confrontation."

Immediately, I wanted to meet my own packer, Saul.

"So, uh, you're on good terms with Voodoo, right?"

Saul laughed and kept stuffing a backpack much like the ones you receive on fan night at Dodger Stadium.

"And you've never lost anyone to the best of your knowledge?"

Saul shook his head.

"Then I'll consider you the Qantas of parachute packing. Please accept this generous tip."

Group Eight returned buzzing from a jump. Guys wore their hair long and said things like "no worries" and "it's all good." It was like a keg party with a purpose.

"These guys come back every weekend," said Voodoo. "They're junkies like Jester."

Voodoo ... Jester ... All we needed was Ice Man and Maverick.

Jester, on cue, ran by eating a chicken wing, his pony tail clumped into sections with colored rubber bands. He sucker-punched everyone he met and looked at you with those crazy Cheshire Cat eyes. You adored him at once.

"You get like this after 20,000 jumps," he said, sipping his coffee.

"Any final words before I go up?" I asked.

"Yeah," said Jester. "Hold on to your boys. Now let's get up there and find out why the birds sing. Woooo!"

In the belly of the plane, students held hands in a breathing exercise to find their center or conjure the spirit of Elvis. We flew so high that I, in my naive little T-shirt, got an ice cream headache. You'd think that as you approached the sun, it would get warmer. And air should keep the bread fresh! So it goes.

Voodoo sat me in his lap -- don't even go there -- and latched into my four metal loops. I took inventory one last time. Goggles, check. Altimeter, check. Change of underwear, check.

Jester, riding shotgun, poked his head in to say, "Are there any peanuts on this flight?" Then he laughed his head off and crawled back to "first class."

I was just getting comfortable when someone had the gall to open the door. That's when your brain realizes that you're actually going to leave the airplane; it's not a movie. My heart wanted out -- to hell with the triple dog dare. What if I died right there? Would they downgrade my ticket to cargo?

"It's going to be okay," said Voodoo. "Four somersaults and then the swan."

I'm not sure what happened next. It was light, it was dark, it was light, it was dark. I screamed through the freezing air, and it screamed through me.

Jester tapped on my foot, but I was in no mood. It took every ounce of my concentration to not have a heart attack.

"Arch your back!" shouted Voodoo.

My partner pulled the ripcord and Jester spun away beneath us like he had been flushed. And there I hovered in outer-space-like quiet above the birds and traffic and cell phones, a G.I. Marine Force Paratrooper.

Voodoo howled at the world. "Tell me this isn't BLEEPing fantastic!"

We banked left and right like a car speeding into curlycue on-ramps until the ground demanded our attention. Voodoo set us down in three steps, and there was much rejoicing. We gathered the canopy like kids hurrying back to a roller coaster.

"Everything is better after a dive," said Voodoo. "Food, work, sex."

I myself was too high for words, spiritual. If the Native Americans had airplanes, they would have chosen skydiving over the vision quest. You know Geronimo would've been up for it.

On the way home, I didn't talk to Mr. Triple Dog Dare. I just hummed to the radio, basking in the afterglow ... if you know what I mean.

Bingo

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 03:35:00 +0000

"Let's go to bingo!"

"Um. Okay."

I didn't know that young people could play bingo. I thought there was an age minimum, a picture of grandma reading, "You must be this old to enter building."

As we pulled into the church parking lot, I wondered how gambling fit into the scripture. And what it had to do with the farmer's dog. And why the woman beside me had shown up in curlers. Did bingo catch her unawares? I mean, at that point you may as well carry a toothbrush.

Regulars bided their time with raffle tickets, scratchers, odds on the trifecta...

"Do you have a dabber?" said the cashier.

"Isn't that a personal question?"

She pointed to the dabbers in the café, where they sold hot dogs, nachos -- any number of foods that aren't useful to your body. I bought a pink dabber for my teammate, Yahaira, which meant that I'd have pink bangs before the night was over.

Across the table, a frizzy woman played 16 cards at once. I don't know what she was on -- I'm not a pharmacist -- but she muttered to herself as might a small animal if it had the power of speech. I was afraid that if she didn't hit a bingo soon, she'd jump onto the table and rob us all at gunpoint.

The bingomaster announced the first game: Winnemucca on the brown four-on. "You'll need a hardway bingo on three of the four cards."

I looked for explanation to Yahaira, who said, "And Bingo was his name-o."

The bingomaster called numbers quickly before the natives could organize against him. I was still looking for my "brown four-on" when a woman screamed, "BINGO!"

Three hundred people cursed the winner with her stupid little ... rabbit feet. A bingo marshal verified her numbers, and the caller displayed the "crying ball" so that people could get more angry. One man said horrible things about Gosh.

Yahaira placed a spell on our sheets to will us a victory. Her shaman's dance ended with pink dabber on my forehead. So it goes.

As the night wore on, I became known as Mr. One-Away. The word "bingo" made my stomach knot up and knuckles turn white. And in the midst of the torment, I realized something: You've either got the winning card or you don't. Why turn it into a striptease? We could draw numbers out of a hat and save me the ulcer.

Same thing with slot machines: Instead of cherries and sevens, why not little messages: "You win." "You lose." "Go home." "Get help."

By night's end I was out eighty bucks, which is fine because I was just going to blow that money on food and shelter anyway. I'm not old enough to cross dabbers with women who scan 16 cards at once like Robocop. And every time they scream "bingo," a little part inside me dies.

So I gave up bingo in favor of more familiar forms of gambling, beginning with hot dogs and nachos.

Puerto Vallarta

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 03:18:00 +0000

During a recent trip to my happy place (Puerto Vallarta), I ended up on Vallarta Adventures' "Jeep Safari," which takes hopelessly white people into the Sierra Madre jungle to be devoured by insects.

Our leader, JC, stood as tall as Prince but was considerably more funny. From the hood of his truck, he waved a make-believe cattle prod: "Come on, amigos. Moooove."

En route to Jurassic Park, JC quizzed us on Mexican history, giving us yellow cards for speaking out of turn. Sometimes he shouted "left!" or "right!" so that we could duck oncoming branches.

JC claimed to eat 15 tortillas per day -- as a policy -- and showed us his belly as proof.

"Los Sierra Madres," he said, "es named for its rasor-like edge ... Left!" Everyone on the left side hit the deck.

At the trailhead, JC spotted a Land-of-the-Lost-sized web, and we gathered at a safe, touristy distance.

"Es el golden silk spider," he said. "And watch thees."

He flicked onto the web a cigarette butt, which the spider pounced on and, having cleaned its trap, dropped back into JC's hand.

"The web es so strong that locals use eet for feeshing nets."

JC jumped back and forth across a creek, explaining how everything worked. He showed us cacti with no needles, tunnels created by fire ants, dragonflies that mate the way a space shuttle refuels (we crowded in for this one).

JC wrapped a garter snake around his neck, prompting my neighbor, Sally, to pull my hair. So it goes.

"There es 700 species of snakes in Mehico, and only four es poisonous. How lucky we found one."

Farther on, I stepped in the droppings of a Brahman deer. The Brahman deer, said JC, come from India, where they are idolized by Hindus. In other words, I had stepped in holy shhhh -- JC grabbed a chameleon, which, sensing danger, played dead in his hand. Our guide popped it in his mouth like a peanut.

"Mmm. Taste like cheeken."

JC spat out the lizard, which zipped away to tell its story of abduction.

Our pudgy leader gasped at a hoof print in the mud and turned toward us with scared, Vaudeville eyes. "El Chupacabra ... It sucks el blood of goats and, jes, humans."

At which point JC's assistant jumped out from behind a tree, prompting Sally to smack me in the stomach.

JC laughed and laughed till he noticed a centipede and, to everyone's surprise, did not put it in his mouth. This was the "worm" they bottle with tequila. JC taught us the traditional toast: "Al centro!" "Abaja!" "Arriba!" "Salud."

I myself distrust any beverage that smells like paint thinner. After two margaritas, I can't even read a menu but have to order by photograph. Long live Denny's.

On the way home, trees continued to smack us in the head, but no one seemed to care. We had slipped into Safari Mode, where time does not exist and you are free from gravity itself. I could see why James Taylor would want to come to Mexico. Someday. Without ever having been.

Our team stumbled out of the Jeep, thanking JC in $20 bills and promising to return as soon as the tree welts healed. JC said that he'd be waiting ... unless, of course, the Chupacabra found him first.

Dominican Republic

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 05:56:00 +0000

My amiga Yahaira wanted to show me her homeland, the Dominican Republic, where 62,000 of her relatives live. We met them all at the airport, a metric ton of strangers hugging me as their own.

The DR comes in two parts: There is Santo Domingo, which rivals the finest capitals in terms of lodging, culture, and streets so clean you could eat off them; then there is the rest of the country, which is like that minus the lodging, the culture, and the streets.

There was no time to sightsee, though, because I was having a near-death experience called Driving in the DR. I'm just saying that the country could benefit greatly from painting lines on the road.

Half the people drive mopeds, which makes gridlock smell like one big lawnmower accident. If you don't have a moped, you are forced to -- enter Psycho music -- take the bus.

For me, buses have always been a novelty, a place you end up after Jaeger Bombs. In the DR, buses are big business. The drivers, who own the buses, don't see space the way we do -- one rump per seat -- but as possibility-per-cubic-inch. Children are placed on laps, parents' and otherwise, and when they run out of seats, you get a folding chair.

To maximize the volume of trips, buses go 100 mph even around corners. Drivers don't stop at intersections but do honk as a professional courtesy. I clawed the stuffing out of my seat trying to keep the bus upright. Honk! Honk!

At Tia's house, a boy hugged my leg and said, "Yayson, how you like ride?"

I unclawed my bags and said, "I don't."

Tia dabbed the mosquito bites on my forehead. I could still hear the clerk at the fishing store: "This here repellant is 28% deet, and no creepy-crawly can stand that kinda deet."

PSA: Island mosquitoes are hip to the whole deet thing. One landed ON MY CAN OF REPELLENT.

Something else I learned in the DR: Just because it's 200 degrees outside doesn't mean it can't rain. The tropical sun visits everyone individually, sitting on their laps at times, but does nothing about the drizzle. Dominicans have learned to live with the humidity, but now and then you'll catch one screaming at the sky just for a minute.

Tia invited us to sleep in her room. "Bueno," she said, opening the door to gale-force winds. Tia's ceiling fan was set on Tornado and could not be turned off. It had been raging like this for months. The base had, in fact, come apart from the ceiling and stayed in place by faith alone. It's not easy falling asleep in a Cuisinart.

At seven a.m. we awoke to a breakfast bonfire. Once that smoke hit the squall in our bedroom, it was like being gassed out by SWAT. We would have woken up anyway on account of the merengue music.

Tia was dance-cooking in her slippers, smiling for no reason at all. Her daughter danced on a chair. Tia caught me staring and asked me to join. I thanked her but no. She seemed okay with that as she grabbed my waist and waltzed me into the living room, where the family took turns teaching the gringo to lighten up.

Next day, Tia sent us by bus -- gulp -- to Gracia's house in el campo, where mangos grow like crazy, through cracks in the street if you're not careful. Children eat them without leaving the trees. Their mothers yell at the kids to come down but don't really mean it. (Have you ever cleaned mango from a child's ear?)

In the jungle, electricity comes and goes. One moment you're dancing full-blast to Fulanito; next moment you're feeling your way back to the candles. Our warmest moments came, in fact, in the dark when we shucked beans with flickering faces.

Water was also hit and miss. I had always taken water for granted, like fresh air or reruns of The Simpsons. In the DR you learn that water is precious, especially when you go to flush the toilet. So it goes.

Some days we bathed in a river replete with shampoo, conditioner, and real-not-rubber duckies. Gracia waded by after the soap.

"You live here often?" I asked.

Gracia put her arm around me and smiled, the most she said all day. Gracia is madrina, or godmother, to 50 children, three of whom live in her home. Her house doubles as a church, where people come to pray without knocking.

On the riverbank, Gracia emptied her hamper: rice and beans, chicken from the coop, creamed corn for dessert. And just when life couldn't get better, she handed me a juice with umbrella on top. Take that, Club Med.

In the DR, you are not allowed to meet people without eating. It's part of the handshake: grip with one hand, munch with the other. Dominicans don't like to hear that you're not hungry. In fact, don't even show up thin.

We gained numbers on the walk home, as Gracia introduced us to everyone she knew, dogs included. Cousin Maria opened her door and said, "Siéntese," which means "sit," or more specifically, "sit and eat." And out came the chicken feet, a delicacy in the DR. If there's one thing I've learned in my travels, it's to stay away from the "delicacies."

It had never occurred to me to eat the knuckles of a bird. Maybe I had never been hungry enough. Children gathered to watch my face, smiling, snapping photos. I'd say that it tasted like chicken, but it was more like gristle or latex or Denny's.

Once we met everyone that Gracia knew, we visited the graveyard to meet everyone she used to know. The tombs looked like dusty chests of drawers, one slot per relative. La Vieja kissed the top drawer and sighed.

I haven't mentioned La Vieja? That's Yahaira's grandma, the cause of all these people. When you meet "The Old One," you bow as you might to Don Corleone and say, "'Cion, Grandmother." Then she gives you benediciones, or blessings.

When I met La Vieja, she grabbed my neck with both hands, scrunched her face into a leathery smile, and recited the Bible from Genesis. Then we sat on the porch and told stories over rice and beans. "Siéntese, siéntese."

Whatever Dominicans lack in fancy cars and iPods, they more than make up for in time. Returning by bus to the airport, I saw men playing dominoes, women laughing by the mailbox, children growing mangos from their ears.

These people had taken me in as their own, no questions asked, and if we had stayed any longer, they would have squeezed me into their chest of drawers.

Which was very much on my mind as I steered the bus with my seat cushion. HONK! HONK!

Televisions

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 05:50:00 +0000

Is it just me, or are TVs taking over the universe? They're popping up in gas stations, waiting rooms, supermarkets, banks, beauty salons, HOTEL BATHROOMS. I myself don't need a bathroom TV because I keep one in my underwear.

"For those of you who owned a Walkman and were at least mildly aware of the Watchman, Sony brings you ... The Crotchman."

The locker room at 24-Hour Fitness plays two TVs at the same time, which is kind of like being raped in the ears. Last week it was Fox versus ETV...

"Oprah lost 16 pounds to Al Qeada, who destroyed the Grammy chances of our nation's leaders in their incestuous love triangle. Call now!"

One night I got trapped with "The Biggest Loser," a reality show named after the people who watch it. The important thing is that we are never, for one second, without a talking head.

One day you'll go to leave a room and the TV will stand up tall like Julius Caesar and say, "Don't you give your back to ME!"

At Friday's, I saw a husband and wife watching TV over one another's heads. Makes you wonder how they got together in the first place.

"Well, I stretched my neck to see American Idol; she thought I was looking at her; and uh, the rest is history."

My cousin placed his baby's crib beside the TV because the baby found it comforting. We all look forward to junior's first word: "Toyotathon!"

We can't even sit down to Thanksgiving without a football game in the background. FYI, remote control goes inside the soup spoon.

Even when you mute the TV, it types out a transcript like a tyrant refusing to be gagged. "Don't ... you give ... your back ... to ME."

On the bright side, people are reading again. So it goes.

Albertson's supermarket plays tabloid TV above the magazine rack, and I, for one, am embarrassed to know what Jennifer thinks of Angelina. High school never ends.

And commercials. Sigh. They say TV is free, but we pay for it every time we hum a jingle. Somewhere in the distance, the Dalai Lama is in the lotus position trying to not think about what he'd do for a Klondike bar.

In concert, John Mellencamp began the song "Cherry Bomb" by saying, "I hope this one's good enough to someday be on a Pop Tarts commercial."

And let me tell you, it takes a big man to admit that he paid to see John Cougar Mellencamp.

Have you ever walked in on children who've stayed up all night watching TV? Their eyes gloss over with that soulless, homogenized look of certain congressmen. Finally they pass out, remote control in hand, while their clicker finger amazingly keeps changing channels.

At least they're not watching daytime TV, pork rinds for the brain.

"Yes, yer honor, he did gone slap me in fronta his ho' girlfriend."

On General Hospital, I saw a doctor being played by someone like Keanu Reeves, only stoned-er.

"Don't make me compromise the ethicality of this hospital, dude."

That's why we call them soap operas: Because afterward you need to shower. And if you ever find yourself bleeding to death in the ER, it's because your doctor is groping a candy striper with whose sister he is unwittingly having a baby.

I turn off the gym's locker room TVs every time I go and feel sorry for the guy who ever tries to stop me, because that will be a long, emotional conversation. I fantasize about smashing the TV, but then I remember Gandhi and Martin Luther King and the cost of bail.

When I can't reach the TVs, I dress as quickly as possible to minimize the damage:

"Local militia extend money-back guarantees to cheating housewives for their overtime victory in prescription coverage. Call now!"

Then I go home and shower for a long, long time.

Driving

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 02:47:00 +0000

When people see me drive, they have questions. For example, "What kind of idiot are you?"

Well, I'm not the kind who keeps passing cars on the onramp until it becomes a merging crisis.

I'm also not the kind with 10,000-lumen headlights that make you feel like you're being abducted by alien spacecraft.

What kind of idiot am I? I'm the multitask idiot who can't stay between the lines. Seriously, I'm ready for those plastic tubes they use for bumper bowling.

I might keep my hands in the 10:00-2:00 if traffic weren't forever trapped in road repair. By my house, they've been working on the boulevard since Ford announced assembly-line construction.

The other day we sat for so long that I learned a new song on the harmonica (seriously): "Oh, when the saints ... go marching in ..."

Then, of course, drivers go into warp speed trying to make up the time. Police can't figure out who to stop anymore.

"I pulled you over because you're the only one I could catch up with."

We keep seeing those electronic signs that show your speed in case you don't have an speedometer. If the state really wants to slow us down, they should display the cost of the ticket.

"Your speed is ... $150."

I myself could use a speed minimum. People zoom by me not because they're late but out of principle. Sometimes they pull up beside me to see what I look like -- add it to their Idiot Profile. I always want to ask for Grey Poupon.

During my only accident, as a teen, I demolished a streetlight that was clearly at fault. The airbag hurt more than anything. If I were a parent, I'd fill the airbags with fake blood to drive home the lesson.

In other parts of the world -- and by that I mean the Dominican Republic -- there are no rules at all. You just plow your way through intersections by car or bike or bull. (Note: If you are on a bull, red is not a good color for stop.)

Compare to America, where cameras catch you with the panicky look you have on those surprise photos at the end of a roller coaster. So it goes.

Soon there will be a ban on text-messaging, which is kind of like proving thoughtcrime.

"No, officer, I wasn't texting; I was balancing my checkbook. Totally different."

I don't mind giving up messaging so long as I can eat salad, wrap presents, tweeze my eyebrows, and steer with my knee in the 6:00 position.

I've finished entire novels sitting at stoplights. I know -- that's a lot of writing! I used to get nervous about missing the green but find that the person behind me almost always gives a sound queue. Sometimes they indicate that I'm number one.

My driving gets worse when I follow directions. Half the time I get them from this guy:

"You turn left at the blue car, but if the car isn't there, look for a maple tree with the broken branch..."

Or sometimes this guy: "You go north on Fifth Street, then south-southeast on West Third."

"Left or right, man. I don't carry a compass."

So, yes, I'm saving up for a GPS. I want the kind that you can program with celebrity voices. Can you imagine Robert De Niro's...

"What, am I stupid?! I told you to turn back there. Don't make me freakin' recalculate."

I myself can't have extra buttons in the car; I've got ADHD (which is, by the way, an unfairly long acronym for that disorder). Have you ever been driving and suddenly realize that you can't remember the past ten miles? That's what it's like: I don't drive so much as I end up places.

I know it's wrong to steer by Braille and that I, like all drivers, hold the public well-being in my little pinky ... or knee or whatever. For this reason, I've decided to cut back on in-car activities and focus on one thing at a time. I'm starting with the music.

"Oh, when the saints ... go marching in..."

Dog Lickers

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 07:53:00 +0000

My mom is a dog-licker. That's someone who thinks highly enough of her pet to accept French kisses (and we do know where those dog lips have been).

Max is a mini black poodle. Full name: Emperor Maximus. No, really. It's engraved on the doggy bling that Mom creates herself from Swarovski crystal.

Max receives full emperor treatment, too. In the hallway you'll find portraits of him front and center, in the space normally reserved for religious icons.

It's not that my mom worships her dog. Well, yes. It is. It's exactly like that. But people get weird around their pets. A woman once asked if I'd like to see her goldfish, then returned with a laminated carcass.

"Um," I said. "Um."

"The salt preserves him indefinitely," she said.

So yes, when it comes to pet obsession, Mom is off the hook. Ha! Hook. Sigh.

Max weighs five pounds -- half a bowling ball -- but barks like he's been dipped in the river Styx. He chases passers-by with the illusion that somehow, someway, he will finally render them extinct.

Compare to cats, who have no protective instincts at all. You could fall down the stairs and lie unconscious in a heap, and the cat will be playing with your shoestring. So it goes.

Not to "out" him or anything, but Max also pees in a litter box.

"Does his wil' piddle," says Mom.

The pee smells funny because she buys him flavored vitamin mineral water. For an animal that was only moments ago gnawing at his bahookie.

In the living room you'll find a ball that, when you touch it, sounds a recording of Mom's voice: "I love you, Max. I'll be home soooon."

When you suggest that she's overdoing it, Mom does both voices.

MAX: I just wants to pway wis my mommy.

MOM: Then go get it. Get your ball!

ROD SERLING: And if you get quiet -- listen not with your ears but with your heart -- you too might hear that little creature say, "I am god spelled backwards."

I don't mind that Max prefers Skippy to Jif; it's just that my mom knows about it.

When Mom leaves for work, Max runs to his kennel cab to sulk. Mom pitched at her coworkers a take-your-dog-to-work day, but they're not biting. Ha! Biting. Sigh.

When last we spoke, Mom and Max -- the twins -- were at the dentist, and can't you just hear that conversation ... "For the last time, Mrs. Baker, no. We are NOT recommending braces for your dog."

Max has an Imelda-Marcos-size toy collection, 52 animals in all. Last week he had sexual relations with the lobster (and you wonder how we get things like crabs). If you catch him in the right mood, Max will have relations with your leg. And that's another difference between cats and dogs: A cat may love you, but dogs go all the way.

My mom is not alone in her obsession. Have you seen the dog treat section at Petco? Sirloin kabobs, duck jerky, organic crispy cheese cakes. Not that Max would eat food that comes from a "pet store." He's ready for a setting at the dinner table.

"Who made you rice wich your chickeeen? Max, don't eat the garnish!"

Mom and her husband Mark watch The National Dog Show, which is when a starchy woman, perhaps the queen of England, walks around pointing out various flaws. Like People magazine.

Max himself couldn't handle a contest because he's prejudiced against dogs. Once he learns to stand upright, he's getting a wax and having the surgery.

At Christmas, Mom pimped her dog out with antlers and posed him with Santa. She's submitting the pictures to Parade and fully expects to see prize money.

Here comes the scary part: Mom and Mark may be getting another puppy. Breeders beware: These are the nicest people in the world, but they'll spoil your dog beyond recognition. They will decorate him and take him on road trips and teach him to speak in childish tones.

"Who's the bestest, most bootiful boy in da wooorld?"

I hope Mom sees the humor in all this because one, I love her, and two, I'm going over for dinner tonight. We're having Snausages.

Population

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 07:39:00 +0000

We've heard some bleak reviews of the human race, but deep down I think that people are generally ... everywhere. Especially during rush hour.

It's not that people are bad; we're just a little bit squished. Remember sixth-grade science?

"See, Jimmy, as the rat population grows too dense, the animals start to abuse each other."

Meanwhile, in the parking lot, someone was breaking into teacher's car.

The TV people remind us to carpool, recycle, chew ABC gum, etc., and while I'll do my part, we could trade in all of these PSA's for one overriding memo: Quit having so many children.

Remember the show "Eight Is Enough"? Eight children is not enough; it's way too friggen many. I live by a dock where every day new cars, still in their wrapper, drive off the boat and into gridlock. That's their first experience in the U.S.

How long till we have yo-yo girls working the freeway? "Cigarettes... Candy... Soda..."

If California falls into the sea, it won't be from earthquakes but from sheer human tonnage. Seriously. When Californians say we have a front yard, we mean it literally: three feet.

How come you need a license to drive and fish and style hair, but anyone, even Rosie O'Donnell, can bear an unlimited number of children? My cousin has a baby every time she needs attention.

"Look what I made!"

"That's nice, honey. Put it in the crib with the others."

I know a man whose parents had 20 children and don't know where half of them are. Trapped in gridlock, presumably. Maybe it's time for some kind of child-bearing parameters. One baby per 30 I.Q. points? If you can't spell vasectomy... ?

Consider that I myself come from a large extended family, people who don't use birth control because it isn't "natural." Of course, they're also so old-fashioned, they still believe the world is flat. So it goes.

When the Iowa couple had septuplets, we called it a miracle, but the woman was freebasing fertility pills. She could have gotten pregnant being downwind from sex.

Is anyone else uneasy with Dr. Moreau in the lab? Rumor has it that humans have already been cloned and that zombie-like creatures with heavy brows and crude worldviews await their turn to run for office.

I once attended a meeting for in vitro fertilization. The doctor wielded his lab coat as one might a cape.

"And once we transfer the embryo, aspirate the follicles, and align your ovulation with my golf schedule -- voilà, nature's little miracle."

In days agone, we had lots of children to ensure our survival; now we have to stop having lots of children for the same reason. If nothing else, think about Santa Claus. You know he's campaigning for zero population growth.

It's just that if we go on like this, it's going to lead to more pollution, more rat brutality, and ultimately a land rush in Arizona, where people will fight like crazy over their new beachfront property.

Metrosexual

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 20:38:00 +0000

The other night my date asked a question that seems to be on everyone's mind: "Are you gay or just well-spoken?"

I've been taking this grief since elementary, when other kids wondered aloud whether I was a boy or a girl. Evidently, I have some feminine properties. For starters, I'm nice to people (you can see how that might throw them off). I cross my legs wrong and own a melon baller. I love my cat.

But the thing people can't get past is the messenger bag. Barney's assured me that it wouldn't look womanly if I strapped it across my chest like Chewbacca.

The bag still had its tags when I sat down to poker with my buddies.

"Nice purse," said Ernie. "I like how it matches your shoes."

I've done everything to skirt -- er, get around -- the man bag. I carried a backpack but always felt like I was on my way to the bus stop, looking to trade my PB&J for a Twinkie. I also tried a tote bag, a laptop case, a toiletry kit, and then just stuffing my pockets like a hamster.

Ernie asked what's so important that I have to carry it on my person. To be exact: digital camera, mp3 player, appointment book, wallet, cell phone, bank ledger, notepad, pens, cartoon book, glasses, sunblock, Chapstick, hand sanitizer, gum, business cards, harmonica, and a condom that may have expired.

We also found toenail clippers, but I swear they were planted.

I will have you know that when the gang went to Mexico and got stranded without sunblock, they sang a different tune about my "purse."

I used to be so normal. I spat and surfed and used dirty socks for oven mitts. Now when I vacuum, I back out slowly so as not to disturb the carpet triangles. When buddies use the bathroom, I say, "You didn't pee standing up, did you? It splashes."

I've developed an urgent need for symmetry. It bothers me, for instance, when Michael Jackson wears only one glove or Pisa doesn't fix that stupid tower. If I ever lose an arm, I'll have to seriously consider, for the sake of balance, removing the opposite leg.

People also accuse me of liking clothes. If they only knew. Sometimes I press against the store window and talk dirty to myself ... "I'm gonna buy the hell out of that jacket."

Regular guys don't think about matching. They're happy so long as their clothes say something about them. Like "NASCAR."

My recent date said that she doesn't trust a man who jogs all the time. Her exact words: "If you can fit into my pants, you can't get into them."

How do I keep finding these women? I must have terrible depth perception.

Gay men sometimes hit on me. I'm flattered, gosh, but never know what to say. In the supermarket, a man followed me, vaguely, for three aisles before cornering me in the deli.

"My name's Peter." He shook my hand. "Nice grip."

Um ... Um ... I'm just well-spoken.

I find myself acting tough to offset the attention. At the gym I stick out my chest and talk like Keanu Reeves: "Hey, dude. Nice shoes..." (applying Chapstick in a manly fashion).

In case you're concerned that you yourself may be metrosexual, I have compiled a list for you to carry in your wallet.

You might be metro if ...

-- you prefer bubble baths to showers.
-- you speak in semicolons.
-- you carry your own salad dressing.
-- you've been "meaning to have sex."
-- you refrigerate your face-care products.
-- your ringtone is "Fur Elise in C minor."
-- you've ever had a chopstick callous.
-- you watch Hugh Grant movies on purpose.
-- you avoid unflattering light.
-- you know about unflattering light.
-- you get anxious when your belt doesn't match your shoes.
-- you read while stuck in traffic.
-- you have an opinion about thread count.
-- you floss before bed no matter how drunk you are.
-- when someone slurps at a restaurant, you pause significantly.
-- the wallet where you store this list is inside a bag strapped across your chest.

Sports

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 20:32:00 +0000

It's that time again -- time to isolate half of you by talking about sports. It's just that sports is the only thing on TV that doesn't make me want to jump out a window.

My addiction started early, in pee wee soccer. When you're four feet tall, you don't understand the rules, per se; you just know that if you kick the ball in a forwardly direction, those big people will stop yelling at you.

I watch the British Premiere League just for the brogue: "Newcastlefordshireham takes a commanding one-to-nil lead, and the players, in a fit of unbridled joy, doff their sweaters."

That's the Shakespeare of sports, isn't it? Maybe that's why there's so much drama when a player gets fouled.

"Forsooth, with spikes mine enemy hath struck! To bleed or not to bleed?"

I had one of those dads who'd practice his swings in public. Sometimes baseball, sometimes golf. Once in a while he'd shoot a free throw. As a kid, all you can do is hope that no one is looking. I'm just glad that he wasn't into gymnastics.

I enjoy boxing despite the glaring lack of ball. I actually trained for and got my butt kicked by a 16-year-old. It was like he was hitting me from both sides at the same time. My mom had to watch through her fingers: "Use your words, honey. Use your words!"

Baseball is good as background music. The nice thing is that if you miss anything, your team will play several more games before the day is over. My buddy Jake was taping a game, and I wondered, When is he going to watch it? When the next one's on?

I like to go to the stadium, be a part of the spectacle. It's strange, though, singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" when you're already there.

I can't do basketball on account of the fouls ... "Johnson takes the inbound pass and is fouled. Baker dribbles to the base line and is fouled. Bryant shoots a free throw and is fouled (Smith gave him a dirty look)."

Why don't we just give the ball to the referees and let them play?

Who, by the way, is choosing these uniforms? We've got full-grown men running around in bumble bee yellow and soccer mom teal. If I were in charge, my team would shave their heads and play in prison uniforms. Tell me that wouldn't chill the opponent.

Football is swell, but here's what I don't get: What do field goals have to do with football? Here's a team that scratches and claws and bleeds its way down field, and when they finally get within view of the end zone, they call in the kicker.

He's not even watching the game; he's on the sideline chatting up the cheerleaders. He puts out his cigarette, grabs a random helmet, and ENDS THE GAME! A game that he doesn't even understand. He may as well come in and do archery or pee for distance. So it goes.

We watch the Super Bowl at my mom's house, where there's NFL festooning and football-shaped cookies. Sometimes Mom walks in wearing her commemorative Super Bowl T-shirt to say, "Look at my team. Buncha friggen bums." She doesn't know anything about the game; she's just cursing to be festive.

"Mom, it's the pregame show. Go back to your cookies."

Men will turn anything into a contest: surfing, walking, hot dog eating. In Beaver, Oklahoma, you'll find the championship cow chip toss, which is like the Olympic discus, only the fans don't stand so close.

In a pinch, we'll even watch WWF. Whenever I get angry at baseball calls, I remember wrestling referees, who routinely overlook folding chairs to the back of the head.

So ladies, if you live with a sports fan, don't fight it. That only makes things worse. Allow your man his sweaty little soap opera; let him get it out of his system. When the game is over, he'll return fresh and invigorated, ready to mow the lawn.

Unless, of course, there are people on TV talking about sports, in which case you'll probably lose him again.

Lost at Airport

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 20:28:00 +0000

I spoke at a conference for columnists. Bill O'Reilly kicked things off by calling everyone cross-eyed liberals and storming off stage. I always thought Bill worked his way up to that kind of anger, maybe did some stretching; evidently he rolls out of bed that way.

Afterward, the press debated headlines, politics, civil rights. I butted in only when I had something important to add, like, "How come the Incredible Hulk's shirt came off, but never his pants?"

What I lacked in social grace, I made up for in Jim Beam -- "Give your brain the afternoon off" -- and escaped unharmed to the airport.

Jim Beam was still in charge when, between the cab and the curb, I lost my wallet (estimated distance: five paces). I frisked myself confidently at first, then with that dizziness you get when your car is stolen. You consider every explanation, including parallel dimensions, before thinking, "They'll be back ... They'll be back."

It's strange to be without ID. You feel like a fugitive condemned to wander the streets until authorities arrive in their hovermobiles to scan your eyeballs and whisk you into a steaming manhole where you live out your days serving Authorized Citizens.

I actually considered lifting a Buffalo wing from the snack cart. The only thing that stopped me was Jean Valjean from "Les Miserables."

"What have I done? Become a thief in the night, a dog on the run..."

I called Yahaira, resident friend in need, who assured me that once I changed my poopy pants, I'd find the blessing. Maybe, for instance, my plane had contained a virus such as Bill O' Reilly.

At the courtesy booth, we tracked down the cab company by my description of its car: "Um, I think it had some blue."

I left a voicemail for the dispatcher, who was to her cabbies the Queen of Wonderland.

"He's in departures, not arrivals? OFF WITH HIS HEAD!"

Yahaira cancelled my Visa, American Express, and library card (we can't have someone renting under my name). With that I roamed the halls of the airport looking for a dry spot to sleep, the Ghost of Terminal 4. So it goes.

A married couple gave me fifteen dollars for food. I shook their hands twice and asked if I could write them a poem or something. The woman petted my head even though I smelled like low tide.

At that exact planetary moment I got a call from Mario, my ex-father-in-law, who lived in town and was coming on his shiny white steed (Ford Bronco): "Yahaira says you need a place to stay."

Mario treated me to Chili's, where we ate, as the universe would have it, Buffalo wings.

"He gave me hope when hope was gone. He gave me strength to journey on. Who am I? I am Jean Valjean!"

Next morning Mario fixed me a breakfast hoagie, expressing his love in pickles (approximately 32). My other ex-in-laws showed up with hugs and spare change, and boy did I feel like a jackhole for not visiting.

No sooner had Mario returned me, newly bathed, to Terminal 4, then I received a call from the Queen of Wonderland: "We found your wallet. The driver is on his way."

The driver, Ghebgreigzi "I'd Like to Buy a Vowel" Abiher, apologized for the trouble. The wallet had slipped beneath his seat and so on. I tipped him forty bucks and ran to the check-in girl, who waived my cancellation fee and sat me on the next plane out.

Have you ever been treated so well that you could almost believe in Santa Claus? It's like the whole thing was orchestrated by some cosmic force that just wanted me to eat pickles with old family.

As my guru Ferris Bueller once said, "Life goes by pretty fast." If you don't stop and lose your wallet once in a while, you could miss it.

Working at Home

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 09:15:00 +0000

I used to work for a corporation. In my old cubicle, you can still find claw marks and fingernail bits like that scene in Silence of the Lambs, where the girl tries to escape from her well.

Mostly I'd yearn out the window for earthquakes, floods, the Rapture -- any reason to go home. Sometimes I'd catch eyes with the window guy across the street. We'd stare at each other till the pain grew too rich and we both drew the shades.

I should have fled on my first day, when the boss led me to a snarly filing cabinet and said, "Welcome aboard, Jason. Your job is to figure out what the hell happened here."

But I kept the job for fear of interview fallout: Why did you leave your last job? Where will you be in ten years? Do you even know who you are?

My interviews were especially tough because the HR person would say things like, "I see you've been doodling Ziggy here on your application."

One day I was summoned by department head Ann Gitch, whose last name was off by just one letter. She asked why I had been ditching meetings.

I confessed that some meetings were so unthinkably dull that I saw people's faces melt off their heads. I also mentioned how Christlike it felt to carry my own folding chair to the meeting room.

Ann thanked me for my analogies and wrote a Letter of Probation. I decided to attend department meetings but skip the global ones where nobody was missed. Nobody was missed, that is, unless they happened to win the raffle.

"And this darling gift basket goes to ... Jason Love. Jason? Jason?"

Working at home isn't what it's cracked up to be. For instance, when you have a computer problem, you don't call IT and grab a Snickers; you register at Computer Hell University. A computer crash is when you finally throw the damn thing out the window.

You also have to pay for your own benefits. In case that's not enough, you have to pay for your own benefits! My HMO is so bad that all it covers is an apple a day. So it goes.

Another pitfall to working at home is that no matter which way you turn, the pantry can see you: Jaaason... Cream FILLing, Jason... That's a pickle for someone with an active lifestyle like writing.

Mmm. Pickles.

It's true that people who work at home can wake up whenever they want. Alarm clocks are meaningless. But then so are holidays, weekends, overtime, and did I mention BENEFITS? You work 60 hours a week for 30 hours' pay, and your mom still asks when you're going to get a job.

I haven't shaved in days and suffer everlasting bedhead. I spend entire weeks working in swim trucks not because I swim but because the elastic grows with my waist. I've come to talk about myself in the third person. To no one.

So if you ever find yourself fantasizing about working at home, remember your old friend Jason. You will remember him, right? Drop by some time, maybe bring a friend? I know: We'll have a meeting!

Fire Training

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 01:26:00 +0000

I've been attracted to fire from an early age, when dad caught me "mowing" the lawn with a blowtorch.

"I don't care if it is a controlled burn; you get your butt inside."

Only recently, when firemen trained in my area, did I learn what dad already knew: Fire is evil.

Training took place at five houses condemned to burn because they were built sometime during the Mesozoic Era. The battalion chief, who oversaw the drill with a stoic air, Constantine at war, said something about PSI, GPM, NFL. From all accounts, they'd be burning things.

The men paired off for assignments: ventilation, support, and -- gulp -- lying down inside a house WHILE IT BURNED! That person was properly called the "dummy." So it goes.

The captain's face turned grim: "It is not macho when someone melts their helmet. Injuries do not impress me. I want you on your bellies."

You can see why Prometheus, having stolen fire from the gods, was sentenced to have his liver eaten out daily while Mariah Carey played in the background. And why did Prometheus take the blame when, in the same book, we see fire-breathing dragons? I hate plot holes.

Some years later the hippies would set fire to just about everything: draft cards, bras, dolls, several metric tons of controlled flora.

And let's not forget the Keebler Elves Incident of '98: "I don't know what we were thinking, baking inside a tree!"

Zeus had seen it all coming.

Back at our drill, Constantine praised the men who had worked overtime to prep the location, and they all marched off to their posts. I made like a tree and stood there.

After 30 minutes of bullhorn, they finally got to the good part: "Fire in the hole!"

I plugged my ears for an explosion while the Ignition Group calmly walked inside and dropped a flame on the "class A combustibles" -- haystacks, plywood, U.S. currency.

I wonder if an incense factory has ever burned down. Could you see the eleven o'clock news? "And while this fire has caused millions of dollars in damage, the city smells terrific!"

Captain Phil waved me over to House Three. I looked around to make sure he wasn't crazy. Yes, he nodded, come on up. Did I mention that the house next-door was on fire? I climbed the ladder with that giddy feeling you get on your first field trip, only this blew away the post office.

Across the street, commoners gathered like moths at Lamps Plus. The fire truck blasted three times: last call to get the hell out. I took in the blaze a moment longer, knowing I would never again, with any luck, be so close. The dragon crackled and hissed, spitting cinders our way.

"Once it gets like that," said Phil, "we just surround and drown. It's all over."

Until then, I always imagined that I could run into a burning house and save someone's life. Now I'm not so sure. I would at least have to know what kind of person it is. See a résumé or something.

The firemen de-sooted over Gatorade and smeared charcoal on their faces every time they wiped. You have to admire people who, for our safety, put themselves in a position to die regardless of their plans for the rest of the day.

Constantine applauded his troops for a job well done. A few stayed behind to babysit the hot spots, which could smolder for a week if left unattended. Don't worry, dad. It's a controlled burn.

Beach Sand

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 20:59:00 +0000

When I was a boy, my family summered at the beach, where we ate peanut butter, jelly, and gritty sunblock sandwiches (PBJ&GS's). I thought the sand was why we called them sandwiches.

I have since learned that sand is not composed of magic, self-purifying crystals from the mines of Etch A Sketch. Beach sand covers up all kinds of corruption. Children may as well play Frisbee in a giant ash tray.

As a teen, I got so wonky on beer -- forced on me by the Bad Kids -- that I used the sand for a restroom, spelling my name beside that of my girlfriend. She did not find it charming as beer would have you think. So it goes.

At the beach, then, bathing suits may be less appropriate than, say, HAZMAT chemical splashwear. Here are just a few items that I've found lying around on the shore: car parts, cutlery, Pampers, hypodermic needles, a Tony-Robbins-sized marine carcass, and seaweed forming the face of the Virgin Mary.

Don't even get me started on the dog duker.

And how come we see dogs at the beach but never cats? You'd think it would be Kitty Paradise -- the biggest litter box ever! I would personally feel better if, once in a while, they swapped out existing beach sand for extra-strength, allergy-control, maximum-clumping Tidy Cat. Now that's a place where you can play Frisbee.

Every year the beach sees millions of half-naked men who spit as freely on sand as they would on a softball field. Five million spitters ... at least one urinator ... carry the y ...

Yet beach loogies are a trifle before the more wicked and unnatural phenomenon that we call seagulls.

When people say "eats like a bird," they are not talking about seagulls unless they mean "swallows anything up to and including an anvil." Seagulls will eat your fingers if you don't keep 'em tucked.

Sometimes seagulls stand around conspiring like Roman Senators: "They've got the bread, men, but we've got the numbers. We've got the numbers."

It's only a matter of time before the seagull population reaches critical mass and the coast becomes lawless like Manhattan Island in the movie Escape From New York and no one -- neither Kurt Russell nor Al Gore -- can stop them.

Is that what we want? To forfeit the beach to winged rats? Surely there is something we can do. We could order a Purell air strike. Bombing always fixes things. We could build footpaths in the sand and admire the beach from afar as one might a botanical garden...

"And this section smells like blueberry cigars with a hint of soot and compost."

Or we could just take a seagull home and work it into our diets. Surely it's no crueler than eating chicken. And I will have you know that a chicken is not, at this moment, hovering overhead with designs for your five-year-old's PBJ&GS: "She's got the bread, men, but we've got the numbers. We've got the numbers."

Prisons

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 02:41:00 +0000

I don't fare well in confinement. Mom and Dad couldn't even put me in a crib without my crying and gnashing and running my sippy cup along its bars.

"Nobody knows the twubble I've seen ..."

With a claustrophobic heart, then, I saw a friend in prison. I won't say what he did or how long he'll be there or where we hid the body. Ha!

I thought when O.J. walked, we all gave up on the whole "justice" thing. I still expect to turn on the TV one day and hear something like this: "Tempers flared when neighbors protested the arrival of O.J. Simpson at his new uptown estate. The situation was later resolved when O.J. killed them all."

Some lawyers plea NGRI -- "not guilty by reason of insanity" -- but I think they should go with NGOJWG ("not guilty because O.J. wasn't guilty").

I get weird around the whole court situation. "Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" I'd be like, "So help me, which god?"

And can't we just punish perjury with jail time? Do we have to throw in eternal damnation?

I also don't get "consecutive life sentences." Wouldn't that be a drag for the cellmate? He's in there sleeping beside a pile of bones ... "Um, warden? How do we know when his second life is up?"

My friend, whom we'll call Billy ... Billy Hayes from Midnight Express ... says you get used to the walls but never to looking over your shoulder for "dings" -- someone you and I might call "crazy" or "senator."

Can you imagine how tense that must be in the showers? You know it was a prisoner who invented Soap-on-a-Rope.

Billy says that inmates are always whining about conditions. Which is strange because they spend the day smoking, lifting weights, having sex with women in trailers -- pretty much what they'd do anyway.

And how 'bout these conjugal visits? Prisoners get all the benefits of marriage and still get to play softball on weekends. So it goes.

In Scandinavia (just outside of Narnia), inmates are actually trained with job skills and conditioned for society. Compare to America, where prisons are more like a Motel 6 without the cockroaches.

If we really want to cut down on crime, we should make the inmates' uniforms a neon pink floral pattern. Trust me: Word would get out. Or we might introduce theme weeks...

"Mr. Johnson, I'm afraid that it's Medieval Times Week here at the courthouse, so instead of granting probation, we're going to have you drawn and quartered."

Even a hundred years ago, convicts toiled in the fields while a warden circled on horseback massaging his rifle: "If you try to escape, I will fire a warning shot. That shot will hit you in the leg."

We've come a long way since then; the state even gives death-row prisoners a final meal. We're upset enough to put them to death but not on an empty stomach.

Billy isn't your everyday scoundrel; he is, like me, a word geek. Sometimes I wonder if he went to prison just to finish his novel. You know how John Wesley Hardin once shot a man for snoring? Well, Billy once killed a man for ending a sentence in a preposition. Ha! It was a dangling modifier.

Billy is grounded for another six months, at which point he'll clean up the freeways (another important life skill). I believe my friend has learned his lesson and in the future will double-check all his math when keeping the company's books.

But I wonder if prison is the way to go for more hardened criminals, men who tattoo horns on their forehead and mutter to themselves in such a way that you can only make out your own name.

These "dings" may require a little more attention. I propose that we ship 'em to Scandinavia. Not empty-handed, of course. They can have my sippy cup.

Growing Up

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Sun, 31 Aug 2008 20:28:00 +0000

My folks had me the old-fashioned way: on accident. It didn't come as a total surprise because they were both taking a fertility drug called Budweiser.

"Warning: Consumption of alcohol may cause and subsequently complicate pregnancy."

Mom strollered me around as one might the Stanley Cup, announcing my age to strangers: "He's 52 months, 3 days, 42 minutes, and 12 seconds ... 13 ... 14 ..."

You can imagine my separation issues down the line. We lost our fourth and final babysitter when I threatened to stab her with a fork. Plastic. Mickey Mouse.

That same night my sister, also in protest, held her breath until she fainted. So it goes.

I found myself defending Mom's honor in the sandbox: "You take that back! My mom is so a virgin!"

I loved Dad, too, if only for lines like these:

"Yes, son, you can mow the lawn tomorrow, but then you will have finished it yesterday."

And later: "No, I distinctly said that if you mow the lawn, you can halve your allowance. That's why we ask for things in writing."

One day Mom asked me to grate the cheese and I, fresh from smart-ass camp, gave it a C+. "It tastes all right but smells like Aunt Sandy's breath."

The truth is that I barely qualified for the long bus. One morning, I refused to get on the bus at all because I didn't recognize the driver. He finally chugged away while I shouted for the others to save themselves.

As a skinny dude, I met all the bullies. To this day I can, from a mile off, hear someone coughing up a loogie. One day Jimmy Bitzer offered a knuckle sandwich in exchange for my Twinkie, so I had to take up arms. And teeth.

Principal Burger -- "Cheeboiga-Cheeboiga" -- was not sympathetic...

"Jason, I am not going to argue the semantics of biting. Whether or not you penetrated skin, I'm calling your parents."

Burger was still sore from my letter-writing campaign a season earlier. Would you believe that at Wildwood Elementary it was okay for girls to wear skirts but not for boys to wear shorts? In a Jerry McGwire moment, I stayed up all night -- ten o' clock -- challenging the leaders to "review their ridiculous policies."

The tyranny ended two years later, which inspired me to question other persecution...

"Why do we have to make our beds when we just sleep in them again later?" To underscore my point, I slept for a week on the wooden floor wearing only my shorts.

My parents granted me the freedom to be whatever I wanted in life, but they were hoping I might be a lawyer. As it turned out, I had trouble passing the bar. Especially during happy hour. HEY-oh.

Looking back, my folks deserve a medal for not killing me. Jason was a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. Even when my parents put me to bed, I'd boomerang back an hour later: "That part of me that likes ice cream won't fall asleep."

But for all of the hoo-hah, I've grown up to be a reasonably intelligent man who can step onto any bus without even meeting the driver. For this, I am grateful to my dear parents. And to Budweiser.

Special Occasions

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 17:40:00 +0000

Is it just me, or do "special occasions" happen every week? Parent's, Valentine's Day, National Pet Week. Here's one: Boss's Day Isn't that Monday through Friday?

And the birthdays just keep comin'. My nephew starts the countdown two months in advance: "Fifty-four days till my birthday. Have you started savin' up?"

And his mother -- my sister -- just giggles. So I do save up. I save up and buy drum sets, police sirens, sonic-boom zappers. As a courtesy, I include batteries that keep going and going and going.

I even carry presents in my car just in case. Maybe that's how Santa got started, toting gifts around until he finally said, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. There will be one day a year when everybody gets one present ... if they're good."

In my trunk you'll find Barbie Dolls, G.I. Joes, and other role models to show our children what's important. Couples get his-and-her presents, which of course are always for her. His-and-her toiletries ... that's like a his-and-her wrench set.

Oompa loompa doompadee doo. I've got another puzzle for you.

How many times does a child graduate? I miss work every other Wednesday to fling high school caps, Girl Scout berets, orthodontic head gear. There's pageantry for everything.

I even attended the birthday of a one-year-old. A one-year-old! It was a surprise party, because when you're one year old...

What do you get for a baby anyway? A little fake finger to chew on? A set of car keys? Ding-aling-aling-aling. I love kids, but I'm not real big on babies. I don't even like the smell of clean diapers. So it goes.

During the holidays, we get time off from work, but we have to spend it with relatives, so it's kind of a wash. Billy Graham said that heaven is a never-ending family reunion, which is funny because I describe hell the exact same way.

On Valentine's Day, Lexus suggested that a man buy for his wife a luxury automobile. That's setting the bar a little high, isn't it? Guys, it's a dark day when your wife walks outside and sees the bow on her neighbor's Valentine Car.

"Oh ... well. It's not quite my edible panties, but -- "

Men, we oughta march on Lexus with flaming maces. "Remember the alimony!"

At Ralphs I saw a greeting card for Belated Valentines. Guys, if you miss Valentine's Day, that card has pretty much got to say one thing: "Visa." And how come there's a section of cards for New Babies? Do they come some other way?

Hallmark loves to play the guilt card. Listen to this radio ad:

"Remember the day you were born?" Insert beating heart. "Of course you don't." Woman writhing in pain. "But I'll bet your mother does." Baby crying. "Hallmark: Because your mom deserves the very best."

I can't take it! Here's my car. Ding-aling-aling-aling.

It's the birthdays that do you in, though, every year observing the achievement of not dying. Maybe that was a big deal in the Dark Ages, but these days smokers see 90.

"Hey, it's Mr. Carter's birthday again. What is he, 100? 200? Last year I bought him a plant. He still argues with it."

Oompa loompa doompadoo dee. If you are wise you'll listen to me.

When I overthrow the government -- and it won't be long; watch the news -- I will enact the following changes:

* All December birthdays will be transferred to August, a hot, humorless month with no holidays. December weddings will be a felony.

* Families will be limited to three birthday parties a year. Parents with copious children can use a demerit system to choose the "winners."

* Hallmark will be rivaled by "Jack's Cards: When you only care enough to make a gesture."

* If couples divorce, there will be a recall of all wedding presents, every last napkin ring and candle snuffer. A reverse registry will be provided.

We'll have to stop there because I'm running out the door to my nephew's birthday. He's getting the Busy Town Everything Flashes and Beeps Total Chaos Play Set.

Like the Oompa doompa doompadee dooooooo.

Kitesurfing

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 19:38:00 +0000

Guys will do anything for a rush: jump out of airplanes, skate on handrails, ride animals that clearly prefer to be left alone. Boys will spin in circles until they black out and collapse (nature's way of preparing them for keg parties).

Some turn into junkies. You'll find them on the bungee bridge pleading with management: "Come on, man, one more jump. You know I'm good for it."

I live near a kitesurfing zone, where people get their kicks with sky bonnets. Here I found kitesurfing champ Wes Matweyew with his bone-deep tan. Wes is always taking off for Costa Rica or Mammoth or some other place where the X-gamers go to risk their lives. It's a thin line between crazy and courageous.

Wes pals around with his Taco Bell Chihuahua, oblivious to things like cubicles and task forces. He charges by the hour but doesn't actually wear a watch. He knows the hour is up when the next dude arrives.

That would be me.

I myself am not a fan of the wind. To me, wind means fussing with your hair or chasing down papers or that you're in Chicago. Wind stripped the leaves from my patio plant: It killed an artificial tree!

On shore, Wes was easy like a mariachi, but in the water he turned into your driver's ed teacher: "What happens if you lose control? You pull the latch. Can you point to the latch? Good."

Wes even made me wear a helmet, something the social service people have suggested for years. He said that if I complained anymore, there'd also be water wings. So it goes.

Douglas Adams said that it's easy to fly: You just throw yourself at the ground and miss. Turns out that it takes a little equipment: kite, harness, wetsuit, pump, express written consent from Major League Baseball.

Wes explained what all the kite strings do, and while I didn't understand, I did write down his words in the order that he said them. Then I failed the follow-up quiz.

Wes grabbed my shoulders and said, "Your head: Don't leave home without it."

The first two sessions took place on sand, where I spent some quality time on my padunkadunk, then finally graduated to the sea. If I could explain the feeling in one word, it would be "brrr." The ocean looks so much warmer from the car.

If you water-ski, you know about the trapped-in-a-toilet starting position. The difference here is that you're in charge of the boat, which happens to be ripping through the sky, and there is "Jaws" music.

Wes plunked down the kiteboard, and I had two seconds to get situated before the next wave swallowed me whole. BRAIN-FREEZE!

"No problem," said Wes. "You're doing great. Grab my harness."

Funny, the thoughts that show up when you're drowning in ice water. I hummed a 60's tune by Donovan: "Oh, but I may as well try and catch the wind."

Rescuing my board from the rocks, Wes tried again: "Feet in straps. Good. Hurry. Dip the kite. Hurry."

The kite hauled me out of the water as might a Dodge Durango, and for one incredible second I -- whoosh. Face planted.

Wes waded after me. "There's a lot going on here. Don't get discouraged."

I had picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.

The truth is that I did not, technically speaking, kitesurf that day. If you feel gypped, imagine the photographer, the videographer, and the two kids going, "Dude, you suck."

Wes had done all that a man could do without being sainted. At the van, he threw me a towel that smelled like Chihuahua.

"I think you'll go a long way," he said.

"Really?"

"Yeah, because you've got a long way to go."

Wes then charged the ocean and didn't come back till the sun turned gooey on the horizon. I asked him what it was like, and he just smiled. That's the problem with words: They limit you to what you can talk about.

I plan to try again when I regain the feeling in my extremities. By the time you read this, I may be in Mexico or Hawaii or wherever I end up once I disappear from sight.

"Oh, but I may as well try and catch the wind."

The Ventura County has produced an online video for this column.

Camping

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 18:31:00 +0000

"Let's go camping!"

That was my friend Yahaira. She thinks I need more adventure in my life.

And what made more sense than wilderness camping for two people who between them don't own a tent. We borrowed supplies from an over-trusting neighbor and set out for Witch Mountain.

According to insiders, our campsite "wouldn't have showers per se." I'm the kind of guy who needs a per-se shower, so we decided to lodge in town and drive to the scenery. We arrived shortly after eleven ... p.m.

"We got a little lost," said Yahaira.

Pam, the check-in lady, pointed to our campsite "one mile yonder as a crow flies." Yahaira and I stared into the night with tilted heads, a couple of RCA dogs.

"What about security?" said Yahaira.

"Patrol doesn't go out that far," said Pam, "but there's a security gate. You'll be fine."

Yahaira squeezed my arm. You could hear the music from Friday the 13th: Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

We drove to the "security gate," a big yellow bar certain to keep away killers ... UNLESS THEY'RE ON FOOT. The pole was fastened with a Master Lock that could withstand anything up to but not including its publicly traded combination.

Yahaira circled with her flashlight two half-crumpled cans of Budweiser. I so wished we had brought a grownup.

We followed our headlights to stake number three. Home. Yahaira took to striking, or pitching, or whatevering the camp; I was in charge of swearing at the fire.

"What is WRONG with this wood?" I had spread the kindling thingies, sprayed chemicals, burned my sneaker -- nothin'. How do forest fires ever get started in the first place?

Fire seemed urgent on two counts: 1. It is an excellent source of light and heat, and 2. the eerie crunching sounds were getting closer. Every few minutes, a branch would crack in a way that made your neck-hair pay attention. Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

Yahaira suggested -- okay, I suggested, I suggested -- that we turn back. But we had driven so far and I had already lost a shoe... We agreed to sleep in the rental car beside our trusty steak knife and with a deep breath drifted off to safety.

Until Yahaira woke up in a panic.

"What's the matter?" I said.

She had no air to answer. Yahaira's nightmares get that way.

"There's a dead body," she said. "Men are looking for us. I want to go back to town."

"Now?!"

It was two a.m., the witching hour when ghouls roam the forest with scythes and other scary, outdated weapons. In muddy socks I repackaged the campground while Yahaira, by show of support, revved the engine.

We skidded through the security gate, which had been left open, and didn't say a word until we found the highway. "Remember the woman's eyes when you asked about security? What about the open gate? Do you suppose Velma and Scooby are okay?"

Yahaira and I stopped at an all-night diner, I in one shoe, she in her PJs. We both reeked of lighter fluid. And here at our sticky table we laughed and gorged and planned our next trip to "almost go camping."

At five a.m. we stumbled into our well-lit, climate-controlled room and passed out on the pillow mints. Somewhere in the distance (20 miles yonder as a crow flies), the sun peeked through the aspens to reveal a hastily abandoned campground with one melted sneaker, an unused steak knife, and two half-crumpled cans of Budweiser.

Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

Boxing

noreply@blogger.com (Jason) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 17:23:00 +0000

Last time I scrapped was the fourth grade, when Benji Leva spat on my sister at the bus stop. I pulled the bully's raincoat over his head, kicked him in the backpack, and bolted to school as fast as I could.

Would you believe I had no formal training?

That all changed when I met welterweight champ George Sylva, who taught me the ropes (and how to stay off of them). I had a few things working against me. One, I am skinny; two, I'm white; and three, my HMO is so weak that it covers only an apple a day. So it goes.

The whole gym worked out in three-minute intervals. When the round-clock buzzed, everything stopped like The Twilight Zone. It's hard to describe the tricep pain without using the F-word. Three minutes doesn't seem like a long time, but when you're shadow boxing it's like 180 seconds.

George ordered some ab drills that he had learned in the navy. Until then I had seen medicine balls but didn't know how much I despised them. And when I absolutely, positively could not go on, he ordered ten more crunches.

"Body blows," he said. "You'll thank me later."

Every time I dropped the jump rope, I had to jog a lap; and during that process, I made a discovery ... You know what works just as well a jump rope? An imaginary jump rope. Same exercise -- no friggen mind games.

One day George showed up with funny eyes and said, "I think you're ready."

Sparring, for the record, is a time for boxers to hone their technique. It may look friendly on account of the headgear, but getting punched is a lot like getting punched.

George called on 16-year-old Hugo Centeno, a junior gold medallist who was -- gulp -- 56 and 0.

"He's skilled enough to control his sting," said George.

Oh. Well. That's encouraging.

First, I hate it when ninth-graders are taller than me. Second, I was old enough to be his ... spiritual advisor. Stepping into the ring, I mentioned my HMO, but Hugo didn't get it. The round clock buzzed and George pushed me out of the nest.

I sidled up to Hugo, peeking through a gap in my gloves. Hit him?! I don't even know him. Jab. Jab jab. Nibble jab.

George shouted from the side: "You're trying to swim without gettin' wet."

Did I have Dr. Phil for a trainer? "You can't change her feelings. That's like trying to touch up the Mona Lisa with motor oil."

THWACK! Hugo punched my eyeball, and I immediately recalled all jabs.

"Think of your arm as a piston," said George. "It's got to snap back."

"You mean like my head?"

The second round was mostly hit and miss: Hugo hit me; I missed him. Then, at the risk of walking away like something by Picasso, I decided to throw as many punches as I could, to win by volume.

This is called "punching yourself out." Hugo waited for my triceps to catch fire, then introduced The Counterpunch. And George was wrong: It didn't feel like a car wreck at all; it was more like a plane crash.

In the third and final round, Hugo played the bongos on my noggin. And right there, in the midst of that flurry, something beautiful happened: I opened my eyes and breathed. In, out, Zen, out. My courage grew not with every punch I landed but with every punch I took. I finally stopped running from the bus stop.

After the fight, I drove to the park and looked at the stars. It was still light outside: The stars were in my head. And there I reflected.

Whereas I used to find boxing a silly sport -- grown men fighting over a belt -- I learned that most boxers don't fight for the trophy; they fight for that look in George's eyes, the freedom to walk the earth with nothing to prove.

I'm the newest member at Sylva's Gym. They call me Cinderella Man because that's how I fight -- like Cinderella. And even though I take the worst of the exchanges, I'm getting better. Someday I may even fight a grownup.