Little League Dream

When I was a kid I had this recurring dream that I was out in right field, and this fly ball coems hurtling down on my head. Just before it hits, I always woke up screaming.

Puberty seared away that dream and replaced it with different dreams of a more pruient nature, usually involving Kathy Ireland. But then last night the dream came back. I'm out in right field, and the same foul ball is coming down on my head like a missile. I'm eight years old again, and my little glove is reached out over my head.....

But this time I stick around to see the ending. Instead of hitting me on the head, the ball just thumps down next to me. I guess this describes my life pretty well; I'm not catching the ball, but it's not hitting me on the head, either.

And Kathy ireland is watching me from the dugout, wearing a baseball cap and a bikini, covered in yellow blood and laughing.

I think this is the first of a series of dreams the aliens are sending me.

First Encounter with the Lawyer

Today I thought I'd try to let the lawyer know that I was friendly. So I set out a saucer of milk, but he didn't take to it. Next I tried some dried cereal, but this too he rejected.

Finally I went to my Aunt Esther's house to visit her. She pratled on and on about how happy she was to see me and how it had been weeks before she had heard a human voice because her television was out of service and her arthritis was too bad to dial her rotary phone. She kept trying to hug me and I kept dodging her on my way to the fridge.

She had several pint-sized vials of human blood in the freezer from where her dead husband George was a hemophiliac. I scooped up all the blood and carried it out in one of her brown paper A & P shopping bags.

That night, after the blood had thawed, I set it out by the crawlspace. I figured that if the lawyer were to venture out, he would be more comfortable at night.

The next morning the blood was gone, and there was a typed copy of my lease, with a leter explaining that I was entitled to better fire insurance coverage than I was currently recieving.

The lease was also dotted with blood, but I thought this could be the beginning of somethign nice.

Little League Baseball Cards

My seven year old nephew's little league team had some of those little baseball cards printed up with each kid's picture on them.

My nephew is choking up high on the bat and squinting into the sun, his floppy ears poking out either side of his cap, his little butt contorted in a near-controposto pose.

I thought I would treasure this card forever, because I love my nephew. But then I saw this other little league card with this other kid that was way cuter, so I traded my nephew, a bazooka joe and a blank CD for it.

Vermin Roommate

For the past couple of weeks I've been hearing a weird scratching, almost a scuttling sound, under the house. I started putting out mouse traps, but they were still empty after a few days. And I didn't put just any old Roundy's cheese in there; I put the really primo stuff: Veleveeta fresh off the log.

Meanwhile the scratching was getting worse. So I broke downand called an exterminator, Andy, which may have been a bad idea. Andy's about as big around as a hula hoop, and he's not exactly willing to follow vermin into their crusty little hideaways.

I described the problem to him over the phone, a kind of hard scratching , followed by the ocasional bump. Too big to be a mouse, I figured. Probably a skunk or a possum?

"Nah, well, I'll tell you what now," said Andy, "I been getting a lot of similar complaining 'bout that same thing, and I'll tell you what you need to do now. Get out of the hosue and wait for me. Now I ain't saying what's down there is dangerous and I ain't saying it's safe. But if you got any kind of baby's or pets you don't want getting diseases, you might wanna grab them, too."

Andy arrived three hours later, and found me outside, shivering, with three hours worth of frost on my face. He pulled up in his big Honda diesel pickup truck, with the bed full of enormous steel tanks. Mostly Andy's idea of exterminating was to douse your home with chemicals. he was an expert on chemicals; he went to trade shows all the time where he probably shared drinks with a few terrorists. Every now and then Fox News will show a photo of some captured militant and Andy will hop out of his cahir, "Kumar!?"

So Andy's sidles his body on over to the house and shines a flashlight under the foundation.

"Uh-huh. I'll tell you what now...have a looksee under here."

I crouched down with him, sinking my frostbitten knees into the snow. In the vague underlighting of my crawlspace I saw a haggard little man in a muddy suit, lying curled up under the a support beam.

"Is that a homeless guy?"

"Nah, it's a lawyer. Been finding them udner houses all over town."

"Why? Shouldn't they all be, well...working ina courthosue or something?"

"Ain't no work for 'em. Ever since our benevolent leader George W. Bush," we both lowered our eyes at the mention of His name, "enacted tort reform, most of them are out of a job."

"Well what should I do?"

"I wouldn't do nothing, really. They're a might handy to have. They keep the rat population down and whatnot. Or you never know when you may need a good lawyer. I mean, I can flush the poor guy out for you if you want...."

I gave the poor huddled litigator a good look. He seemed so peaceful there, all cute and curled. "Nah. Let's leave him be."

Andy must have seen some kind of sympathy in my eyes, because he pressed his hand firmly into my shoulder. "Now listen here, though. Don't you try makin' a pet out of him. Ain't no good for that. When these things go through law school...they change them somehow. They ain't even really human no more. They're somethign else. Go and feed it once and you may not wake up the next day."

With that Andy stepped into his truck and puttered off. Peter Frampton's "Show Me the Way" was booming on his tape deck.

I took one last look at the lawyer and headed into the house for some coffee. I wouldn't try to make a pet out of him, but I would like to know his name.

Maybe if I set out a cup of coffee for him....

Homeland Insecurity Grant

Adams County, where I live here in Ohio, has just recieved a $75,595 grant from the Deaprtment of Homeland Security. We're pretty rural and impoverished and our school systems are on life support, but you never know where the terrorists may strike, so better safe than sorry.

I mean, I don't think there's any way for you to appreciate how hilarious this is. Our emergency responder unit is headed up by a guy named Kermit.

"Well Dale, how you reckon we oughta spend this new Homeland moneys?"

"Well shit-fire Kermit...we could wash the truck."

"Yup, yup. Wash the truck. That'd be a start all right."

"Maybe we could get one o' them 'Fuck Osama' bumper stickers. That'd be a start."

"Uh-huh. Maybe replace that old vinyl in there too."

"That's good thinking Kermit. That's why you're the Sheriff."

Because of this policy of "better safe than sorry," I am personally applying for a Homeland Security grant to upgrade and repair my car to be better equipped in the fight for freedom.

I bought the car with 67,000 miles on it in July, for just $2400 (tax and title). However, it has the following problems: the side window doesn't roll up after a mishap in a McDonald's drive-thru (on my way to see John Kerry speak in a corn field), the right turn signal isn't working, the gas cap spring has broken and won't stay shut, it needs an oil change, it has a slow brake fluid leak, little power in low gears, and worse of all it makes a horrible grinding sound whenever I accelerate too hard.

Should the terrorists attack my home county, how could I be expected to fight for freedom against them in a car that's unreliable? And I'm not just thinking of myself here; it's a four door car. I can take others with me.

I think the president has an obligation to see that every car in my county is in top working order, because in a state of emergency, every vehicle is an emergency vehicle.

What I would ideally like to do, apart from the obvious repairs, is to have my car turn into something else, like a boat or an airplane. That way I could fight freedom, I mean--fight for freedom, on land, sea, or air.

And a moon roof with a laser turret and a wookie sidekick would be cool, too.

Hulk Haiku

I suspect that the Incredible Hulk is living somewhere near my hometown. There haven't been any sightings or news of violence yet, but I did find the follwing poems in a journal just outside of town.

Friendship
Hulk plays with kitten
Kitty plays with piece of string
Hulk has a new friend

Privacy
Hulk live in desert
No puny humans are here
Hulk can pick his nose

The Passion of Mister Fenders

I was a substitute typing teacher the other day. The regulaur teacher didn't leave anythign for the kids to do, which happens somethimes. So I gave the kids a free day, until about fifth period.

That's when I noticed that the day's assignment had been written on the board the entire time. And those little bastards never said a word to me about it.

Now, I was faced with two choices: one, give the assignments to the classes for the rest of the day and admit my mistake to the teacher, or: cover my ass.

I covered my ass--for a good reason. Being a substitute is a very, very shaky profession. You have to be very careful about who you offend, and above all you have to impress the teachers you sit in for because they have a say in who gets "The Call."

So admitting my mistake could have hurt my pocket book, which I couldn't tolerate. I erased the board. No, I didn't just erase it--I washed it clean, so no vestige of an assignment remained. That way he would think the janitors did it--and I would be in the clear.

But would the janitors just clean one board and leave the rest of the school untouched? I didn't think so. I stayed behind after the last bell, and waited until all the hallways had emptied. Then I went to work.

I filled up a trash can and grabbed a bundle of paper towels from the locker room. I slippedin and out of classrooms, cleaning every board I saw. The last on ym list was the science lab. The board was an absolute tangle of chemistry formulas and chapter definitions. There was a "Do Not Erase Sign." But to my mind, mercy is pity. I erased the thing anyway. We were talking about my pocketbook, here.

Just as I was finishing up, the door creaked open. I quickly ducked behind a cabinet and spied on the door. My heart was pounding; what if the janitors had seen me slinking about? Surely when word got out that a sub had erased every board in the building I would be blackballed for life. How could I have fallen from grace so quickly? Where had I lost my way?

A bent little old man in a bow tie and suspenders entered. It was Mr. Fenders, the science teacher.

He jerked to a stop when he saw the board. Then he let out a long, tired sigh and grabbed the chalk with his shaky hand. The chalk made a sad little shriek as he began to write the notes over again.

I waited their until dark, watching this caring little fellow dutifully write out his student's lesson for the next day. My legs were cramped from standing and I had no way to adjust them. There was nothing to do but read the notes and appreciate the delicate care he placed into them. He had probably written these same notes out a hundred times for thousands of students, yet he refused to simply photocopy them or use an overhead. This was his way of doing things and it worked fine--nevermind the extra time.

When he was finished and finally left the room, I had a new appreciation for teachers. Sure, as a sub I breeze in and take over for a day, but this was passion, this was dedication. Men like Mister Fenders don't see teaching as just another job: it is their life's work and the children are their masterpiece.

Who was I to step in the way of art?

But you know: this was his passion, not mine. I only teach to finance my own dreams. Mr. Fenders left the tarsh can full of water. After a glance down the hallway I wiped the board again and shot the hell out of there, leaving the school system none the wiser.

Department of Nowhere

I worked on this student film one time called "Department of Nowhere."

Awful film.

It was about some college kids who are told not to go into an abandoned department store, then do, and freaky things happen. By freaky, I mean stupid. There was one scene where the actors were magically transported to an outdoor picnic and this lady with a red face is holding a crying baby.

Everythign wa sset to shoot this scene: we rented out the picnic area, slapped red makeup on the woman, and we even had a few Extras milling around, drinking the free beer the producer bought. The red-faced woman even brought her niece: a real baby.

We were very excited about having a real baby to work with.

The shoot was going fine; the baby was content and didn't mess up our sound or anything. Then came the baby's big crying scene, and the unpleasant question of how to make the infant sob.

The producer took one look at the baby and told the director to take care of it. The director passed it to the camera operator, who said, "I can't make a baby cry! Get a gaffer to do it--they hate everything good about life."

Off to one side stood Clyde, our red-faced, ham-fisted gaffer. At the mention of his name, his cratered eyes lit up like firecrackers and he cracked his knuckles in a long, sustained bridge.

All of a sudden everyone agreed that Clyde should be kept away from the baby.

So the responsibility was passed on down the food chain, from gaffer to actor to associate producer to continuity expert to script girl, until finally it landed at the bottom of the heap: the writer.

Me.

I felt terrible. I hated the movie, almost as much as I hated the script I wrote. I was flattered to have all of this people working to bring my words to life--but they were just such bad words.

The director looked at me, hopefully. "This is your vision, Ryan. Make it happen."

I tiptoed toward the infant--the sweet, tender-faced, content little bundle of pink flesh. I took one glance around at the crew: a motley band of film school slackers who had come together for one common purpose...to get a grade. I knew none of them liked the script, but none of them knew that I hated it, too.

How did we get to this point, ready to disturb something beautiful and placid just for a few frames of film? It was madness. How did I reach this point in my life? This isn't art, this is postponing reality. We like watching movies, but is anyone here really passionate about them?

I knew I wasn't.

Stupid. Completely selfish and cruel. The camera was set up. Slate was clapped. The sun was in my eyes.

I gave the baby's toe a twist and and bolted out of frame.

Finger Puppetry

It's very hard to create conflict among finger puppets. They're pretty much limited to nodding and bowing.

This makes them altogether pleasant company, but not the type I'd go drinking on a Sunday afternoon with.

I wonder if finger puppets are really grossed out or really turned on by bare fingers. Because on the one hand it's like being naked, but maybe it's more like a skelaton to them.

Make a finger puppet talk toa regualr finger and see. I think they'd be more grossed out.

4 Phases

My day today moved in four phases. All of them revolve around the five inches or so of snow we recieved in Adams County today.

In the first phase, I was across town walking to my brother's to get my car. I saw two interesting people on the way there. I passed the first person on the sidewalk. he was a very old man, hollow faced and mouse eyed. He was cradling a bucket in one arm. As I got closer to him, I saw that he was sprinkling rock salt on the sidewalk. All up and down the street.

The man couldn't have been younger than seventy-five, but he had his bucket and he had his street and he had a sense of civic duty. I told him hi but as soon as we passed I wished I had given him a hug or something.

The next person I saw was a small child, maybe two, all bundled up like a puppy in the mail. A man was pulling him down the street on a sled, so I provided the following dialogue for him:

"Are we going to Granma's house? I-I suwe wite Granma's house. She gives me hot cocoa. Fants for tating me outside. I wite du snow."

Kid was adorable.

The next phase involved an interview with a nice elderly couple who are retired from their own winery and restaraunt business. They live 30 miles away, along the river, which made for a slow, tense drive. When I arrived, they were wearing identical white turtlenecks and red vests. The first thing the man said to me was "We don't normally dress together like this. I put this on this morning then she did the same thing."

They felt foolish and each thought the other should change clothes.

After the interview, they took me to the restaraunt and treated me to a dolphin fish entree. Not really dolphin, but I'm led to believe it tastes the same. If this is true, my friends, I predict the extinction of the dolphin in our lifetime. Or else large commercial dolphin farms.

This was the most succulent fish I have ever eaten. And I've succuled the hell out of some fish.

The Third pahase of my day started like this:

The dinner made me late for my next appointment, but I thought they would understand, because it was snowing quite a bit by then.

The next interview was with a couple about their septic tank business. The man told me it was the first driveway on my right, and it was. Except this wasn't so much a driveway, as it was a goat path up the side of a frozen mountain. I didn't know there were mountains in Adams County; this one wasn't on any of the maps. But here it was.

I fancy myself a pretty good driver. Most of you probably do, too. I know I'm not great--one of my weaknesses is bad weather. But still, I looked at that steep, icy, guardrail-less slope and I thought--yes. I can do this.

So I started up it,a nd at first things were great. I pushed that baby into second gear and we were a-thundering up the hill. Then, well, yeah. That kind of stopped. And instead my poor little front wheel drive tires lose traction, adn I slip backward.

I don't panic.

I do break, yes, but only to carefully guide myself down the hill. Well, turns out that doesn't work either. I start sliding backwards and sideways. Toward the side of the road without guardrails. The bad side. The high insurance premiums side. The "we are gathered here to remember Ryan" side.

I did get the car to a halt, just at the edge. I didn't really know what to do, so I said the f-word a lot. And I staretd throwing stuff into my bag. My first thoughts were for the material I needed to write my articles. So the camera, the tape recorder--everything of value that could be carried--was thrown into my man-purse.

I threw on my scarf and mittens and started up the hill, leaving my hobbles car tettering off the bank. It was quite a walk up the hill. It turns out that I was nowhere near the steep part. I fell down twice going up, each time landing so I wouldn't hurt the camera. My heart was pounding--remember, a few minutes ago I was teetering over a cliff.

When I finally reached the front door (a half hour late) a cheery man greeted me at the door. He was a lot bigger than me--even with my winter coats. This is the best way to describe the portions:

Remember when you were in grade school, and they said that so many million Earths would fit into Jupiter? Well, about 55 Earths would fit into this guy.

"Did you make it up the hill?"

"Nowhere near." I hoped he couldn't see how razzled I was. he led me upstairs and we went on with the interview. And for the next half hour or so, we talked about septic tanks. The whole thing turned out to be a lot more interesting than I thought it would be.

My hand shook the whole time.

Then I took a couple pictures and the man told me he'd meet me at the car with the Bobat and salt rock.

Hell yeah.

He meets me part of the way down and tells me to hop on the plow of the bobcat. This was an immense amount of fun. His little dog Sprocket, who normally stays on his shoulder like a parrot, hops onto my lap and thrusts his nose forward like the statue on the helm of a boat.

We had just started sprinkling salt around my tires (I say we because he sprinkled the salt and I aske dif he needed help) when a truck pulls up behind us.

"Friends of yours?" I ask.

He sort of shrugged and didn't seemed concerned with the visitor, one way or the other.

A springly little, probably in his forties, bounces out of the truck. He seemed a little slow, but talked fast. Here is the jist of everything he said:

"Hey saw you up on the hill there. Didn't know if that was your car or not. You need a tow chain? I got a tow chain. Salt around the tires, yup, traction. Didn't even have to call me, did you? That's what good neighbors are. We're freinds and we watch out for each other, right? That's what friends do; they do theings for each other."

Once the car was freed, I could safely back it down, with the man directing me as I went. He stood behind the car, walking the path straight down the road, so I could gauge how far Iw as from each side. In my horros I saw the wheels locking up and sliding down over his body. I wondered whcih would be more damaged: him, or my car?

Fourth Phase

I was lucky enough to drive behind a salt truck on the way home. I also had to move my bowels. Very badly. But I couldn't waste the ease of being behind a salt truck. When he turned off, so did I.

I was in a line of cars that didn't go above thirtyMPH on the way home. Iw as fine with that, until we hit Jack Town Hill. The van leading our line crawled up the hill, tapping his breaks like a sewing pedal. All I could see was my car freezing up, dopping traction, and sliding down the hill like a basketball.

Now back in my hometown, after seven hours, I enjoyed the comforts of home. I had a beer. Ate dinner with my brother's family. Played video games. Went to a friend's house with other friends. Had another beer. And another. One friend was depressed about something.

He eventually told us fuck you and left, and hung up on me when I called him to see if he made it home okay.

He had an off day, but I think he'll be all right. Another hour and I was home again.

And tomorrow I'm going to play in the snow with little kids.

Advice I Give Babies

There are only two inborn fears: loud noises and falling. So on your deathbed, if you're only afraid of loud noises and falling, then you did okay.

Unless you're two years old. In which case, you probably won't even get a memorial scholarship named after you.

Killed the Hell Out of That Thing

I was driving along the highway the other day, on a moonless night. I passed one of those deer crossing signs and the BUH-HAM! Something pounds into the front of the car, rolls over the roof and caves the windshield in. I pull the car over to the side, panicking, bleeding, nearly crying.

I see, fifty feet behind me, a brown lump lying on the road. I felt amixutre of guilt and hatred. Fuckiong Bambi, fucking thing ruined my fucking car. I hate myself so much. So stupid!

Then, as I approached it, my chest seized up and my legs nearly left me. It wasn't a deer. It was the broken lump of a man, wearing a brown fur coat. I bent down, intending to take his pulse. But there was no need. It was clear the poor fellow was dead. He was leaking blood and organs all over the road and staring straight ahead at nothing, or maybe he was looking into heaven.

I ran back to the car for my cell phone, intending to call for help. Now I was crying. But damn, no service! Fucking Verizon! Where will In-Network get me now?

I spun around in circles, searching for some light, some sign of life. There was no traffic, only the pulse of my headlights throbbing against the thick night air. Then I heard a sound from the brush. Footsteps? The sound is followed by other steps.

"Hey there!" called out a voice. "You been in some kind of accident?"

"Yes!" I returned. "I'm afraid I struck and killed this poor man."

"Poor man, huh? He a big 'un?"

"Pardon me?"

"He a big 'yn or small? Idn't no kid or nuthin'?"

"No, he's quite large. Why don't all of you come into the light where I can see you?"

"Sure enough friend, sure enough."

Just then a large buck emerged in path of the headlights, flanked by two or three others. I turned back to the man I'd killed and saw a party of them gathering around the carcass.

"Am I crazy? Are you...alive? I mean...talking?"

"Listen here, don't you worry," said the buck. "What's your name?"

"Ryan."

"Mine's Walter. Now listen here, the important thing is, you don't panic. We saw the whole thing, and you handled your car real well there."

"Thank you, Walter. But I suppose we should get this man off the road."

"Well now, yes, we should, but before we touch that old boy, let's clear up a few things."

"Okay...like what?"

"Well, I was just wondering what you were planning to do with the body."

"Why? Do you want it?"

"I wouldn't give it to Walter!" cried another deer, a doe. "He'll just piece on it till it goes rot. I got a cousin that does processing. We'll see to it you get a right smart bit of man-sausage."

The other deer chimed in, each clammering for the salvage rights to the poor man lying dead on the highway. "Ludicrous! This poor man's family needs to be contacted. They'll want the body for burial."

"That ain't nothing but a sorry waste," said Walter, spatting on the ground. I didn't even know deer could spit.

"I didn't even know deer could spit."

As a show of skill, every deer in attendance spat on the ground. They were quiet then, waiting for my reply. My car's engine had long since died, and the only sound on that cold stretch of road was my tortured heart pounding in my chest.

"Okay then. Deer goes to whoever brings back a state patrolman first."

At that they darted off into the night, lkeaving me there with the pale dead man. Then I noticed one small fawn who remained behind. She curled up at my feet and I laid next to her, stroking the nape of her neck. I dropped off and slept until morning.

When I awoke, shivering, a sheriff's deputy was shaking me.

"Hey buddy. Hey buddy, get up there. You okay?"

I looked around for the fawn but saw no sign of her. "Where's the fawn? Where's all the deer?"

"We figure it had to have been a whopper that you hit, old buddy. Thing must have lived because it ran off without a trace. Hell of a lot of blodd though. Hell of a lot."

Then it was all a fever dream. A hallucination. In my frightened state, I went mad and imagined a palaver with a herd of deer.

"Why....why didn't somebody stop?"

"Well, you know how it looks...body on the highway, car smashed up. Most folks is just content to let sleeping dogs lie. Well...whatever. Plenty of folks called in though, said they saw you out here."

"Then...why didn't you get here until now? What time is it?"

"Well hell, we've been trying to get here all night. But every time we'd send out a squad car, four or five deer would run straight at the the damned thing. We had over forty deer collisions, just last night. Damndest thing I ever heard of. Say buddy, you okay? You don't look so good. You need to get off this road, get some hot chow in you."

I rose and approached the bloody smear where the offending deer must have landed. There was something stuck in the middle of the frozen pond of blood. A bit of matted fur, I thought. Maybe a piece of an antler. But no. It was a wallet. I bent down to pry it from the icy pool, and tucked it into my pocket.

"Found my wallet all the way back here," I told the police officer.

I let him lead me to the car and we drove away, sirens blaring me to the safety of a hospital, and home.

Sort of Like the Flinstones

In my opinion, monkeys are greatly underused by our society. Throughout the years, humans have domesticated and used many animals for the cause of furthering our civilation, mostly beasts of burden.

The coming of the Industrial Age meant that animals like passnger pigoens could be replaced with telegraph lines. Which was awesome, because then we could just start snapping their necks for fun. Now there are no passenger pigeons.

But I'd like to see monkeys used more. I'm partial to monkeys, because they're cute, and a lot like tiny, furry people. They're also quite clever and dextrous. If I had a trained monkey, I'd sit him on top of a coat rack and hand my jackets and hats to him or her.

I'd like to see the human race move in this direction.

The Who-Do-You-Look-Like? Gene

In Europe, where everything is legal, doctors have been performing a radical surgery, something on the cutting edge of medical science.

They have found and isolated a previously unknown organ in the body, located in the lateral wall between the stomach and the liver. The organ is less than the size of a bottlecap, and as thin as a credit card. Its Latin name is Zooter mipsus angustocolis.

But I like to call it the "Who-Do-You-Look-Like?" gene.

What this organ does is allow people to see the resemblance between ordinary people and celebrities. In other words, if you look like Robert Redford and you go to Europe, no one will look at you and say, "You know who you look like?" You'll just look like you.

I'd like to go to Europe, but especially when I was thirteen. Here's why:

For about a year, I looked like Johnny Depp. For whatever reason, my face grew in such a way that everyone told me I looked like the actor. Then puberty pressed on, moving the resemblance along. This was a very brief window of time.

At first, I appreciated the attention, especially from the girls. Then it started to wear on me. Why did everybody have to mention it? Was anybody ever going to be interested in me, apart from my resemblence to Edward Scissorhands? What's worse is that people ineviatbly realized I wasn't an interesting or dynamic figure like the actor. I was just an insecure thirteen year oldwhose genetics molded a certain face for me at a certain time. It was an impossible standard to live up to--I'm a lot of things, but I'm no Johnny Depp.

Then, just when I thought I'd be living in Johnny Depp's shadow forever, my face moved on to something more me. It was good to be myself again.

Still, I'd like to move to Europe, in case the Depp face should move to another generation of Areys. Then my kids will be spared my suffering, even if they will have to pay a 25% sales tax.

Wrap Your Dream You in Plastic

Everyone hates their driver's license photo. This is a problem that I hope will be solved in the new millenium. What I'd like to see is a country where we have IDs that show the people we wish we were.

Some people might be content to just change their hair or faces, others might beef up or sprout boobs. But I think a fair number of people would be in costume, wearing medieval outfits or Egyptian headresses. Aging high school ballplayers would wear their uniforms, with the same bright, sunny faces in their yearbooks.

Some folks imagine this is what heaven will be like: that we get a new body of our choosing. That's a nice thought, but flawed. Theoretically, we'll all be so happy and content in heaven that a petty concern like our appearance wouldn't even enter our heads. In heaven we'll problem all be ducks or something--it doesn't matter.

What does matter is that here on Earth we have a lot of moody bastards that hate their lives and themselves, mostly because of how they look. But if they could show their optimum selves to the state trooper or the boiuncer at the bar, of that was their legal image, then maybe their lives would be that much more worth living.

I think so, at least.

The Monster in My Life

My dad gave me my first torch on my thirteenth birthday. I'm not British, so I'm not talking about a flashlight--I mean he gave me a stick of oak wrapped in rags and cooking oil. He said that I was reaching the age where I was a man, and that if any monsters ever came around, I was old enough to help fight them off with the rest of the neighborhood.

Now, I don't live in a Transylvanian village or in Salem in the 1600s. I just live in a small town in southern Ohio. So I was understandably underwhelmed by his gift. But that was my dad: some kids get razors or grandpa's pocket watch, I got a torch.

"See, all the men in the neighborhood have them. Well, some have torches, others got pitchforks and shovels and stuff."

I had to will my eyes not to roll. "Gee, dad...this is great. Do I get the silver bullets when I turn 18?"

"Aw now son, don't be a wise ass," answered my father, rubbing my hair like a like a crystal ball. "There's no such thing as werewolves."

Later that night my friend Jody and I were hanging out, listening to the "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves" soundtrack. He asked me why that stick was lying in the corner.

"Man you're lucky," he said after I told him, "My dad just gave me an ass beating when I turned thirteen. I don't even think he knew it was my birthday." Jody then lit a cigarette and sat thoughtfully in my windowsill, looking up at the moon.

"It's a sticky piece of wood. I wanted Mario Kart."

"Look out this window, Ryan. What do you see?"

"I see some trees...some cars....couple of houses."

"Wrong. Well, right, but still...wrong. That's the tree that we used to climb up and play Tarzan. That's Dean Harper's truck right there. He attaches the plow to it every winter and clears our driveways. And those aren't just houses, they're homes."

"Yeah, whatever dude. I've lived here my whole freaking life, I know all that crap."

"That's right, you have lived here your whole life. And you're missing the point. Those are our neighbors in those little homes down there. And every one of them wakes up every day, goes to work, and comes home to people they love. They don't ask for much, just a happy, simple little life, and a down payment on a plot up in heaven.

"These are the people that visited when your mom was in the hospital; we see them every year at the block party cookout. We grew up with these folks and they're our family."

"You're queer, Jody."

"But look past those homes, these crisp rural streets, look farther into the night, beyond our towns. See the darkness out there, tucked away in the horizon? Can you see it?"

"I can't see shit."

"Yeah. Chances are, there's nothing out there. That's just a plain old night sky. Or maybe there is something there. Something hiding and waiting in the foul shadows of the night. Maybe someday our quaint little neighborhood will be threatened by the forces of shadow."

Jody stood up from the windowsill, and draped his arm over my shoulders.

"And when these terrors from hell do come to threaten our innocent little lives, when they come challlenging us on the field of battle, we will meet them with honor. But who will light the way, Ryan? Who will take us to the monster's doorstep? You? Me? Great men are only forged by trying times, so we may never know.

"But I'll tell you this: it helps a hell of a lot to have a torch handy."

He put on his Ninja Turtles cap and ducked out my window, dissapearing into that good night.

I never saw him again.

He was such a lame ass I decided to make friends with this kid down the block named Jeff, because he had Mario Kart and this super sweet four person adapter that you could hook four controllers into. Man it was cool! We'd stay up for like, hours. The first time I got drunk was playing that shit. I think Jody moved to like a school for weird kids and killed himself or something.

As for the torch? I fucking traded that thing to a dumb ass fourth grade for some sweet Power Rangers Pogs.

The Best Valentine's Day Ever

I spent my best Valentine’s Day ever at the bottom of a well. On February 13th I was reaching for a bucket (because our winch had a bad catch) and I stumbled and fell to the freezing waters below.

The next day, while husbands and boyfriends were scurrying around for chocolates and cards and dinner reservations, I was standing in waist-deep water. I suppose everyone I knew was out loving each other, because no one thought to come look for me.

You see, I would have been just as alone out in the open air as I was at the bottom of that well. The difference was I didn’t have to look at folks strolling hand in hand, or eating little candy hearts, or see an old men at Kroger’s buying flowers at eight o’clock two hours after the flower shops closed. I also didn’t have to fight traffic or elbow through a crowded restaurant and listen to the sounds of people laughing and kissing.

It’s bad enough to be unloved, but having the world rub it in is unbearable. I’d rather be cold and wet and underground than breath free air as a lonely man.

Birth of a Mastermind

Donovan entered my tree house today, about high noon. His slight frame stood barely half as tall as the ceiling, yet the whole room seemed taken up with him.

He threw his Mead Spiral on my desk. "Ryan," he said, "You're broke." He waited a moment for that revalation to sink in, then added, "It's all gone. Everything."

"Everything?" I asked.

"Everything."

"My baseball cards? The Power Rangers? My Trapper Keeper? My god man, say I still have the Trapper."

"All gone. Taylor was by, however, and he left you this."

Donovan handed me a satin cloth, clicked his heels, and climbed down the rope ladder.

I stared at the cloth for a moment or two, wondering what Taylor could have left. The cunning fourth grader had taken everything from me. My crime-solving business, my girlfriend, even the cigar box where we kept our fees.

I'm twenty-four years old; I should have known better than to trust a boy in elementary school.

Finally I opened the cloth. Inside it was grandfather's buffalo nickel--the first payment we ever recieved. It was for our first case: "The Case of the Mysterious Shed."

So he left me with something. He gave me what we started with, the foundation of our crime-solving empire. The message here was clear: Come get me, you son of a bitch. Climb to the top and come get me.

All right, rogue. I'll play your game. I failed as a hero, so now I must wear the cowel of a villain! Tonight I am born anew. Tonight I am no longer Ryan Arey, courageous solver of petty crimes. Tonight I will become..."The Foul Phantom"!

Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!

The Aquarium Apocalypse

This was the day my ex-girlfriend said she was going to call me to talk about some stuff that needed talking about. We settled on a common time to talk. It was written on the calender.

While I was waiting for the phone to ring, I noticed something. My aquarium has a slow leak in it. So slow I didn't even catch it until I saw that the table it sits on is becoming a little warped. I felt guilty immedately, because I don't spend as much time with my fish as I should.

I decided that I would, that day, spend some time gazing into my aquarium. "How are you today, Fish?" I asked.

They didn't answer.

I repeated the question, until finally one little parrot fish swam to the edge of the glass and glared at me with her left eye. "Our world is dying," she said in haunting tones. She then swam off into the castle, where the other fish were gathering.

They were in there for quite some time. I couldn't make out what they were saying, or if they were speaking at all. They are fish, after all, not Texans.

Finally one of them, a tiger-striped Neptune fish, swam furiously out of the meeting, and spun around in circles. Another Neptune came out to meet it, and it appeared as if the two were speaking. The first fish began to calm down, and the two went off together.

Later, the others exited the castle in a rush. They all began to pick at the aquarium plants, cutting them down and moving them to the base of the little chest that shoots bubles into the air.

I had never seen fish behave like this before so I thought maybe they were hungry. I threw a little food into the top, and they all swam furiously to the surface-even the Neptune fish. To my surprise, none of them ate the food. The Neptune fish carried it to a little corner, and the others placed it with the plants before the treasure chest.

I was about to grab the video camera when the phone rang. It was my ex-girlfriend, and she immediately starts asking about the money I owe her. She starts talking about how we said we'd still be friends and all this, and how maybe we could still be more than that, if I just figured out what the hell I want out of life. I tried to talk to her and watch the fish at the same time and when she asked why I was so distracted I even tried to explain the thing to her, but it wouldn't take. She thought I was screwing with her.

The Neptune fish were knocking down the castle and the others had formed some strange synchronized dance around the treasure shest, weaving in and out of it's bubbles.

Meanwhile, the leak was getting worse. I could see the water mark lowering. Something was going down.

I went to the sink for water to add to the tank, but then the ex starts harping at me about why can't I just listen to her and this is important to her, and her-her-her. So I shut myself in the next room, away from the aquarium, and really made an effort.

We ended up tlaking for close to two hours, and everything was easy and soft and wonderful just like it always was. There was still no chance we'd ever get back together, so in a way I had just spent two hours poisoning my heart with false promises.

When I returned to the living room, I had forgotten all about the strange events of the aquarium. Then my socks touched something wet (which I HATE). The sight I saw was so bizarre I almost cried. If John Williams had been scoring it, I probably would have. The leak had stopped and left about four inches of standing water. All of the fish except the Neptunes were floating on the surface. Some were cut to ribbons but I'd bet that the cause of death was the same for each of them: overeating.

The way I figured it was like this: They stored up the food, and one of them gorged himself. The others then ate off him unmtil they were all dead.

Mass suicide.

The Neptunes were nowhere to be found. Not even skelatons. Had they somehow escaped the mass hysteria that had taken the lives of all my pets? The castle was gone, as was the little diver's helmet.

Maybe I would never know.

I went to the bathroomto get some towels. On the way I stepped on something wet and heard plastic break. I looked down and saw the two Neptune fish. One was impaled by a piece of plastic castle, the other was flopping about frantically. Apaprently they had built some exomarine vehicle that I had just demolished. I picked up the flopping fish, the last survivir, as his little gills were gasping for air. Through his frantic heasing he spoke one word: "Comode."

I delived him there. He gave me a look of gratiude. Or was it hatred for killing his best friend? Hard to tell; it was a fish, after all, not a Texan.

With a salute, I gave him a flush. And that was that.

But I wonder: why the comode? Did he see it as a way to empty out into a larger body of water? Was that were they were planning on escaping to all along? Or was his pain and grief so great that he sent me on a mercy killing? I may never know.

I wonder if the guy at the fish store would refund my money if I told him the fish he sold me were superstitious acolytes with an armageddon complex. Probably not.