She Breathed Life into a Tortured Soul

My favorite times of the day were those fleeting minutes I wasn’t enduring a lecture, working on a project, or drudging at work because I spent those moments in constant reverie, daydreaming about her.

Jennifer Marie Thompson’s debut in my life was subtle. Sure, there was an instant attraction, but considering her fate, an angelic choir and a beam of light shining from heaven would have been poignant. I didn’t know from the inconspicuous beginnings that she would become the one that would rekindle my belief in something I had long since given up on: love.

Right from the onset, I put up walls to protect my already damaged psyche. While I had been single for several years, heartache and hurt weren’t strangers. Years upon years of constant internal struggle about who I was, who I was becoming, and my self-worth took a toll on me. With every wall I raised, there was Jen breaking it down, climbing over it, doing everything she could to get to me. She challenged me to let go, to believe in her, to trust her with my heart.

What did I know of love? I had been in love before, a different kind of love under very different circumstances. I was venturing into uncharted territory this time around. I was bringing more experience, more wisdom to the plate than the sixteen year-old know-it-all from a decade before. This moment, this investment had higher stakes, more risk, but also the promise of more reward.

When I finally told her I loved her, she might’ve cried. The details of such a significant moment are something I will never again let slip my mind. She’d been waiting for me to say the words because she’d already fallen in love with me.

I didn’t deserve her. She might’ve been younger, but she had a wealth of experience to fill the pages of books. She was a driven, hard-working girl with the courage to pack up and move 3000 miles from home without much of a plan, other than to make it in California. And she almost moved back to New York.

We had just started dating when her friendship with the girl she moved out west with began to crumble. Her teaching gig at a school in Monterrey Park was about to conclude with the summer, and she didn’t have an idea of where she was going to live. I had already began developing feelings for her, but I wasn’t in any position to ask her to stay. I began dreading the passing of each day because it was one day closer to possibly saying goodbye to her forever. One afternoon I noticed her away message on AIM said: Looking at an APT in Rolling Hills. I was absolutely elated. Not onlywould she be staying in California, but she’d only be living a few miles away from me. It was fate, right?

Our chance convergence of completely different life paths seemed destined by fate. There were a myriad of elements that had to fall into place for that fateful night in July to happen, but there were some particular ones of significance. We met at our first softball game for the Scrubs, which was Scott’s (Jessica’s boyfriend) team. I was only on the team because one night after going to a Dodger game with Jessica, we met up with Scott and his friends at this dirty dive bar, Pats II, in Redondo Beach. It was my first time meeting Scott, and he invited me to play on his co-ed softball team on Thursday nights. Also on the team was Scott’s friend, Scott Rush. Rush was dating a girl from New York that he met through his sister who lived in Silver Lake. That girl, Jen Curci or “C” as we called her, met Rush’s sister through some distant relative who mentioned that C and her friend were looking for a temporary place to crash when they got to California. C’s friend was Jen, my Jen. She didn’t believe in God, but she believed that there had to be a greater cosmic power that brought us together.

The fateful quality of our love enveloped our emotions. We loved each other like characters written into a romantic screenplay. I never wasted a loving thought and quickly turned it to a loving expression no matter how corny and cheesy. She was my Wordsworthian inspiration of overflowing powerful emotion. She embodied the romantic cliches I used to imagine growing up. She was the leading lady in the romantic movies I lived vicariously through, and she was the face I saw when I closed my eyes and mouthed the words to love songs.

The best part was that she loved me more than anything. I had never felt more important, more central, more loved than I did with Jen. She filled me with an appetite for life, a life with her. She would chide my unhealthy diet because she wanted me to grow old with her, and I wanted to grow old with her. I spent days reminiscing about blissful memories, and nights were spent dreaming about better tomorrows. I cherished the feeling that I had someone to share tomorrow with, that I could count on sharing new memories to romanticize with someone special, someone I’d been dreaming of my entire life.

On Jen’s desk there’s a baby picture of her and older sister at Disneyland. Her sister is appropriately smiling at the camera, but Jen’s attention is diverted to the side where she’s pointing. We joked that I was at Disneyland that same day, and she was pointing at me off camera. Our love was meant to be since that random encounter at Disneyland in 1985.

I’m so flawed you could call me human. Sure, everyone has their faults, and I have copious amount of the blaring kind. I’m almost 29 and I’m still working on a bachelor’s degree. I’m living hand-to-mouth doing my best to help raise a tween-aged son. My non-belief in myself severely hampers my potential of which I’ve been told I have lots of, but unfortunately potential is merely an intangible measurement of unattained goals. I’m messy, irresponsible more than I should be, selfish, and indolent when I shouldn’t be. I was playing with house money the entire time Jen was enraptured with my charms with a three-year expiration date.

I have nothing to offer. The tangibles are limited, and all I have are the words to elucidate a promise. Those words grow to become meaningless over time. After less than a year, I wanted to marry her, but what held me back was my pitiful existence. She deserved better than what I brought to the table, I didn’t want her to struggle with me. If I had my life in order, I would’ve been in position to grasp a hold of the angel that breathed life into my tortured soul before she allowed her feelings to wither and wilt.

Jen was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. While I’m torn and shattered now, the past three years have been the best years of my life. She filled my life with love, and for that I will be forever grateful. She resurrected the emotion that once meant so much to me. I’m a better person today for loving and being loved by her, and all the heartache I feel permeating my entire being is insignificant compared to the euphoria I felt while basking in her love.

It felt like a three-year honeymoon period, and I can’t help but wonder if the dissipation of such an intensely burning love might have confused her into thinking that she falling out of it instead. I guess it’s been building for a while, and she’s a very good at pretending everything is okay.

The last time I saw her, she was naked in my bed. We had a fight the night before that spilled into the morning. We woke up early and had a conversation, and I thought we worked it out. We made love twice, and when I had to get up to get ready for the baseball tournament, she didn’t want me to leave her side. Had I known it would’ve been the last time I’d feel her soft skin against mine, I would have never left. I would’ve stayed all day holding her body close with her head tucked into my chest underneath my chin squeezing her closer until we breathed in unison. I would’ve kissed her cheeks thousands of times like I always did. I would’ve looked into her big enchanting hazel eyes into the depths of her soul and told her I loved her, and I would do anything for our love. But I didn’t. I got dressed and packed up the gear. On my way out the door I looked over to her and said bye. She motioned with her hand which caused me pause, so I walked back and sat next to her while she lay in bed.

“Is that it?” she asked unsatisfied with how informally I was about to leave.

“No. I loove you,” I whispered into her ear before kissing her lips and her cheek for good measure. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“No.”

I didn’t know she’d mean that in more ways than one. The last time I saw the love of my life, she was in her full glory wishing me to stay at her side. I might her bring a bag of belongings she left at my house, but then we’d have to say goodbye. I’d have to turn around and walk out of her life. My last memory of the love of my life will be of a cold face unresponsive to the yearning of my broken heart.

Un-See

The inadvertent click

and path of curiosity

wreaks devastation

on a decrepit heart…

___

Arms raised high,

hands clasped tightly around his neck

drawing his face nearer, burrowing

into the softness of her bare neck.

___

Her provocative perfume enchants,

intoxicates…

entices concupiscent passion

erupting in a moment of inebriation.

___

Gripping firmly, pulling her close.

Face buried in his chest,

embedding her stress

in the embrace of another.

Eyes pressed, thinking

not of me.

___

…fade to black.

Escaping anguish:

the impossible dream.

Pray to un-see.

And now, a little inspiration

Tonight, when you’re tired, sleepy, and have hit that mental wall, which deludes you into believing that you have nothing left to give:  SUCK IT UP, MOTHERFUCKER!!!  Stop fucking whining about the work.  You chose to do this, now fucking do it!  Don’t give me this bullshit about getting old and not being able to do what you used to do.  You’re a fucking writer.  This is what you fucking do.  It’s what you’ve always done, now just fucking do it.  NO MORE MOTHERFUCKING EXCUSES.  This isn’t the first time, nor will it probably be the last, and every single time you’ve gotten through it, so just do it.  He, who says he can, and he, who says he cannot, are both right.

Deconstruction of a Broken Heart: Part I

The Initial Hope

Compared to the standards established in years prior, the summer of 2006 was setting up to be a nondescript period of time, which was fitting since I was beginning the descent of my roaring 20’s. The long nights of gallivanting the nights away went from consecutive to occasional to sporadic. Clubs and raves became the dive bar after adult-league softball games, and midnight began to feel late.

I was going on my seventh year of being single, and while it seemed like a long time, I was in a good place, finally. I had been battling the demons of depression that were deeply rooted in my many insecurities. I had no reason and every reason to be alone at the time, yet it tortured me to be so. Finally though, I had come to a resolution in my heart to just live and not languish in worry.

One Thursday night in June, I arrived at the softball field early to warm-up for our first game of the season. Jessica’s boyfriend, Scott, invited to play on his team, and I was excited to be doing something active to keep me busy.

As the team warmed up on the side of the field, two girls approached us wondering if we were their team. Luckily for me, we were. One stood behind the other who was doing all the talking. She was wearing black spandex pants, a maroon tank-top, and running shoes. Her dirty-blonde hair was up behind a headband, and I couldn’t help but sneak glances at her. They were both named Jen, so we nicknamed the talkative one “C” since she was Jen Curci, and quiet one was nicknamed “T” for Jen Thompson. I was enchanted by “T” the moment I saw her. While they were being introduced to the team, my eyes locked in on her big hazel-browns, and usually I would turn away after a moment of awkwardness, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I smiled a wry smile, and she turned away because I caught her looking at me.

After games the team would go to the dive bar down the street called The Hangar for drinks, and I would use this time to make whatever conversation with Jen that I could. One night while lost in the words of our conversation, I reached over and poked the dimple in her cheek. I loved it when she smiled because that dimple made my heart swoon. It was the first time we made physical contact aside from the congratulatory high-fives on the field. I had breached the point of physical flirtation.

I noticed a poster in the elevator at work about a string quartet giving a performance of Haydn at the library. I invited Jen to the come along to show her I was a cultured gentleman. She wavered on committing to the plans, so I grabbed her cell phone and programmed my phone number into it. I told her to call me and let me know what she wanted to do.

The Friday before the Haydn sting quartet performance I got a phone call from a funny area code I had never seen before. I was hanging out with my sister at her ex-boyfriend’s house at the time, and quickly ran outside to take the call. Jen was calling to let me know that she wasn’t going to be able to make it because she was going on a camping trip with the other Jen. I opened up the mental bag of conversational tricks and kept her on the phone. What was supposed to be a quick call to tell me that she couldn’t hang out the following day turned into a two-hour conversation about anything and everything. It was the first time in a very long time that I had become so engrossed in a conversation that I lost all concept of time. There was just something different about Jen. Something special. Something that made this beautiful girl in a city rife with beautiful girls stand out.

I had always considered myself a “hopeless romantic in search of hope”, and for the first time in a long time I had an idea what that elusive hope was. It came in the elegant form of a girl who came from thousands of miles away to capture my thoughts, my heart, and my soul.

Manuscript #2

The Talk

By David Guerreva

 

            The sun was beginning its daily descent along the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains over the Palisades before extinguishing itself into the edge of the Pacific Ocean.  Some days the sun would paint the clouds a radiant blend of amber, purple, and pink, but not today.  A fog bank had crept into town around noon blanketing the entire Westside in a haze, which was out of character for the middle of May.  Enjoying sunsets from his Miracle Mile high-rise corner office was a way for Jason to keep his sanity after putting in long hours at the office.  Graham & Lubbock, LLP recently promoted Jason to junior partner, but ever since the promotion he had kicked his work into overdrive feeling the need to validate his ascent.  Jason ducked into his office hoping to catch a calming glimpse of the sunset before disappearing into the cave of the boardroom to discuss the important Stabbone Case.  Seeing nothing but the murky haze, Jason sighed and groused, “ugh, it’s going to be a long night,” before heading off to meet with the other partners in the executive conference room.

*

            Ring-ring.

            “Jason Seaver’s office, how may I help you?”

            “Hi, Carol.  It’s Maggie.  I tried reaching Jason on his cell phone, but I got his voicemail.  Is he in a meeting with a client”

            “Hi, Dr. Seaver.  No, but he’s in the boardroom with the other partners.  Did you want me to pass him a message?”

            “Yes, please.  Tell him that I have a meeting with an important school donor after tonight’s Open House, so I won’t be able take Michael home from baseball practice.  He gets out at 7:30, so if he can pick him up from the varsity baseball field behind the high school that would be great.  If not, then call him on his cell phone and tell him to find a ride.”

            “Okay, Mrs. Seaver.  I’ll go slip the note to him right now.”

            “Thanks Carol, bye-bye.”

*

            Ping!  “Way to barrel it!” Michael’s batting coach yelled.

            Ping!  “Too much top hand there!  You’re rolling over.”

            Ping!  “Come on!  Dig deep now, kid.  Just a few more hacks and you’re done.”

            Michael was laboring to get through the last of his “rapid-fire” sets with his batting coach.  His arms felt like jello and his shoulders burned and felt like they were going to fall off.  It wasn’t just his body that was tired; his mind was fatigued as well.  It had been a long week of baseball practice since his call-up to the varsity team for the playoffs.  Combined with his piano recital two days earlier on Wednesday and stressing out over his Chaucer presentation in English Honors earlier that afternoon, Michael was beginning to have difficulty bringing the necessary intensity to thrive in all his pursuits.

            Michael couldn’t ask for it, but he wanted a break, a reprieve not just from the drill, but from honors classes, piano lessons, and year-round baseball.  He saw how hard his parents worked to provide him the best possible life, but he was beginning to feel burned out from his activities and his life – what glimpses he had of it anyway.  His life was programmed; a routine process that you could set your watch to: Mondays through Fridays he awoke at 6:00, ate breakfast and was ready for school by 6:45.  School didn’t start until 8:30, but getting to school early was an unwanted perk of being the dean’s kid.  After school Michael would have study hall until baseball practice at 4:30, and he was on the field until 7:00 or later if the coach wanted to bloviate about baseball, life, and the confluence of both.  After practice he was either picked up by whichever parent was least busy to do it, or if he was lucky, he got to walk home from the field.  It wasn’t a long walk by any stretch, but Michael enjoyed the alone time he had with his thoughts to ruminate about life, girls, sex, the future, and the teenage issue du jour.  Sometimes, his teammate Luke, who lived a block behind Michael’s row of cookie-cutter tract mini-mansions, would walk home with him if he was stranded by his parents too.

            “Good job, Michael.  Way to finish strong!”

            “Thanks, coach.”

            “Boys, gather around and take a knee.  We had a great week of practice.  We start the playoffs next Friday, so have a great weekend and I’ll see you on Monday ready to work even hard and win the whole God damned thing!  ” the coach yelled trying to imbue some enthusiasm on the exhausted heap of teenagers. 

            “Can you believe this guy?” Luke muttered to Michael.  “This isn’t football.  He’s going to wear us out before the playoffs.”

            “Yeah, no kidding.  I’d be excited for baseball season to end, but I know I have club season right afterwards.  I need a break from baseball… from school… from life.”

            “Oh yeah?  I’ve got a little something.  Are you getting picked up or are you walking home after practice?” Luke asked. 

            Michael thought about it for a second, “You know what?  I don’t know.  I should call my mom.”  Before he could take the phone out of his backpack, it started ringing.

            “Oh.  It’s my dad.  What does he want?” Michael wondered aloud.

            “Hello, Dad?”

            “Michael, sorry I didn’t call sooner, I was stuck in a meeting.”

            “Don’t worry about it.  What’s up?”

            “Mom has a meeting after Open House and won’t be home until later on tonight.  I’m going to be at the office late as well working on the Stabbone Case.  Can you get a ride, or are you okay to walk home?

            “Don’t worry about me.  I’ll just walk home.”

            “All right.  Just be safe okay, and don’t get into any cars with any strangers.”

            “I know, Dad!  I’m not freaking eight years old anymore.  I’m FOUR-TEEN,” Michael exclaimed emphasizing each syllable of his age to make a point.

            “I know, son.  Just making sure, you know?  There are leftovers in the fridge, and if you’re not feeling that, then order a pizza and use the money in the cookie jar, okay?  Love you.”

            “Okay.  I’ll see you later.  Love you too.”

            Michael began thinking of the walk home and smirked.  Although he knew that a couple hours worth of English honors homework awaited him when he got home, he began musing upon the sign that hung above Mr. Dewey’s desk that read: “What matters is the journey, not the destination.”  He thought it was cliché that Mr. Dewey championed such philosophical tripe because he needed it for motivation.  After all, he spent all those years in school just to end up teaching English to freshmen who thought Moby Dick was either a porno or a techno deejay.  It didn’t help the situation that Mr. Dewey expected to be appointed to the Dean of Students vacancy last year.  Michael felt that Mr. Dewey held it against him that his mother leapfrogged over him for the appointment. 

            “So I take it you’re walking home?” Luke asked.

            “Yeah, I am.  My dad’s going to be late at the office, and my mom has a meeting after Open House tonight.  Why what’s up?”

            “Perfect.  Hurry home and I’ll meet you at your place around quarter to eight, all right?”

            “Okay, I guess.  You better be bringing girls though.”

            “Ha!  I guess I am… kind of.”

            “Nice!  You better be bringing two.”

            “Don’t worry; there’ll be enough for the both of us.” 

*

            Open House at the high school was winding down, and Maggie was being as courteous as possible answering each and every question the inquisitive parents threw her way.  Being the new Dean of Students of the prestigious Getty Prep meant she had a significant role in the discipline of the student body, so she expected a barrage of questions from the over-involved parents.  Unflappable and poised, Maggie handled the zealous throng with the composure of a veteran.  It was hard to believe that it was only her third year as a member of the faculty. 

            She arrived at Getty Prep three years ago to teach History after being a stay-at-home mother for most of Michael’s childhood.  After earning her PhD. in History from UCLA, she was poised to embark on a career in academia.  She was handpicked by the chair of the History Department of Whittier College for a teaching position, but a year later she moved to Santa Monica College after getting pregnant.  It was only supposed to be a temporary move so she could be in closer proximity to her doctor and their Westside home, but that first year back in the classroom was incredibly trying on her emotions.  She persevered through the separation anxiety for a year, but realized for the time being, her career was being superseded by a more important duty: motherhood.  With Jason scaling the ranks of his law firm, Maggie decided put her career on hold so that Michael could have a strong parental presence during his formative years. 

            When Michael graduated elementary school, Maggie thought it was time to resume her career.  She had various professorship offers from several area universities and junior colleges, but one position, in particular, piqued her interest: Getty Academy.  Getty Prep, as it was colloquially referred by the haute-monde of the Westside, was considered the Philips-Exeter of the West Coast.  Accepting a position at an elite preparatory school meant a more significant workload with a ten-hour, five-day workweek not to mention parent and student conferences.  Originally, she planned on teaching three classes a couple days a week at a university, but Getty coveted her enough to offer Michael a scholarship when he was of admission age.  Jason and Maggie could not pass up an opportunity to send their son to one of the premier and incredibly expensive prep schools in the nation for free, so she accepted the position.  Maggie brought vigor to the faculty and immediately rose to prominence with raving reviews from students and parents alike for her method, energy, and dedication.  She was voted “Teacher of the Year” after her first year by her peers, and was on the fast track to an administration role down the road.  After receiving her second “Teacher of the Year” award the following year amid several academic successes, she was appointed Dean of Students after her predecessor retired after fifteen years.  The Dean of Students at Getty Academy did more than just discipline the students.   The Dean was also the Chairperson of Academic Affairs, who acted as the liaison between the faculty and the school’s Board of Trustees. 

            With both Jason and Maggie entrenched in their respective careers, they devised a regimented schedule of activities for Michael to keep him on track and out of trouble.  Maggie never felt completely comfortable with her diminished time with her son.  She was disappointed that most of the time they spent together consisted of car rides to and from school, the occasional passing in the halls, and brief meetings in her office before study hall.  Maggie was hoping the situation would improve once he enrolled at Getty, but she was always swamped with work.  That afternoon she had to rush Michael out of her office because she was late for a meeting.  Even those daily afternoon chitchats had become more and more infrequent.

            After wrapping up the Open House in the school auditorium, Maggie made her way to her office for her 8:00 P.M. meeting with Mrs. Malone, a local philanthropist who wanted to donate new computers for the school technology lab.  She sat back in her chair and stared at a picture of Michael above her computer monitor.  The picture of a five year-old Michael making sandcastles at Hermosa Beach was still in the macaroni frame Michael made as a kindergarten project. 

            Ring-ring.

            “Hello, This is Dr. Seaver.  How can I help you?”

            “Hi, Maggie.  It’s Christine Malone.  I’m sorry I couldn’t get a hold of you sooner, but there’s been a family emergency, and I’m going to have to reschedule.  I’m really very sorry.”

            “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Malone.  I’ll call your secretary next week and reschedule with her.  Bye-bye.”  Maggie glanced at Michael’s picture and smiled to herself because if she hurried she might be able to have dinner with him.  She packed her briefcase with some files to read through over the weekend, grabbed her purse, and took off for the parking lot.

*

            Ding-dong

            The baritone drone of the doorbell reverberated off the marble floors and through the nearly empty house startling an unsuspecting Michael, who was surfing porn sites on his computer.  Michael had forgotten about Luke, but quickly remembered when he glanced at the clock on his computer.  It was 8:00 sharp, and Luke’s punctuality caught Michael by surprise.  He remembered Luke saying he was going to bring a girl, so he anxiously hustled to the front door.  He peeked through the peephole but could only make out a solitary figure, Luke’s.  Downtrodden and dejected, Michael opened the door.

            “Luke, you disappoint me.  Where’s the girl?”

            “Smile, bucko!  I’ve got something else for you.  You said you needed a ‘break’, and I’ve got something that’ll make you chill out.  It’s not really a girl, it’s Mary Jane.”

            “Mary Jane?”

            “Marijuana!  Weed.  Pot.  Herb.  Dank.  Chronic.  Cannabis.  Indo.  Hydro.  Ganja.  Kush.  Come on, Mikey boy!  Don’t act like you don’t know.”

            “How did you get it?  You don’t just walk into a CVS pharmacy and ask for weed.”

            “I stole it from my sister’s stash in her nightstand.  I think she gets it from her boyfriend who gets it from some guy in his dorm at USC.”

            “Shit, man that’s crazy.  I don’t know, dude.  If my parents catch me, they’ll KILL me. 

            “How would they know that you’re high?  My parents never suspect my sister even though she comes home late high as a kite and raids the fridge with her bloodshot eyes.” 

            “You think my parents are straight-edge because my dad’s an attorney and my mom is the dean?  They may not look it, but my parents were pretty wild back in the day.  My aunt tells me stories about my mom and dad back when they were in college,” Michael relayed to Luke reeling him in like a fish.  “One night, I was having issues with my computer so I asked my dad to use his laptop to do homework.  I had writer’s block so I started digging through his files to find inspiration,” Michael said with his voice trailing off for effect.  “Remember that poem I read in class about those drugged-up ravers who fell in love?”

            “Yeah, that was a pretty interesting poem,” Luke answered.

            “You think?  It’s a true story!  It’s my parents!”

            “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

            “I swear to God.”

            “Dude, that’s crazy,” Luke gasped as he shook his head in disbelief.  “Mrs. Seaver was a raver?”

            “See what I mean?  I think they’d know if I was high.  Besides, my mom believes she has a special supernatural intuitive connection with me.”

            “Of course she does!  She was a fucking raver!  She probably tried all the good stuff: ecstasy… acid… mushrooms… maybe all at once!  I wouldn’t worry about it though.  You said they aren’t coming home for a while so you’ll be fine.  We’ll just toke inside the garage so the neighbors won’t see, and we’ll leave the side door open so it airs out.  When your parents come home, just pretend to be asleep to avoid them.  It’s all covered, all right?”

            “I still don’t know.”

            “Stop being a bitch.  Why don’t you break from your program and live a little?”

*

            Halfway between Getty Prep and the Seaver house on the Coast Highway was Ben’s Diner.  It was a family-owned establishment that the Seavers frequented because Michael could never eat enough of the country-fried steak and potatoes.  Maggie decided to stop by on the way home to pick up an order to surprise Michael.  

            As Maggie arrived home and pulled into the garage she noticed the light had been left on and the side door was left wide open.  She found it strange and began to worry.  She parked her car, took out her can of pepper spray, and cautiously opened her car door.  She stepped out and took a whiff of a familiar aroma.  It was pungent like skunk but not as offensive.  To the untrained nose it might have been mistaken for skunk, but Maggie knew exactly what it was, and she knew the smell was still fresh.  Maggie paced around in her garage for a few minutes trying to compose her thoughts.  She deliberated whether to storm into the house with accusations and threats while grasping for his neck, or to take a calm, civil, and understanding approach, after all, she was a wild child herself in days gone by.  She decided to call Jason to discuss a course of action.

            Ring-ring.

            “Hi Hon, what’s up?”

            “Jason, how much longer are you going to be at the office?”

            “I don’t know?  Another hour, maybe two, why?  Is everything all right?”

            “No.  Michael is experimenting with drugs.”

            “What!?  What kind of drugs?  It isn’t cocaine or meth, is it?”

            “No, nothing like that.  It had a strong odor with a bite like an indica or sativa strand.  I don’t know where he could’ve gotten it though.  None of the kids at school could score quality pot like this.”

            “Thank God it’s just pot.  Don’t do anything drastic until I get there.  Let me finish up here and I’ll be on the road in fifteen minutes.  Love you, bye.”

            Maggie took a deep breath and walked into the house.  The click-clack of her heels on wooden floors alerted Luke to Mrs. Seaver’s premature arrival.  Maggie began walking toward Michael’s room but stopped in the kitchen to gather her thoughts again and reassess how she wanted to start the conversation. 

            Inside the room Luke was panic-stricken.  He fumbled around trying to find any semblance of normality, but he was so stoned that he had forgotten what normal was.  Luke, who had been lying on the floor trying to make imaginary cloud figures in the texture coating of the ceiling, sprang up and was vainly forcing his shoes onto the wrong feet.  Michael was so far gone off his rocker that he was in his own world laughing hysterically at classic DVDs of The Chappelle Show.  He was completely oblivious to what was going on outside his room.

            “Michael!  Dude, your mom’s here!   I have to get out of here.  I’m going through your window.  You better not rat me out to your mom if you get caught!”

            Whatever it was that Luke was babbling about, it wasn’t registering with Michael who was transfixed on the TV.  “What?  You’re talking too fast.  I can’t understand you,” Michael slurred ever so slowly.  “My mouth is so fucking dry.  Do you want something to drink?” Michael asked.

            Luke grabbed Michael by the shoulders and shook him violently.  “Listen!  Don’t go out there.  Your mom is home, and I’m bailing through your window.  Don’t rat me out!”  Luke said as he stumbled over the windowsill and disappeared into the backyard. 

            Michael had a jolt of reality shock his system as he realize the kind of predicament he had gotten himself into.  His heart raced and his breaths shortened.  His hands began shaking uncontrollably as he lost control of his body and his mind as paranoia set in.  He ran to his bathroom to compose himself.  He stared at himself in the mirror trying to rehearse giving the “sober” look.  He noticed the stench of smoke on his breath and started brushing his teeth to try to mask the smell. 

            Knock-knock.

            “Michael, honey?”

            “Mom, hold on.  I’m brushing my teeth.”

            “Oh did you eat already?  I brought home country-fried steak and potatoes from Ben’s.”

            “Oh yeah?  I can eat again!” Michael exclaimed as he enthusiastically threw his bedroom door open.  Avoiding eye contact, Michael grabbed the bag from Maggie’s hand and took it to the kitchen.  Wary of being cornered in the one spot, he danced like a boxer retrieving the silverware, then a plate, then a napkin, and finally a giant glass of water. 

            Maggie chuckled to herself when Michael spilled water as he struggled pouring it into the glass.  Even though Michael was noticeably avoiding eye contact, she saw his bloodshot eyes.  Michael may have loved Ben’s country-fried steak, but he was attacking his food with the ferocity of a hungry wolf, and he was chugging water like it was going out of style.  “Hey, save some water for the fish,” she chided him.  “Are your allergies with your eyes acting up again?”  She inquired.  “Why are your eyes so red.” 

            “Yeah.  My allergies have been killing me,” Michael replied.

            Maggie gave Michael a half smirk before going on.  “Uh huh.  I thought you said you ate already?  Didn’t you get full or do you just have the munchies?  She asked.

            Michael gulped and answered, “I’m hungry again.”

            Maggie tried keeping her suspicion discreet, but his obviousness made it difficult.  “Your eyelids are droopy.  You must be tired.  And that dry-mouth really sucks doesn’t it?  After your dad gets home tonight, I think we should have a little chat.” 

            Silence.  Michael didn’t know what to say.  He knew that she knew what was going on.  “Yeah, sure.  Oh crap, I left my computer on in my room.  Let me shut it down.  Don’t want to waste energy, you know?”  Michael ran back to his bedroom knowing that he was in it deep.  He couldn’t believe his terrible luck getting caught the first time he ventured off the straight and narrow.  Now, it was only a matter of time before his father would get home and he’d receive the full parental onslaught.  Punishments didn’t really bother Michael so much as the talks as getting lectured by a lawyer and a principal did a number on the teenage psyche.  Desperate and backed into a corner, Michael reached for his last resort trump card.

*

            Jason was back at the office rushing to finish his work before leaving to take care of the situation at home.  He was overcome with guilt for all the time missed working when he should have been spending more time with Michael.  He just grew up in a blink of an eye.  In the back of Jason’s mind Michael was still the eight-year old kid in the framed Little League picture on his desk.  He couldn’t believe he didn’t see the signs that Michael was at that age when experimentation was on a kid’s mind.  Jason was actually younger than Michael was when he first experimented with marijuana, but to him it was a different time back then.  He never had the drug talk with his parents, but then again, he was never stupid enough to get caught doing it at home.  He couldn’t help but ponder which situation was more ideal: catching Michael and bringing the issue out in the open, or being blissfully ignorant like his parents were with him.  “Oh well, we’ve already reached the bridge, now it’s time to cross it,” he thought.  As he was closing out the briefs he was working on, he received an email alert.

            You’ve got mail.

            “Who’s emailing me now?” Jason thought to himsef.  “Michael?  What’s going on here?”  Jason saw that the subject line of Michael’s email read, “WAIT: Before you kill me” and knew something devious was afoot.  He opened the email and began reading:

            Dear Dad,

         You’ve probably already talked to mom.  I have one thing to say: let          he, who is without sin, cast the first stone.

-       Michael

            Jason couldn’t believe his son’s audacity, “Who the hell does he think he is quoting Jesus Christ?  He better have found religion because I’m about to send him back to his maker.”  Then Jason noticed an attachment at the bottom of the email.  He clicked on the attachment which opened up a picture slideshow of photos that Jason thought he had hidden deep into the recesses of his hard drive.  They were pictures of Jason and Maggie at a rave when they were in college.  They looked like clowns wearing bright fuzzy pants big enough to fit two people, neon yellow and orange t-shirts, colorful beaded bracelets half way up to their elbow, and they were both sucking on pacifiers.  They had haggard looks on their sweaty faces when they weren’t making funny faces at the camera or sucking each other’s face for the picture.  The last picture featured Jason, Maggie, and two other people sitting in a circle passing around a joint with Maggie tossing her head back in laughter as it appeared that she was about lie down on the dirty floor.  Jason was mortified.  He quickly grabbed his cell phone and frantically called Maggie.

            “Maggie!!!!!  Did you confront Michael already?”

            “No, I told you I’d wait for you.”

            “Well, Michael must sense his pending doom.  He knows you’re suspicious.  I just got an email from him, and he figures something’s up because he suspected you’ve already talked to me.”

            “That paranoid little stoner!” Maggie exclaimed.

            “Well honey, there’s more.  He found some old pictures of us.”

            “WHAT?!?!?!  What pictures?  Not the…”

            “No, Hon.  Not those ones.”

            “Oh, thank God,” she sighed with temporary relief.

            “He found some old raving pictures of us.  He sent an email saying ‘let he, who is without sin, cast the first stone’ and even created a slideshow with the pictures.  I’m beginning to regret getting him that MacBook for his birthday.”

            “I regret sending him to Catholic school if he’s just going to turn scripture against us.  What are we going to do?  This throws a huge monkey wrench into my plans now.”

            “Really?  What were you going to say?  I was stumped.  My parents never had the drug talk with me, and honestly, I was hoping we’d have a couple more years before having to talk about it.  Come to think of it, we haven’t even had the sex talk with him yet.”

            “I didn’t have the drug or sex talk with my parents either, and we turned out pretty well for ourselves, didn’t we?”

            “I’d have to say so.  We never thought we’d be where we are now back when those pictures were taken.  All I cared about was partying, having a good time, and getting into your pants.”

            “Shut up, Jason!  This is a serious.  How are we supposed to have a discussion about drugs with our teenage son when our position of moral authority has been completely compromised?”

            “Honey, I’m a lawyer, remember?  Moral authority is a relative term.  If I can talk circles around the district attorney, then I think I can handle our 14 year-old son.  Besides, I was fourteen once too, and I bet Michael hasn’t done half of the things I had done at that age.” Jason thought about what it was like to be fourteen again and had an epiphany about how to talk to Michael.

            “That’s what scares me, Jason.  I don’t want him doing half the things you did!”

            “Well excuse me, Dr. Seaver.  Do I have to remind you that you are speaking to a junior partner of the Graham & Lubbock law firm?” 

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah whatever.  I hope you’re on the road because he might pass out soon.  He was smoking some potent stuff because it absolutely reeked in the garage, and you should’ve seen how he was devouring his food.”

            “I’ll be home in ten minutes.  I think I know how to approach this to put him in his place.  To drive the lesson home, we have to make this experience as unforgettably bad as possible so he’ll never try it again.  When I get home, just follow my lead, okay?”

*

            Maggie heard the whir of the garage door and went to meet Jason in the kitchen.  She had been pacing in the home office and had grown exceeding anxious about the pending confrontation.  Jason entered the kitchen from the garage with a distinctive smirk on his face that disarmed Maggie’s anxiety. 

            “What’s going on Jason?  What’s with the silly grin?”

            “You’ll see.  I’m going to call Michael out here for a talk, and I just want you to follow my lead.  Remember to think ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘awkward’ because tonight has to be the most unforgettable night of his young life.”

            Jason and Maggie walked out of the office and down the long hall to the living room.  Instead of knocking on Michael’s door to tell him to come out, they took a seat on the sectional leather sofa and called him on his cell phone.

            Michael was in his room playing video games thinking his last ditch effort to save his skin had worked.  He was still stoned out of his wits, but he was proud of how he outsmarted his parents. He felt like he had them on their heels regarding this “after-school special” he had gotten himself into.  “This stuff doesn’t fry your brain,” he thought to himself.

            Ring-ring.

            “Dad?”

            “Michael, we need you to come out to the living room.”

            “Okay.  I’ll be right out.”  Michael slowly opened his door and began his death march down the long hall to the living room.  He tried to infer his fate by deciphering the tone of Jason’s voice, but there wasn’t a lead to go on.  As he approached his parents who were seated at the opposite end of the sofa, he tried to discern their mood by the expression on their faces.  Maggie had the stern face of a dean.  Her eyes shot spears straight into Michael’s heart reviving childhood memories of getting caught playing in the game room when he was supposed to be napping.  He knew that look all too well, and it never failed to reach into the depths of his heart causing an excruciating shame for disappointing her.  Jason, on the other hand, had a smirk on his face like a hot shot lawyer with a surprise witness.  This was most unnerving for Michael, who believed he had played the ultimate wild card with the preemptive email.  Michael’s mind was racing as to what trick his father had up his sleeve, and then his father stood up and began to speak.

            “Michael, we noticed that you managed to unearth some compromising pictures of me and your mother when we were in college.  Since you’re older now, and obviously not oblivious to the world around you, we think it’s time we had a talk about what’s going on in the pictures.”

            Michael began to brace himself for the cliché spiel about the dangers of drugs and how they could derail a young person’s life.  He expected his parents to give the “do as I say, not as I do” excuse because the “times are different now” or whatever other unsubstantiated reason that precluded him from trying pot, but not them from enjoying it when they were young.   But all the batting practice over the years couldn’t have prepared him for the curveball Jason had in store.

            “Those pictures that you found bring back a lot of old memories.  I had just finished my junior year in college, and some of my fraternity brothers decided to go to a rave.  I hadn’t been to one before, and everyone went through this ritual of getting ready and dressing as outrageously ridiculous as possible.  I was having a fun time when I noticed this girl across the dance floor that I took Freshman Composition with.  She was dancing up a storm wearing these white pants that looked like they were painted onto her long legs and round, perfect ass,” Jason described extending his hands out with his palms up and motioning like he was grabbing something firm and supple.  “Those pants were see-through in the black light and revealed the outline of a hot pink thong.  Her top flowed like a reed in the breeze as her breasts bounced with each step,” he recalled sticking his hands out in front of his chest with his palms out making the same grabbing motion.  “I was craning my neck hoping to catch a glimpse of an errant nipple when those effervescent blue eyes caught my stare.  This beautiful creature hypnotizing me with her swaying hips entranced me and motioned with her finger to approach her.  You know who that girl was?”

            Michael leaned in closer with burning curiosity.  “No, who was it?” Michael asked.

            “Your mother.” 

            “WHAT?!” Michael yelped while choking on his breath.

            “And I spent the rest of the night trying to get into her pants.”

            Maggie’s eyes opened to the size of saucers.  She was shocked speechless at first.  Jason’s brilliant plan was to give their son carnal knowledge of their first sexual encounter?  He mentioned that he wanted to make Michael feel uncomfortable and awkward, but his thinking was completely out of the box with this.  The more she thought about it though, the more she began to see Jason’s train of thought.  It wasn’t just that Michael was experimenting with pot, but he was snooping through private material, and he had the gall to try to extort them.  Jason was taking off the gloves in the realm of psychological warfare, and she wanted a piece of the action.

            “You should’ve seen your father back then, Michael.  He was ripped like a bodybuilder.  While we were dancing I had my hands all over his body feeling those rock-hard muscles with my hands.  Your father’s hands had a way of wandering too.  It got so hot and heavy on the dance floor that the people dancing around us stopped to watch.  We didn’t want to give a free show so I grabbed a firm grip of his throbbing fantasy-maker and pulled him to a dark corner of the club where we went at it like wild animals kissing, rubbing, moaning, screaming… ”

            Michael’s jaw hit the floor along with his stomach and the color in his face.  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  This wasn’t what he was expecting.  He emailed those pictures to demonstrate his awareness of his parents’ past dalliances with drugs; he didn’t want to hear of their coital conquests of each other.  He knew they had a sex life, but what the hell kind of games were they playing with his head?  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Michael stammered.

            “Michael, Michael, please.  Your email screams that you need attention, and you needed to have ‘the talk’ because you’re already fourteen.   My, how time flies.  We’re sorry we didn’t bring this up with you sooner, but we figured that you learned about sex in school.  We realize you’re more curious than that or else you wouldn’t have made that slideshow.”

            “You know Michael.  You can talk to us anytime about anything, especially sex,” Maggie interjected.

            Just the word “sex” coming out of his parents’ mouths made Michael’s skin crawl.  He knew they had a sex life because they were still in their 40s, and they were attractive for old folks, but they were good about keeping it to themselves.  He had never walked in on them or even heard them through the walls.  What made him exceedingly uncomfortable was that even though Michael was still a virgin, he had become something of an internet porn addict and was constantly thinking unsavory thoughts about any girl who looked half-way decent.  Now, he couldn’t stop envisioning his parents interlocked into all those positions of the Kama Sutra.  He tried with all his might to imagine the porn he was watching earlier of Kayden Kross and Lela Star, but his mind always came back to Mom getting railed by Dad.  It got worse as Jason and Maggie kept laying it on sparing no intimate detail about that first encounter at the party and the following four-week long sex-a-thon that ensued.  Michael reached a point of apoplexy as Jason and Maggie kept hammering him with sordid detail after salacious tid-bit.  Some parts made him want to throw up.  Other parts made him want to rip his ears off his head to spare his imagination.  His high had become an all-time low, and he felt an immense weight in the pit of his stomach, an absence where his heart used to be, and a pulsating sensation in his skull.  By the time they were done with him, Michael had retreated into the fetal position on the sofa. 

            “… It’s a good thing you didn’t delve further into my hard drive looking for pictures because you might have found some pictures you could never un-see,” Jason quipped.

            “Dad, I didn’t have to see much to know that I’ve seen enough, heard enough, and imagined enough for my lifetime.  Are we done?”

            “One more thing, Michael, just so we’re clear.   Don’t experiment with drugs and think you can get over on us.  Mom and I aren’t square poindexters who were born yesterday.  We have both been through too much in our lives for you to think you can get away with anything.  If we ever catch you with drugs, we will fuck with your head in such a way that you’ll think tonight was a birthday party.”

            “Now go to your room and let this simmer for a while.  We’ll discuss your punishment tomorrow after we have the drug talk,” Maggie said.

            Michael began trudging back down the hall to his room in a daze.  He got to the kitchen, stopped, and turned around, “I am so sorry, Mom and Dad.  It was so stupid of me.  Everything I did was so stupid.

            “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Jason replied.

            “Any talk will be better than tonight,” Michael muttered to himself as he walked into his room.

            “Good job, counselor,” Maggie said while patting Jason on the back.

            “You did quite well yourself, Dr. Seaver,” Jason said patting Maggie’s butt. 

            “Jason, I have to ask.  How did you think of this as a way to handle the situation?  I would’ve never in a million years thought of the ‘shock and awe’ approach.”

            “It’s the 21^st century now.  I’ve resigned myself to the fact that we can’t be at Michael’s side 24/7.  We’ll have the drug talk tomorrow, so tonight we’re going to have to think of a way to seriously discuss it.  As for tonight, I just wanted to remind Mr. Seaver over there that my curveball is devastating, and I can sit on his and hit it out of the park.” 

            “Jason, just to let you know, he may have found the pictures, but he didn’t find our stash.”

            “Perfect!  How about you put on your raver outfit, and we meet on the balcony in an hour for a smoke and some fun?  The night isn’t over so let’s be really loud and give him nightmares.”

If You Want To Destroy My Sweater

I used to have a nice sky blue WESC hoodie that I loved to wear on chilly days and evenings much like the ones we’ve been experiencing lately. The sweatshirt gremlins have claimed yet another victim as I haven’t the slightest clue where it is. I’m hoping I lent it to someone to wear and that person has forgotten to return it to me. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

In lieu of my favorite sweatshirt, I’ve been reduced to resurrecting my black “UCLA” hoodie that I bought for $50 (what a rip-off!!!!) at the campus store earlier this year when I attended my first ever UCLA basketball game. The sweatshirt represents more than the financial raping of my wallet though, it represents the closest sniff I ever got to going to UCLA. It was January 31, 2008, and the Bruins were playing Arizona State. Jen won tickets to the game by calling Indie 103.1 the day before, and I was elated to finally make my first pilgrimage to the college basketball Mecca, Pauley Pavilion. Growing a UCLA fan wasn’t a choice as I was indoctrinated at an early age by a father who worshipped at the altar of John Wooden, only the greatest coach of all time. Needless to say it was a little dream of mine to one day roam the famed campus in Westwood as a UCLA student, although you probably wouldn’t have guessed it with my half-ass study habits.

My application to transfer was still being reviewed when I went to the game in January. I have a thing about wearing college sweaters if and only if you graduated from the school or are a current student. I’ve bought t-shirts for certain event like March Madness before, but I drew the line with the college sweatshirts with the block letters emblazoned on the front.   I broke my rule this time. It wasn’t that I was confident about getting admitted because I’m a realist, but I’d been wanting that sweatshirt ever since I was a kid.

As fate would have it, I didn’t get in. I begrudgingly relegated the sweatshirt to the bottom of my closet to be remembered only as a momentary lapse of reality.

Poor Schleps Like Me

I can tell by the glow around my blinds what kind of day it’s going to be. This morning my window radiated like God was trying to make an impression on me, or more likely a cruel joke because the early wake-up call was for work.

So much for the storm of the century, right? All I heard this week was that it was going to be the coldest, wettest Christmas EVAR. StormWatch 2008 was in full effect with “Asian News Reporter” on the corner of pick-your-intersection reporting that yes, in fact, there is water falling from the sky. “Washed-up-former-anchor-who’s-relegated-to-field-work” was reporting from the base of a burned out hill from last month’s fires waiting for the inevitable mudslide to consume him. I don’t want to downplay the potential danger that comes with storms, mudslides, floods, and the like, but come on! LA, you need to man up! It’s just fucking WATER!

It sucks to be working the day after Christmas. Seeing that I’m temping here, I thought I’d impart some yuletide spirit and volunteer. There’s only two of us here at the office, me and the boss, who I play softball with. Luckily, I brought my MacBook and my brand new How I Met Your Mother seasons 1 & 2 DVDs.

I braved the mall crowd Christmas Eve to do some last minute shopping. I wandered into a going-out-of-business sale at Suncoast Pictures and found myself deliberating which DVDs to splurge on: How I Met Your Mother or The Laguna Beach Gift Set. What a dilemma. How I Met Your Mother is my new favorite show. If the The Wonder Years is my idealistic childhood lived vicariously through the eyes of a prepubescent Caucasian boy living in the suburbs of Anywhere, USA, and 90210 is the idealistic teenage years lived vicariously through the eyes of privileged teenagers run amok, then How I Met Your Mother is what my twenties would be like if… if I hadn’t had my head in the clouds wishing my life were more like TV.

The First of a Long Ten Days

The first alarm went off confusing me in my semi-conscious state not  knowing if I had actually fallen asleep.   The last thought I remembered before drifting off into this period consciousness limbo was,  “hold her while you can.”

By the time the alarm went off a third or fourth time, she crawled over me to get ready for her flight.  I wasn’t in a rush to send her off because she was leaving me for ten long days.

I swear I wasn’t like this before.  Her love consumes me, and I’m only all too willing.  I  had started missing her days before she was supposed to leave, and this last morning was tough.

She got caught trying to sneak an extra carry-on bag into the terminal so we had to get back in line at the counter to check a second bag.  I didn’t mind because I got to spend another 10 fleeting minutes with her before TSA rules separated us.

I stood in line with her as long as I could before reaching the first security checkpoint.  I kissed her lips and said goodbye before walking off to an area outside the checkpoint.  I watched her as she matriculated through the checkpoint to the escalator seeing if she’d look back to see if I was still there.  I was.  And every time she looked back I would blow a kiss to her.  I stayed until I couldn’t see her anymore.

By the time I got home I had to call and tell her how much I loved and missed her.  I swear I didn’t used to be like this, not that it’s a bad thing.  I’m lucky because she doesn’t just appreciate it, she revels in it.

I’ve always considered myself a “romantic” of sorts daydreaming about love and its exploits before really understanding what it all entailed.  I evolved (devolved?) into a “hopeless romantic,” which was probably  my darkest hour.  Unfortunately, that hour turned into weeks, months, and years to the point where it started defining me.  I would spend countless thoughts throughout the day wondering what was wrong with me lamenting everything I had become.

She saved me from me.  She is the love I daydreamed about as a boy when I didn’t know what it was, but had an idea what it should feel like.  She is the  love I believed in when I was an optimistic teenager.  She is the love I held out hope for in the despair of my young adulthood.  She is love.  All the heartbreaks,  tears, love-sick poems, musing on chick flicks, sunsets, starry nights, dewy dawns, and all the failed attempts before was only preparation for this moment, this special girl whose existence I began losing faith in.

Hurry home.  I miss you terribly.

Tying Up Loose Ends Before Turkey Day

The professor put the offer on the table: watch the movie Away From Her on your own or come into class on Tuesday and watch it.  I contemplated blowing off the movie, but since I had another class afterwards and my laptop needed to be recharged, I took the professor up on his offer.  There was only a handful of students in the class when the professor arrived, and I quipped that we had enough to play basketball. 

Away From Her  is based on Alice Munro’s short story, “The Bear Came Over The Mountain”, which was originally published in The New Yorker.  It’s a tragic story that leaves little for catharsis.  It’s not tragic in the way Romeo & Juliet is tragic though, it’s more of a building pit in your stomach from the early moments of the film that just keeps getting worse.  The film lulls you ever so peacefully with the idyllic, snow-covered landscapes of rural Canada and snapshots of the happy couple, Grant and Fiona, of which the movie centers. 

I don’t want to spoil the movie, but I’ve dubbed it “the Anti-Notebook“.  The Notebook retold the tale of a how a love was discovered, built, and maintained up until the moment it was extinguished in this world.  This film doesn’t leave any warm and fuzzy feelings in your stomach.  While Alzheimer’s became an element of the twist in The Notebook’s plot, Away From Her takes your heart down the emotional whirlpool that the disease creates.  The ending of The Notebook gives the viewer a moment of catharsis, while Away From Her abruptly ends with an empty feeling of inconclusiveness in regards to the storyline, but definitely causes the viewer to spend more time in afterthought.

Getting Around To It…

Some time ago I thought of doing a “friend tribute” where I would devote an entire update reflecting on a friendship that I hold dear.  Time passes and updates start becoming sporadic, and I never got around to doing it.  I think I’m going to start that now since I have some time to spare.  If you’re a friend and would like to hasten your tribute, don’t hesitate to contact me here or in an email, and I’ll get right to it.

Hello me?

I’ve stumbled upon my own blog from a link from a friend’s blog.  Thanks Sarah! 

Jessica most recent update on her blog states she’s beginning a new era where she’s going to make an attempt to maintain her site with updates.  That was thirteen days ago.

Why do I neglect my blog?  If anything, I should be the one of my friends consistently writing since I chose this damn craft as a possible career.  Make that POSSIBLE in caps lock because while I’m stupid enough to have even considered it, I’m not naive enough to believe in its possibility.  Sometimes, it’s better to be both. 

I have my second short story due in a couple weeks, and I’m still on phase 1/2 of the process.  Phase one-half means I’ve acknowledged the assignment but haven’t quite begun formulating potential stories.  I’ve had a couple ideas here and there, but when it comes down to actually developing them, I’m not sure I can constrain the plot within the parameters of a short story…

• A federal agent is on the case of a series of murders that appear politically motivated.  Several leaders of liberal interest groups and a TV show pundit are found murdered.  It’s a government conspiracy Tom Clancy-like story that might be a little too complex to be jammed into 12-16 pages. 
• The Last Ride of the Cowboy Coach – a high school football coach who’s popular with his players in a football-crazy Texas town is forced out by a hostile schoolboard who believes they know how to run a football program better.
• A father suspects his son of experimenting with pot and is then forced to reconcile his past drug use and his present responsibility as a parent. 

Most of the stories submitted so far deal with the typical themes of love and death.  I already wrote nostalgic/tragic piece, so I want to try something new.  If I had to make a determination about myself, I’d say I write drama a lot better than comedy, but maybe I could try comedy just to give it a spin. 

I really can’t wait for the semester to be over, but I’m NOT looking forward to due dates.

The problem with being an English major is the extreme subjectivity of its grading rubric.  I poured my heart out in my short story.  It was the most serious I had taken an assignment in recent memory.  If Proscrastination was a country, I’d be the President, but I finished writing my working draft an entire week before it was due and spent that week meticulously poring over every word and detail.  Every time I read the draft I would make revisions up until the morning of the day it was due.  The night my class critiqued it, I defended every plot element, every detail with the ferocity of tigress protecting her cubs.  I got a fucking B+ on it.  A FUCKING B+!!!!!!!!  Never had B+ felt so empty before in my life.  I was crushed for a few days afterwards seriously reconsidering whether or not I even had the necessary skills to be in the program.  The professor made a comment that he would’ve liked the ending to conclude with an image of the characters of the story rather than an image from The Wonder Years, and that was the difference between an A and a B.  That is such fucking bullshit!!!  I WANTED the final image to be of The Wonder Years because it’s a significant element of the story.  It wasn’t like I had very many syntactical or proofreading errors.  There were some, but not enough to forsake the critical elements of the story.  It sucks that a professor can just arbitrarily deduct points because an element of the story doesn’t confine to his whims.  On top of that, the fucking T/A made some nitpicking comments about the vocabulary — “inevitable”, “genuinely” — being too advanced for the characters’ age (junior high).  Look here bitch… those were 6th grade vocabulary words at St. James.  I’m sorry you didn’t learn them until high school, but try expanding your thought process.  Then that fucking cunt had the nerve to say that she was more impressed with the character’s language as a kid than when he’s an adult.  FUCK YOU BITCH ASS CUNT!!!It’s times like this I wish I were a fucking math geek because 2 plus 2 ALWAYS equals 4. 

An interesting observation about my story: the girls in my class were SHOCKED that kids in junior high were trying to have sex.  The guys in my class, including my professor, all agreed with my point of view.  Are girls that naive?  Seriously girls, guys have been trying to get into your pants since they discovered it felt good bust a nut.  For me, I was twelve.  Now, whether or not guys are successful that young is a whole other story. 

I have the same professor in another English class called “Intro to English Studies” which is a theory-centric course about English studies in the academy.  Basically, it’s all the egghead crap that English majors talk about to appear intellectual i.e.: Literary Theory, Queer Theory, Minority Discourse, Deconstruction, etc.   I wrote an argument paper the day it was due and got an A+.  Not only did I get an A+, but the professor asked me if he could use my paper as an example for future classes.  I finished writing that paper a couple hours before it was due, and I’m getting praised for it?  And I fucking HATE writing academic papers.

I’ve been advised…

The ten-year trek through the junior college system officially came to an end earlier this month.  Finally.  I used to joke about the “10-year plan” when I was younger sealing my self-prophetic fate.  I’ll be wiser next time around.

I’m at Long Beach State/Cal State Long Beach/The Beach — whatever you want to call it — and even though it was actually my third choice of schools (UCLA rejected me, UCI was too far) I think the curriculum actually fits what I was looking for in my undergraduate studies.  I’m an English – Creative Writing major, and the typical questions I field are: “why?”, “what are you going to do with an English degree?”, and “do you want to teach?”.

Why not something practical like engineering, business, or something with computers?  It’s a question I’ve mulled myself.  It all goes back to an eighth grade field trip to the Torrance Superior Courthouse where we visited with Judge Ben Aranda (RIP) in his chambers.  A precocious and forward-thinking classmate asked him what to major in college to become a judge.

He replied, “First you’ll have to go to law school, but before that you should major in English.  It isn’t just about reading and writing — you’ll be doing A LOT of that — but studying English equips you with the necessary analytical tools to perform my job.  Luckily, you guys have an excellent English teacher”.

My eighth grade teacher, Mr. Wibberley was keen on teaching the mechanics of writing and grammar.  Sure, anyone can string a subject, verb, and some modifiers together and call it a sentence, but I had to diagram sentences and memorize definitions of all the parts of speech, lists of prepositions, verb conjugation charts for the different tenses and moods, pretty much a lot of stuff I wish I remembered today.

9/11 was a watershed moment to me on many different levels.  Most importantly, it became a catalyst for me to do something with myself as my life was languishing at the time.  I was bouncing around from job to job after dropping out of school a couple years prior.  I was treading water in a period of arrested development.  I became invigorated in politics during the fallout of 9/11 and set my sights on fulfilling my father’s dream of becoming a lawyer.  I remembered Judge Aranda’s advice and felt a natural inclination toward English.  In high school, I scored the highest in the school on the annual English Rubric Assessment — whatever that meant — so I thought I should pursue something I might have a sliver of talent in.  I re-enrolled in school for the Fall of 2002 part-time and slowly but steadily began the journey toward a goal.

A lot can happen in the span of six years like my dwindling drive to pursue law.  I began thinking that a particular personality was required to flourish in Law and believed that I didn’t have it.  Doubt made a reappearance as I began to wonder if I had the necessary fortitude to hack it in law school.  I say I don’t like getting ahead of myself, but I have a tendency to disqualify myself for a lot things.  I wish it wasn’t so, but no one limits me more than myself.

While my Law aspirations began to diminish, my inkling to write emerged.  It kind of had to because I do not like reading.  In fact, I’m probably the least well-read English Major in the history of higher learning.  Did you know that James Joyce used 29,899 different words in his tour de force, Ulysses?  Do you know how many of those words I’ve read?  Zero.  I called it a “tour de force” because Joyce is one of the most significant Modern writers and Ulysses is his landmark literary work.  I SHOULD have read it.  Will I read it?  Are you fucking kidding me?  If he used 29,899 different words, imagine how thick that doorstop is!

When deliberating between UC Irvine and Cal State Long Beach this summer, I decided that I had enough of theory-driven studies.  I didn’t want to try to get into the heads of long-dead writers and extrapolate what he might have meant with this word or that phrase.  I want to BE the writer.  Now, don’t think that I have delusions of grandeur of me becoming the next great American novelist, essayist, or even columnist.  People might not think that an English degree is practical because it’s just reading and writing.  I can agree on some aspects.  An English degree alone will not get you anywhere except maybe a teaching position (the third typical question), but it’s a great launching point for an advanced degree.  I believe your undergraduate degree says that you’re able to complete the rigors of higher education, but it’s your advanced degree that trains you for your career.  A degree in English is paradoxical in that you can do nothing with it yet do anything with it.

My back-up plan should I lose all desire to pursue Law is to get a Master’s Degree in Counseling to be guidance counselor at the high school or junior college level.  I would like to help people achieve their goals.  In actuality, at this moment I have no idea where the path I have chosen will take me.  It’s exciting and exhilarating as well as daunting and scary.  I’ll have a day job while doing the writing thing on the side.  Some people have their calling or special talents that they cling to for their dreams.  If writing is my mine, then I have to work on it.  I have to write as much as I can, which means no more writing a post then deleting it.  I’m going to be updating this blog as much as possible because now, more than ever, I have to write for myself.

The Best Kind of Pain

My arm feels like jello when I don’t have sharp, searing pain shooting through it doing even the most mundane of actions like lifting my coffee mug or reaching for a stapler.  It hurts when I clench my fist or reach over my shoulder to scratch my back, but it’s a pain that’s well worth the trouble.

I was lucky enough to get batting cage time and a personal one-on-one hitting lesson for Marc with a friend who also helps coach the Dukes whenever he can find the time.  Coach Mason as the boys call him is graduating from high school today completing a stellar high school baseball career where he was named League Most Outstanding Player this year following a junior season where he was named League MVP.  He is a three-year First Team All-Area and All-League selection, and was named to the All-CIF team the past two years.  A young man mature beyond his years, Mason has been an exemplary role model for Marc and the boys on the baseball field as well as off of it as well.  He has parlayed his baseball acumen into a full-ride scholarship to the University of San Francisco where he’ll be majoring in Kinisieology next year. 

I threw 2 1/2 hours of batting practice on Monday and another 1 1/2 hours yesterday.  Needless to say, my arm is spent.  Mason was able to work out a lot of the kinks in Marc’s swing pinpointing some bad mechanical habits in various phases of his swing.  I’m so happy that Marc has the drive to get better.  2 1/2 hours of batting practice is very long time, but he never complained or intimated he wanted to stop.  Mason called me at work yesterday to tell me he’d be at the cage if I wanted to bring Marc down, but after Monday’s prolonged workout I wasn’t expecting it.  When Marc got home from school he told me that he had practiced his swing in front of a mirror the night before to get his muscles to remember how to it correctly.  That’s when I knew he wouldn’t shy away from more batting practice.  Sure enough, when I asked him if he wanted to go back for more, his eyes lit up and he gave me an enthusiastic “okay!”.  We stayed for 1 1/2 hours and only stopped because he had All-Star practce at 6.

The kid will never pass up an opportunity to play baseball whether it’s hitting at the cage, playing catch, hitting into the net at home, or playing pepper in the front yard.  He simply loves the game.  He’s worn his All-Star jersey to school the past two days even sneaking it into his backpack yesterday so his mom wouldn’t nag him about wearing the same thing two days in a row.  It reminds me of when he was 3 years old and wore his Batman costume almost until Thanksgiving.

Last year, he was voted by his peers to West Torrance Little League’s 10 year-old All-Star team as a 9 year-old only to be snubbed from the playing roster by a coach who doesn’t know what he’s doing.  I reminded Marc of how he felt last year, and he’s used that feeling to drive him this year during All-Star season.  After moving over to a new league that plays by PONY rules (much more competitive, higher quality of players) he was a unanimous All-Star selection by the eight managers in the division in his first year in a new league.  I told him to use All-Star season to show everyone where he stacks up against the best of the best, and he’s been bringing it in practice with his focus and intensity. 

It means a lot to me when Mason says that the way I push Marc reminds him of the way his dad used to push him.  I’m not one of those crazy “Little League” dads who thinks his kid is going pro and will stop at nothing to make it happen.  The game of baseball is a lot like the game of life in many regards.  Baseball is a game that is predicated on failure.  The key is to take those failures in stride and use them to make yourself better through the process.  There are also many subtle ways to be successful besides getting a hit or striking someone out.  Hitting behind a runner with no outs to move him along the bases is a successful at-bat.  Knocking a ball down in the infield with a runner on second base while not getting an out is a success because it keeps the runner from scoring.  Being there to tell a teammate who just struck out to keep his head up and “get him next time” goes lengths in being a great teammate and contributing to the team’s success.  Most of all, baseball is a game that develops discipline, determination, and perseverance, and I think those are valuable lessons every child should learn as early as possible. 

I’m fortunate that Marc and I share a passion and a bond that will last forever.  Baseball is a game that’s passed down from fathers to sons, and I can’t wait until the day I’m grandpa watching Marc coach his own son.  It all started with a NERF baseball set, and me putting down pieces of tape on the driveway so Marc would know where to put his feet when he bats.  Soon, we’ll be playing catch shooting the breeze about being a teenager and all that entails.  I can’t wait. 

As you lie…

Something special will come up that will give her motivation to get dolled up.  She must look forward to these moments because she spares no detail in getting ready from her hair to her makeup all the while agonizing about what outfit to wear.  I try to be as patient as possible, which is quite a stretch for me because I’m ready to go in twenty minutes.  I have an unfair advantage though because I know what makes me look good isn’t anything I’m wearing, but who I’m with. 

Her dirty blonde hair is straight and shiny with her bangs falling ever so slightly across her face to accent her big hazel eyes.  Her elegant neck slopes softly down to her shoulders that look soft to the touch and feel even softer on my lips.  My eyes are transfixed on her body as she moves from one side of the room to the other trying on different pairs of shoes soliciting my advice every step of the way.  I’ll mumble a word or two of encouragement without letting on that I’m entranced by her presence.  She’s absolutely stunning, a gorgeous example of my extremely good fortune. 

When we’re out I can feel the eyes of every guy in the room.  I can sense the inquisition looming within their heads, “she’s with him?”.  Yes, yes she is.  What they don’t know is that as beautiful as she is on these special occasions, she’s at her best when she’s fast asleep lying in the glimmer of the moonlight peeping through the curtains.  I’ll give her a smattering of kisses on her cheeks, her forehead, and her lips, then whisper in her ear to dream about me.  I’m wide awake but being in love with her is a dream.

An Epiphany

I once mused that you didn’t inspire me because I didn’t write about you.  I was wrong.  You don’t inspire me to write because I seem to only write when something’s wrong.  You inspire me to live with the happiness you bring into my life, and to me that is worth so much more…

Beginning at the End

After finishing up my reading homework, I decided to start writing what is probably the most personal piece I’ve ever decided to tackle.  As I sat out on the outdoor patio of Border’s listening to Rilo Kiley’s “Pictures of Success”, something just didn’t feel right about starting it then and there.  Losing myself and my thoughts in the soft tones and Jenny Lewis’ melodic voice, I packed up my stuff and started driving like old times.  There was a time when I would gather my thoughts while driving aimlessly to nowhere in particular except this time my heart led me westward as I pathologically drove to the beach.  I parked my truck on the street, spread a blanket in the bed, and took out my laptop to begin writing my story. 

As the sun began its daily descent to the edge of the ocean, I was overcome by the memories that scatter my life of being there watching the end of day searching my soul and my heart for the words to describe what led me there in the first place.  I had finally found that feeling of calm that I had yearned for all those years traveling to the same spot.  I had gone there to look for the words to write, but instead realized that for this moment in time words couldn’t approach what I was feeling inside.  This indescribable jumble of emotions made me pause and reflect on the spectacle staring me in the face and warming my body for the last fleeting moments of the day.  There’s just something with me and sunsets with the day passing into night turning the page of another episode in my life.  In this uncertain world I know I can always count on something so reliable as the sunset to bring my life back into focus.

A romantic isn’t born.  There isn’t a gene carrying a predisposition toward emotion and sensitivity.  It’s an acquired trait that is developed through socialization over a period of time like any other aspect of one’s personality.  A psychologist can explain how certain brain synapses fire off to create certain actions to particular stimuli, but luckily for me I know why I am the way I am…

You were inspiration.

Muse  (myōōz)

noun

1. A guiding spirit.
2. A source of inspiration.

I didn’t know what to call you at first.  I didn’t know much of anything actually, I was just pretending to know.  Inside me was a hurricane of inexplicable emotion that didn’t make sense until I focused on you.  You came into my life at a time when I needed you most.  I needed your warmth because the world had become a cold, desolate place.  I needed your compassion because I turned my back on myself.  I needed your innocence because cynicism had disillusioned my disposition.  When my world was at its darkest, you were the star that got me through the night.

You were beautiful in ways unquanitifiable, and to me it was better that way.  Any Joe Schmoe could tell you how pretty you were, but to me you were the dew on a flower petal at the first light of dawn.  You were the rusty collage in the sky as the sun dipped into the ocean at dusk.  You were what made words unworthy, and the emotions you conjured are why poets use metaphors.  Never before had anyone held  such a monopoly on my thoughts.  It wasn’t just from my waking moment until the last blink of the day, it was every spare moment and auxilary thought.  With my head a fixture among the clouds I was consumed by blissful, hopeless reverie.

Getting through that episode of my life made me a stronger person.  Finding the calm within the storm helped me discover new ways to express the emotions that drive me as a person.  You opened doors to unreached depths of my heart and uncharted territories of my psyche.  You have no idea what kind of effect you have had on my life and who I am today, and the extent shall forever remain a mystery to you.  I’ll be sure to thank you one day; a day when it won’t much matter anymore.  By then words won’t be necessary and all it would take would be one of those coveted glances that used to make my night. 

What’s my age again?

It was a time of reckless abandon with life going at a minute-to-minute pace, and even then it was still all about the moment.  The main characters in this episode were myself and my boys, Peter and Brandon, living life to the last drop/puff/drip/dose.  Looking back several years after the fact I have an inkling inside that I didn’t appreciate those times enough.  You really don’t know how much fun it was until those times are no longer available due to the progression of time, person, and station in life.  “The Boys” wasn’t just an expression of my closest friends, it was a connection, a synchronization of people who had traveled disparate paths to reach a similar plane of consciousness. 

While doing some spring cleaning I came across an old CD that encapsulated all the emotion, the angst, the tomfoolery, and the disconnect from the real world I enjoyed during one of the most significant phases of my life.  Everyone says being 21 is the greatest year of your life, and damn it I tried my best to ensure it was.  The Mark, Tom, and Travis Show albums brings me back to the 2001: Brandon’s S10 on airbags, Peter’s rice rocket GSR, checkered shirts and Dickies, blonde highlights with a fade, bars during the week and raves on the weekend, E-parties with chicks whenever and wherever, big bongs and baby bongs even though we only picked up 8ths, Puma shoes and jackets, cruising the Strip, hanging out at the Block, trying to get more numbers than the other guy, disappearing at Spundae, coffee shop sluts, worrying if B is going to get us in a fight, Main St. Huntington Beach without going in the water, finding as many free clubs as possible, what the hell is the name of that club @ Grand Ave circa 2001 that was free for 21+?, Peter’s standards that were lower than a slammed Civic, B always having something to say and Peter having something to counter, acid trips in the room for hours on end, patio man-to-man’s, smoking then BBQ’ing then smoking some more, the back of the house room, popping circles in the jungle room, e-hoeing in the dark, every party was the last party, hanging out at colleges we didn’t attend, Tony Hawk Pro Skater 1, impromptu road trips to the Bay Area, Vegas onE, driving to SD to go to ONE bar, internet superstars, hanging out @ the TGIF’s in Mission Viejo, taking a premeditated risk everytime I got into my rice rocket old school integra, gooOOoOOOoOD acid, Boo Paa Loo Soldierz dreadlock rasta…

If there was a mantra we lived by it was, “oh hells, might as well” and we incorporated it into most every facet of our lives.  It worked so well back then.  Nowadays, not so much.  We put off growing up as long as we could but the inevitable happened and with came the redefinition of almost everything we used to hold dear.

For a group of guys who attempted to live life a million miles a minute, we sure let time and distance get the best of us.  There’s a part on the CD where Tom is talking to the crowd and he says something to the effect that he, Mark, and Travis are the best of friends.  The band is now defunct as most good things come to an end.  Sadly,  Brandon has relocated to Texas where he’s doing well for himself, and I wish Peter hadn’t fallen off the face of the earth just so I could feel assured that he’s okay too.  After all these years I still wish we could get together for a drink and reminisce about old times over a Laker game.  One day.  Maybe.

Here’s the story of some friends on EE

… and they were having such a very boring day.

All of them had jobs at desks, 9 to 5ers

Emailing every day.  

You have to love the 21st century and its technological advances that allow for a group of friends separated by miles, areas codes, and county lines to sustain a correspondence for the past several years.  What exactly is EE?  It started out 7 years ago when a few of my friends were still weening themselves off chatrooms, but needed an outlet to the outside world while toiling away in their prison cells, I mean cubicles.  Email Express was born and with it came flooded inboxes of hundreds of daily emails.  While I loved the diversion from my daily tasks of appearing busy, it was more work to go through all those individual emails.  

Enter Gmail and the new age of organizing emails as “conversations” rather than singular correspondence.  Gmail had the appearance of a messageboard and the absence of job-related productivity reached unforeseen heights.  

So here’s a shout-out to my EE friends — Jessica, Roxan, Sarah, Diana, Young, Sally, Patty, Xavier, and Viet — whom I don’t get the chance see all that often anymore, but are still a big part of my day.  May we never take ourselves too seriously to send each other a daily reminder of the immature brats we once were (and still are in my case).