Paying It Forward

Several months ago my dad had some car trouble on the freeway on the way to work.  Somewhere on the 405 between home and LAX his radiator went kaput and left his 1989 Toyota Cressida on the shoulder steaming and smoking.  He was only a couple exits away from his destination, and he wouldn’t have made it to work if it weren’t for some Good Samaritans who took time off their daily rat races to offer bottled water for his radiator to get him moving again.

I was on my way home tonight turning left onto my street when I noticed a car on the other side of the street had its lights off.  I turned my lights on and off to signal the other driver, but then I noticed the old lady in the car was having difficulties beyond faulty headlights.  The car was stalled out in the middle of the intersection and a line of cars was steadily building behind her.  As I passed behind her car and completed my left turn, I could hear the futile clicking of her starter.  I parked my truck and ran up to the lady to tell her to put the car in neutral so I could push it to the side of the road.  The intersection is on a bit of an incline, but I was lucky that the two guys who live on the corner came out to help.  Her alternator was shot and her battery was dying quickly so her hazard lights and all other electrical systems didn’t work.  I called the Torrance PD to send over a unit to make sure she was okay until AAA sent over a tow truck.  The lady, Sandra Lincoln, was effusive with gratitude for my help.  She wanted to pay me money, but I couldn’t take payment for doing the right thing.  I told her to pay it forward and be there for someone else should a stranger need help.

The good feeling I had for helping her out was payment enough.  I’d like to think that if my grandmother, mother, or any of my friends were in a tight spot and in need of a helping hand, the kindness of strangers would shine through.  There are times when I watch the news or read the paper that make me think that this world is going to shit, but it doesn’t have to be that way.  You start with one person, and that person is you.

Well, That Was Quick

I have so many things I’ve been wanting to write about.  A lot of them have found their wasted fate stuck in draft folder purgatory: my sister moving out to Vegas, my best friend moving to San Diego, my son moving closer and closer to teenage angst, etc., but here I am in the second week of school and I’m already behind.  I really have no else to blame but myself — as usual — for not printing out my class syllabi and realizing that I have an assignment due tomorrow night at 23:59:59.  The writing of the assignment is only one aspect of my doom.  I have to read the text to actually formulate a smidgen of what I’m supposed to throw onto paper.  Since my professor is a self-professed stalker of the author, I can’t just bullshit my way through it and expect her to appreciate my style and delivery.  It doesn’t help that this class is probably the most labor intensive class I’ve ever attempted to tackle.  Why I’m stuck drudging in a 4-unit English class with an eight novels by one author workload is entirely chalked up to my own irresponsibility.   The bright side in all this is that, historically, I’ve  managed to get by when I’ve found myself in these unenviable positions.  So there, there’s the silver lining in all my stress.  It’s worth something, I hope.

Political Discourse

I’ve been feeling a resurgence in politics lately. One of the websites I’ve been frequenting lately is the Arena section of Poltico.com, which features a running bipartisan dialogue between dozens of featured columnists, political analysts, and others of that ilk.

Another website that I turn to for comprehensive political coverage and opinion is the Wall Street Journal Op-Ed section. I particularly enjoy reading the reader comments which are usually more thoughtful and civil than most other political comment boards. Here’s a sampling:

Shreya Mishra replied:

To Mr Weeks,

Can you honestly say that power is not already concentrated in the hands of corporations? Do you not believe that corporate america has gotten this country and its citizens hostage at the altar of profit? When Halliburton wants profit Republicans go to war, the Republicans want to tax bonuses of hedge fund managers at long-term gains rate while they ask average citizen to take tax-breaks and go spend it in a mall. Your average person is breaking his back working 2 jobs just to see ALL his money being drained out by bills and insurance company costs. Corporations are sucking the people dry and their lobbyists are hand-in glove with Republicans. This economic crisis has one and only one cause and that is the corporate america has successfully bankrupted the citizens of this country.

We wanted to be a government of the people, for the people, and by the people. What the Republicans have left us is a government of the rich, for the rich, by the lobbyists. They have preyed on the weak.

There is no semblance of free-markets left. The financial markets are completely rigged to make it profitable towards companies like Goldman Sachs. We have truly become a socialist country for the powerful and capitalists for the weak.

And the reply:

Lawrence Weeks replied:

I’ll tell you something I believe — George W. Bush, like Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, George H.W. Bush, Ronald Reagan, Jimmy Carter, and those before them are all men who loved their country and did and do what they think is best for their country and their fellow citizens. While I may disagree with some and agree with others, I think they are and were all patriots. These shrill juvenile diatribes, whether about Halliburton or birth certificates are just partisan idiocy. Bush did not send us to war in Iraq for the profit of Halliburton — he sent us to war because he thought it would be best for American interests if we were to get rid of Hussein, and AT THE TIME most Democrats agreed. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?

I’m not a Republican, and I’m not a Democrat — I’m an American. I have spent the majority of my life working in small business. What I see every month is a very large chunk of my money going to Washington DC, the largest chunk of taxes I pay by far. I don’t live in Washington DC. I live very far from Washington. I am not wealthy, in fact with a wife who does not work and a small child, I’m rather far from wealthy. I am also not bitter, and I am not a wh*re — the fact that I am not wealthy and others are does not embitter me, and Democrats cannot buy my vote with the tax revenue of others, rather the opposite. I am an American, and I value our unique form of limited government and the preservation of the sovereignty of the American people greatly.

Corporations are, like government, just a collection of people. Unlike corporations, however, governments have the power to take your freedom from you against your will, to appropriate your money to give to others, legally, without redress, without a class action lawsuit. That is a power that must be restrained and limited, not gladly expanded for every perceived good that can be thought of. As was written long ago, “good intentions will always be pleaded for every assumption of authority. It is hardly too strong to say that the Constitution was made to guard the people against the dangers of good intentions. There are men in all ages who mean to govern well, but they mean to govern. They promise to be good masters, but mean to be masters.” When Obama speaks of the “moral” argument to take control of our health care system in order to help the downtrodden, what I hear are Daniel Webster’s words.

Our economic crisis was not brought on solely by faceless evil corporations, secretly plotting to eat our children. It was brought on my neighbors borrowing money that they had no hope of ever repaying, fully aware of that fact, yet still committing to it. Those of you who consider them innocent “victims” only belie how little you regard the intelligence of your fellow citizens. It was brought on by companies foolishly lending that money, and other companies buying those loans, and foolish investors world wide buying into those loans. There is blame enough to go around. My lowly individual neighbor, just like the big bad corporation, just like the greedy evil investors, were chasing profit, dirty profit. Get rich quick on real estate. Governments were happily cashing in on the property taxes, the real estate transaction fees, the sundry permit fees, with record revenue and spending. Congress was happily promoting expanded home ownership. Bush promoted the ownership society. We are all to blame, except in the view of your partisan blinders. As P.J. O’Rourke once wrote, “every government is a parliament of wh*res. The trouble is, in a democracy, the wh*res are us.” Indeed, a government of the people, for the people and by the people.

Politics is heating up, which tends to be the case when one party controls the White House and Congress. Stay informed.

64 Drafts

There are 64 unfinished posts in my draft log.  If this posts makes it past the chopping board in my head, it will be the 41st post on this blog.  What is about me that makes it so damn difficult to follow through with things?  Even in the realm of creativity, which is something I’m supposed to hang my hat on, I am 1.5 times more likely to scrap an idea than actually express it.  I have this whole inverted triangle thing throwing me for loops.  Most creative types are able to churn shit out at a breakneck pace because reason dictates that eventually something will stick.  I have an ass-backwards mentality that confounds me into believing that I can just wait until I get lucky and catch lightning in a bottle.

It sucks.  I suck.

Whether it’s my total lack of belief in myself or the disillusionment of having once foolishly harboring that belief, I’m languishing, drowning in possible ideas that won’t see the light of day.

And Then It Was As It Should Be

How long is seven years?

Not quite two Olympics but enough time to earn a bachelor’s degree and finish law school if I were so inclined and motivated.

It’s enough time to teach a kid how to play tee-ball then watch him blossom into a unanimous all-star selection in the league’s highest division.

It’s enough time for my luck to return if I had broken a mirror.

It’s enough time for Britney Spears to go from “the hottest piece of ass in the world” to “knocked-up trailer trash” back to “hot piece of trailer trash that I’d bang because she’s still rich as hell.”

It’s a long time to reflect upon.

Seven Junes ago at the tender age of 21, I effused effervescent optimism as I braved a sweltering downtown summer day to cheer on my heroes — Shaq, Kobe, Big Shot Bob Horry, Rick Fox, Fish, Mad Dog Mark Madsen, B-Knuckle Brian Shaw, Samaki Walker, Devean George, Slava Medvedenko — as they paraded down Figueroa Blvd. from City Hall to the Staples Center where Chick Hearn was waiting to get the celebration started.  I turned to my friends, Mars and Big Pete, and made them promise to come back with me the next year to celebrate a FOURTH consecutive championship.

A lot happens in seven years.

2003 – I paced the floor of my room in front of my TV yelling, screaming, pleading the Lakers to mount the typical comeback and rally against the Spurs.  The clock began to dwindle down while the Spurs’ lead continue to grow.  The game was essentially over before the clock reached zeroes.  Not In Our House banners strewn all over Staples Center rang hollow as the din of the crowd was reduced to the disgruntled murmur of shock.  Tears welled in my eyes.  Kobe was sitting on the bench in tears as well.  I forced myself to watch those waning moments to ingrain the feeling of disappointment and dejection to make the following year’s triumph all the better.

2004 – Coming off the “Colorado Incident” the Lakers reloaded their roster adding future hall of famers Gary Payton and Karl Malone to the mix to form what many called the greatest starting line-up ever assembled.  The Lakers breezed to the league’s best record and were the prohibitive favorites going into the Finals until Malone injured his knee setting up an epic fail as the Lakers got bounced by the Pistons in 5 games.  Thus began the the precipitous fall of the once-great Lakers dynasty as Kobe opted out of his contract and Shaq demanded to be traded.  Forced to choose between its aging superstar center and the young superstar guard coming into his prime, Jerry Buss chose Kobe and traded Shaq to Miami for Lamar Odom, Caron Butler, and Brian Grant.  Phil Jackson isn’t offered a new contract and Rudy Tomjanovich is brought in to oversee a new era of Lakers basketball.

2005 – Enter the anti-Renaissance… the Lakers missed the playoffs for the second time in my lifetime.  Tomjanovich didn’t make it to midseason and Frank Hamblen was elevated from his assistant position to finish off the season.

2006 – Phil Jackson returned and Kobe almost single-handedly leads the Lakers past the high-octane Phoenix Suns in the first-round.  The Lakers were up 3-1 and came within a close-out on a Tim Thomas prayer 3-pointer in Game 6 of winning the series.

2007 – The Lakers get bounced in the first round of the playoffs by the Suns again, but this time they went meekly in 5 games.  Kobe was all up in a tizzy about his alleged lack of support and made a very public trade demand.

2008 – After a summer of apprehension that teetered on the news of whether or not the Lakers will deal Kobe, the team got off to a surprisingly good start with the emergence of Andrew Bynum as an interior force.  Then Bynum went down with a knee injury and all seemed lost.  Then Mitch Kupchak, who’d been killed in the press and by the fans, performed highway larceny and traded perennial stiff Kwame Brown, Javaris Crittenton, a couple draft picks, and the rights to Marc Gasol to the Memphis Grizzlies for Pau Gasol.  The Lakers made an improbable run to capture the #1 seed in the West on the season’s last day that propelled them to the NBA Finals against the HATED Boston Celtics.  After dropping the first two games of the Finals in  Boston, the Lakers won game 3 at Staples and were ahead by 24 points in game 4 coasting to tie the series.  Then it happened.  The Lakers came from ahead to blow the game, the series, and the psyches of Lakers fans all over the world.  I can’t say that loss didn’t affect me as a fan.  I’ve seen some bad losses in my lifetime — getting swept by the Spurs in 1999, the end of the 3-peat, eliminated by the Suns after leading the series 3-1 — but this one cut particularly deep.  Losing a 24-point lead at home on the biggest stage goes lengths in decimating the innate confidence a fan must have in their team.

And now, seven years later, we’re back on top of the mountain.  The cliches about needing to experience the deepest valleys of the lows to appreciate the splendid heights of the highs ring true.

As the final minutes of the fourth quarter of last night’s monumental win whittled away, the glimmer was back in our eyes.  “It’s been a LONG time,” I kept repeating to my friends while trying to soak in the moment and savor every second knowing that championships are not to be taken for granted.  We counted down the seconds and when it clock zeroed out Mars, Drew, Big Pete, Hayashi, and I formed a huddle in the middle of Drew’s unfurnished living room and started hopping around like the Lakers pre-game ritual.

Seven years ago I got a sunglass tanline as a reminder of that sweltering downtown day.  I’ll be back Wednesday to cheer my team again.  It’s been a sweet rollercoaster ride of a season that culminated in the ultimate goal.

Savor the moment, LA.  It’s been a LONG time.

Baseball… It’s a Funny Game.

The game’s prospects were bleak at best.  Marc’s Rays had come into the Winner’s Bracket Finals hoping for a berth in Saturday’s TABB Bronco Championship game, but one team stood in its way: the resurgent Angels who upset the #1-seeded Pirates in the quarterfinals.  The gray skies  opened up with a slight sprinkle during pre-games warm-ups and began dumping raindrops the size of dimes by the first-pitch.  Wanting to get the game played due to scheduling restraints for the ensuing days, the game started beneath a steady shower.

The Angels were able to get two runners on base with one out before Mother Nature intervened with a 15-minute rain delay.  The boys scrambled to get their gear underneath the protection of the cramped dugout while coaches tried their best to keep the team focused.

When play was resumed, a costly  error turned an inning-ending double play into a bases-loaded situation that would cost the Rays when the next Angels batter launched a bases-clearing double off the left-field fence.   Down 3-0 in the first inning, the Rays seemed to press as they attempted to surmount the modest deficit.  A series of bad at-bats by the top half of the Rays line-up made the Angels’ pitcher appear untouchable.  Through 4 full innings the Rays only managed to get 2 hits while allowing one more run on defense.

The Rays rallied  in the bottom of the 6th inning putting two runners on base with two outs and the Rays’ best player, Blake, on-deck.  The games only go 7 innings in the Bronco division, so this seemed like the last gasp for the Rays to pull off a comeback.  The last time the Rays and Angels played a couple weeks ago, the Rays made a furious comeback down 6 in the last inning that was ignited by a 3-run home run by Blake only to come up 1-run short.  This similar situation weighed on the minds of the Angels coaches as well as the pitcher who also happened to give up that 3-run bomb to Blake two weeks prior.  Should Ryan find a way on base, Blake would represent the tying run, but Ryan could only muster a weak grounder to second base to kill the threat.

The Angels tacked on another insurance run in the top-half of the final inning putting the Rays in a deeper hole.  Down 5-0 with nothing but a meager offense, the Rays coaches looked distraught.  The Rays were preseason favorites to win it all based on the incredible work the manager did in the draft.  The Rays featured the league’s best talent, Blake; 3 travel-ball players who were all-stars last year, Marc, Ryan, and Connor; and another travel-ball player, Nacio; not to mention three coaches with travel-ball/all-stars experience.  Games aren’t won on paper, though, and the Rays weren’t just losing this game, they were getting spanked.

Blake led off the inning with a sharp double to the left-field gap, and scored on a single by Connor.

5-1 Angels

Then it started getting away from the Angels as their pitcher lost command of his pitches and walked the bases loaded.  A fielder’s choice by the third baseman allowed another run to score.

5-2 Angels

The Angels brought in another pitcher for relief, but he walked in another run.

5-3 Angels

Kyle, who had been injured more than half the season after breaking his ankle the first practice, came up to bat with the bases-loaded and the season on the brink.  He swung badly and missed the first pitch, then fouled the next one off before taking two balls to even the count.  Then the unthinkable, the unfathomable… he hit a sharp grounder down the line past the third baseman who was inexplicably playing shallow allowing the tying run to score from 2nd base.

5-5 tie

With one out and the winning run only 70 feet away at third base, the Rays now found themselves in the driver’s seat.  The next batter struck out, which brought Marc up to the plate with a chance to be the hero except the Angels’ manager had other ideas and walked him intentionally to load the bases and set up the force outs.  Ryan came up to bat again with the weight of the team on his shoulders and could only muster a groundball to the shortstop to retire the side.

The Rays pulled off a 5-run inning in their last at-bat to push the game into extra innings.  Neither team was able to score in the 8th inning, and the game was suspended due to darkness…

… and that’s where we are today.  Today at 4:30 the game will continue in the top of the 9th inning with the score tied 5-5.  The winner of the game advances to the Finals tomorrow, and the loser stays and plays for their playoff lives against the Pirates in an elimination game.

It’s really hard not to get caught up in the emotion of youth sports.  I’ve been coaching baseball now for almost 7 years, and times like these where the unadulterated emotions of the game overwhelm remind me about how special this time is for the kids.  Some of these kids maybe  never play the game again within a couple years.  They’ll discover girls, music, or just get sick of their parents making them play baseball.  Some of these kids have never played on a team as good as the one they’re on right now, while others are patiently waiting for all-stars and travel-ball season to start.  They don’t know it yet because they’re living in the moment, but these are moments they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.  In their haste to grow up, they’ll come to cherish these memories.  Hopefully, they can pull out a victory today because happy memories are a lot more fun to recollect.

Bleed Myself Dry

Don’t sound so empty…

suddenly

averse to change,

oblivious

her ambivalent tone

mouthing casual words,

stakes of ice impaling

the remnants, the survivors

of the latest catastrophe.

Ramblings

“Write a tragedy, articulate all that pain, and maybe you’ll get paid” – Rilo Kiley

A friend told me to see her perspective instead of feeling sorry for myself. That friend didn’t realize the self-pity is born from recognition of that perspective, not ignorance of it. And I thought she knew me.

Romance and tragedy are contributing partners of the emotional spectrum’s diametric extremities. Romance amplifies life’s little joys making them transcendent experiences for which to wax eloquent. Leaves stirred by a brisk springtime breeze become the strings of nature’s orchestra. Tragedy elongates life’s shortcomings..

“Welcome to Catharsis”; Population: 1

Dear David,

You’re going to pour your heart out because it’ll make you feel better eventually.  Your words will be here to remind you how you feel right now, but also to remind you of the strength of your emotions.  You’ll read this today and probably cry.  In the near future, you’ll read it and probably cringe.  Hopefully one day, you’ll be able to laugh when you read it.

If you feel it, write it.  This is the catalyst to unlock those emotions that don’t get through the filter.  It’ll help you cope.  Trust me.

Sincerely,

You

Tales from Fatherhood

Monday morning as I was riding my bike up a hill at school, the chain snapped sending me hurtling over my handlebars.  It felt like a pretty spectacular crash with me nearly face-planting into the pavement then having my bike fall onto my back.

Apparently, I snapped a link on the chain which caused it to stretch and fall off the sprocket.  I let the chain hang off the side of the bike because I didn’t want to get my hands filthy.  Yesterday after work, I was walking my bike out to my truck to take to the bike shop when I noticed that the chain had been placed back onto the sprocket.  There was a post-it note on the bike frame from Marc that said:

“Hey dad.  I fixed [the] chain so you don’t have to worry.”

He even added the smiley face at the end.  I’m not going to tell him that the chain was broken and I had to get it replaced so he can think he really helped me out.

When he was little I wanted him to hurry up and get older so we could play sports.  Now that he’s older, I want him to slow down so I could savor the fleeting moments of his childhood.  Then, he takes the time to “fix” my bike while I’m at work.  Young or old,  big or small I’m just blessed to have such a great kid.

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.

When I Get Old

I joke around that I’m an old 28 to which those who are younger respond by saying, “no, you’re not!” I think the say that because they know that they, too, will be my age one day. Those who are older — older as in 10-15-20 years my senior, not 30 or 31 — get a gleam in the eye as their mind begins reminiscing about their halcyon days from their 20s.

Having been the youngest person in the office the past seven years has allowed to take notes as to what not to be when I get older. Maybe it has more to do with the types of people in my office than it does with getting older, but either way, please God, don’t let me turn into:

• “Hums-To-Himself-Guy” – It’s one thing to hum or whistle the tune of a song that’s been stuck in your head since you got out of the car, but I find it disconcerting when you make up your own tune to hum while you file papers away into your desk. If you’re going to whistle or hum while you’re working, you better be doing some back-breaking work where you need some kind of diversion from your laborious toils.
• “Co-workers-Are-My-Friends-Guy” – Look, just because I put on this smile when I have to talk to you, or maybe I’ll even go so far as to ask you how your weekend was while pretending to listen and care about what you have to say when I’m really daydreaming about sex doesn’t mean you’re my friend. It’s bad enough that I have to spend eight freaking hours putting up with your constant attempts to strike up conversation, I mean can’t you tell by my dead-end responses I just want to be left alone?
• “Work-Is-My-Life-Guy” – You know the guy. He’s the one at the office who unlocks the door, turns on the lights, doesn’t take a lunch break, and is the last one to leave the office if he leaves at all. I understand that some people are required to work long hours for the job they have. I get that. This doesn’t apply to your hard-working, high-income-earning go-getters. This is the guy in my office toiling away at a dead-end job hoping that his hardwork will get recognized and earn a promotion to “Dead-End Level II.”
• “Office-Holiday-Party-Is-The-Highlight-Of-My-Year-Guy” – I’ll know I’ve hit rock bottom when I start looking forward to the Holiday Party. I’ll shoot myself if I end up talking about it afterwards. These people suck. Plain and simple. If you’re talking about being sore the next day from dancing at the Holiday Party, then you need to get out more often. These parties suck, and if you’re having fun, then it better be because you’re piss-ass-drunk. And if you’re piss-ass-drunk at the Holiday Party, then you’re an even bigger ass.
• “Casual-Friday-Hawaiian-Shirt-Guy” – I always thought Hawaiian shirts were for tourists, old surfers, fats dads, and Pacific-Islanders. I guess they pass for “casual” attire in the workplace too. Maybe when you’ve been all buttoned up in a shirt and tie all week, it must feel good to “hang loose” in a bright blue hibiscus shirt? Whatever.

Damn My Costly Impulsiveness

Back in 2006 when the Lakers were Kobe and 4 stiffs, they gutted out a miraculous Game 4 playoff win to take a commanding 3-1 series lead over the heavily favored Phoenix Suns.  I was so ecstatic with the win that I went to Galleria right  afterwards and spent $200 on a Kobe’s signature Nikes and a #8 Kobe Lakers jersey.  

 

Works on the court, not in life.

$130 for a pair of basketball shoes that I’ve worn a total of two times in the past 2.5 years.  They work if you’re wearing a basketball uniform, but I didn’t think about that when I splurged for them.  Kobe’s coming out with a new shoe and this time they’re low-tops, which mean they can probably be worn more than once a year in my case.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice… shame on me?  

 

It's progress.

Internet Infamy is Thy Name.

There’s a picture circulating the internet proving that the jungle isn’t slashed and burned into extinction, it’s just be re-grown between the legs of lazy asian college girls.  I thought this was 2008?  

 

And for fun… Viet captured every man’s worst fear with his little upgrade:

 

SLAAAAASH & BUUUUURN!!!

Meandering Through Friday…

I chuckle to myself whenever Roxan laughs at tech-related humor.  I’m sure whatever she’s laughing at has some comedic value, but what’s really funny to me is the “g33k” when it comes to g33k humor.  It turns out because I’m much worse.  I’m a less evolved kind of geek.  I laugh at things so stupid such as the misuse of quotation marks so the  joke’s really on me. 

Being Civilized Sucks

Pirates hold a place in modern mythology as if they were old relics from a time so far gone that we dress up as pirates for Halloween, have mock “Talk Like a Pirate Days”, and have multibillion dollar movie franchises based on a boring Disneyland ride.  Pirates are real and are wreaking havoc off the coast of Somalia in Africa.  They’ve comandeered several ships and are using the ransom money to prop up mini-economies in the lawless nation.  The Saudi oil tanker, Sirius Star, was taken by Somali pirates and are asking for $25M in ransom.  First of all, there should be no way a fucking oil tanker could be seized by a group of rag-tag pirates!  Oil tankers are FUCKING HUGE so it should take a long while for pirates to scale the multi-story facade of a tanker.  Sure, the pirates are armed with machine guns and RPGs, but why the fuck aren’t there people with guns on the tanker?  Military tactics 101: he who has the high ground has the advantage.  There is no reason someone shouldn’t be plucking the pirates one-by-one as they climb the rope.  It should be like shooting fish in a barrel.  I’ve read reports that the “international community” frowns on ships arming themselves.  It’s too bad the criminals don’t like to play by the rules.

From the Inane File

 I noticed a Facebook update that my cousin is now friends with his ex-wife.  Thank God for Facebook!  It’s taking a while to warm up to Facebook or FB as some people like to call it.  There’s just too many things going.  I’m only 28, but I might as well be 68 with my resistance to technology.  I blame my parents for waiting until I was eight before getting me a Nintendo, and it’s their fault we didn’t get the internet until damn near the turn of the century.  What’s with all the applications?  Does a person really need hundreds of applications to deflect boredom?  And what’s with people constantly updating their status?  Do people really need up to the minute updates on what a person is thinking or feeling?  Really?  Well FUCK YOU, you arrogant prick!  I was doing just fine a minute ago not knowing that you’re wondering how you got lint in your navel.  Sometimes I wonder what person does during the day besides the dozens of quizzes and other mindless bullshit that facebook inundates you with.

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.

Manuscript #1

I’m submitting my first manuscript for my short story workshop class tomorrow.  Tell me what you think…

“Where Have You Gone, Winnie Cooper?”

and THIS, this is Romantic poetry

My poetry professor stresses the importance of reading poetry aloud as it is an audible art meant to be heard as much as read unlike prose.  Sprawled out on a cold cement bench underneath a shady fir tree, I was catching up on the reading before class and came upon the poem, He Remembers Forgotten Beauty by William Butler Yeats.  As I was reading it aloud I had to pause periodically because I was overwhelmed.  It truly embodies William Wordsworth’s definition of Romantic poetry: “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings”.  I read it aloud then read it again and again.  I read other poems then came back to read it again each time as touching as the last.  When you read poetry the way it is meant to be read, it’s a emotionally powerful feeling like an out of body experience.

Speaking of reading poetry the way it’s meant to be read… there’s this girl in my class who pauses at the end of each line regardless of whether it’s a run-on or an end-stop line.  How difficult is this concept to get your head around?  If there isn’t any punctuation, then keep reading to the next line!!!!!  Misreading a poem is like hitting the wrong keys when playing the piano.  It’s a cacophonic travesty!  There’s another girl in my class who reads too long when we’re doing class-readings.  Typically, we’ll start on one side of the room and snake along with each person reading a stanza or a few lines coming to an appropriate stop before letting the next person take over.  This other girl just keeps on fucking going!  How fucking inconsiderate.  She’s like the Kobe Bryant of poetry readers.  Pass the fucking ball, Bitch!!!

He Remembers Forgotten Beauty – William Butler Yeats

When my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were
Woven by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God’s eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew.
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries.