Shut up and sit your ass down

He has the world in the palm of his hand. There is an indescribable energy that radiates from him. From his chiseled jawline, to his mega-watt smile and crisp, blue eyes, makes him one of the most handsome men in the room. The attraction is obvious. Many want to be around him. Many others want to be him.

Then, he opens his mouth.

At first, you listen and nod your head, wanting him to think that you agree with his opinions on many subjects. Mental health. Religion. But, it isn't long that you start to wonder why people like him. The list begins to grow in your head.

He's arrogant and ignorant. Thinking that you are the smartest person in the room doens't make you so. You don't have all of the answers. You don't even have half of the answers. Do your research. Confidence without intelligence is arrogance.

He's fearful and frightening. Wondering how he has any close relationships makes your head spin. You feel compassionate for those around him - family, friends, acquaintances, co-workers, former wives and current girlfriends. Everyone around him has Stockholm Syndrome. Instilling fear into the hearts of others makes you weak.

He's everything and nothing. Scaling the side of a mountain, driving a fast car or motorcycle, or swishing a giant samurai sword (while finding your inner peace) doesn't make you Superman. You're not everyman. You're not a man, at all. You're a stereotype. A cliche.

You wonder why you listen to anything he says. Part of you wishes he would sit down and shut up. We don't need to hear you. We don't care what you have to say. Just stand where you are and don't say a word. You're so much more attractive that way.

Five things I've learned this weekend

Seven days, five thoughts. Oh, how the mind works...

1. When I'm not wearing any underwear, I have to make sure that my fly is zipped. Always.

2. More and more, my mother's antics resemble that of a dingbat.

3. When mowing the lawn with my shirt off, I only manage to attract the attention of little old ladies.

4. Little old ladies scare me.

5. Even though he's on vacation, I miss my dad.

If these are the things I think about in one week, imagine what a month must be like. Scary, I know.

Fading

There are many ways of forgetting the past. Personally, I enjoy pulling out a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet, removing a crystal tumbler and some ice cubes from their respective places, pouring A into B, sitting back and allowing the bitter liquid work its magic, erasing selected memories.

Sometimes, that doesn't happen.

Our goodbyes are a little strained. Uncomfortable. Unforgiving.

After getting home, I realize I have something that isn't mine and have to return. Shit. The last thing I want take part in another strange and awkward encounter.

So, doing what any passive-aggressive person would do, I e-mail a short message about what happened.

"Hey. How are you doing? Hope you enjoyed your weekend. I realized when I got home, I forgot to return something of yours on Friday. You know Fridays, right...?" La di da. Light and breezy.

On Tuesday morning, I check my inbox. There it is. The reply. I click on the message. "Thanks for the reminder. You can just mail the stuff back." Short. Not too sweet. Tastes like artificial sugar.

Alright. The rules of the game are written, and I can read between the lines. Subtle. You don't want to see me. Hint taken.

Let me say that if it wasn't for the fact I mentioned I had something of yours, you wouldn't know. Now, that you do know, you want me to mail it back to you. Costly. Today.

Let me also say that since you have a sturdy pair of legs and a car, you can easily come by and pick up your things. Cheaper. Yesterday.

Like that game? Thought so.

Now, if you don't mind, I have to get back to my drink. Memories are fading in a cloud of auburn. Fading. Fading...

Feel

At the end of every relationship, you look back and reflect on what was good and what was bad. Sometimes one column dominates over another. Guess which one?

You made me feel cheated. Promises went unfulfilled. Our future was clear, but one-sided.

You made me feel worthless. You treated everyone with respect. I was your bitch. But, I am worth more than two of you. Period.

You made me feel angry. From the first day, I should've seen your lies were just lies, not eventual truths. All of that energy that could've been used for love and affection, went somewhere else.

You made me feel stupid. This is the worst offense of all. No one can make me feel stupid, but you managed to push the right buttons and pull the right levers. You're manipulative. And, I hate you for that.

In the end, you made me feel. You made me feel the worst I could possibly feel in a short period of time. With those lessons learned, I will grow and move on.

Yet, if you asked me back, I would welcome you with open arms.

Wet

Damn, it's hot.

The heat is overwhelming. You feel it radiating off of tanned and toned bodies. You see it with every ounce of sweat that emits from tight pores. The same can be said about me.

A small drop forms at my neck. Slowly, I feel it move down. First, it touches my collar-bone, and it rests there for a few seconds. Then, it sweeps its way across the bone to the edge.

The journey continues down the centre of my chest. A cooling effect that makes the skin tingle and contract. Ice.

Down my stomach, the small sample of liquid pauses at each softly-defined ripple. One, by one, by one. Then, it trickles inside of my belly-button. Aah. Localized air-conditioning.

Continuing with it's travels, the drop moves from the hole down to the happy trail. It stops just at the waist. The drop becomes steam.

And, still, I'm wet.

Cheap bastard, or cheap bitch?

We're sitting in this overly air-conditioned room, my boss and I. Both of us are taking care of media registration duties for an event. Currently, the conference room is empty. No media in sight. Ideally, I would love to be home, since it is Sunday. But, when duty calls, you have to answer.

That reminds me, I should disconnect my phone.

Moving on...

She gets up from her chair and looks around. "I should get the Sunday Star, but I don't have any money. Does anyone have a dollar they can lend me?" Strange she would ask that question - aloud - since I am the only other person in the room. The unpadded walls create an echo.

"Well, I don't know if I have any change..." I say as I pull out my wallet from my back pocket. In fact, I do, but she doesn't have to know. "If you like, I could buy one and you can reimburse me later on in the week." No response from her. Crickets. This sign of consideration goes unnoticed.

"You know what? Here's some money." She reaches for her purse, and pulls out her wallet. The wallet to end all wallets. The thing is huge. Like a weapon. The dimensions must be 6X12. Fucking huge. And, on top of that, FULL of money - paper, plastic and metal. "Seventy-five cents. That should be enough for the paper."

"Ok." I take the three quarters. "I'll be back in a few secs."

Interesting. She is clearly rolling in the dough, yet she asks/expects for me to offer to pay for the paper. She makes more money than I do, and she knows I don't have a money tree in my backyard - it died from a lack of watering. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she's cheap. Not to mention exploitive.

I run across the street and find a couple of newsboxes. There's the Star, at the end. Is there one in the box? I have to make sure since I don't want to drop her into the slot, only to realize I won't be getting anything back. Yep, there's one left.

As I drop in the first quarter, I see the price listings. Monday to Friday, the paper costs 75 cents. On Saturday, it's $2 because two redwoods were cut down to produce it. Sunday's paper costs one dollar. Lovely. Now, I have to chip in a quarter. I should've known I was going to pay for something.

The final quarter (mine) goes in the slot, the door clicks open, and I pull out the last paper.

Running back, I enter silenced hush of the conference room and hand her the paper.

"It was more than 75 cents. It's actually $8. You need to pay me the difference."

"What? I do not owe you $8." Apparently, humour is lost on her.

"It's a joke. Ha ha. Funny?" I smile. She doesn't. "Actually, it costs one dollar, so you owe me a quarter.

She takes the paper, opens it, and says nothing. Absolutely nothing. No thank you. No I'll pay you back next week. Nothing. Nasty.

Why does it seem like people with money are the stingiest with their money? Is it a method of exerting control over others? Or, are they wealthy because they expect others to pay the tab? Either way, they're cheap.

Before I leave, she still hasn't given me back my quarter. She hasn't mentioned the quarter and I don't think she ever will. Am I a cheap bastard? Or is she a cheap bitch?

Fat ass

Do you ever feel like, no matter how fit you feel, there is always someone else who is fitter? For some people, this question is irrelevant. For others, it's a daily reminder.

Being told that I am going to work at a fitness expo on Saturday and Sunday is not my idea of quality weekend-time. All of those crazy people around you, talking about their routines and regimes. You're not sure if you're at the gym, or in some Communist country.

Since I have to pick up a set of tickets for the show, and my contact person is nowhere to be seen, I hang around the lobby and common areas. So many muscles on so many people. Yeesh. All I can think of of is, If everyone looked like this, McDonalds would go bankrupt. Well, that's not entirely true. I also think I want to force-feed them Big Macs and watch them disappear for days, while they work out unnecessary carbs and calories from their system.

The only thing you see is skin. Tight skin over taut muscles. Cut arms, six packs, killer thighs, asses that defy gravity. Did I mention these are the women? And, don't get me started on the men.

Unless you're one of the competitors/contestants, you feel out of place. Fuck, even I feel out of place. As fit as I (think) I am, I know I am not ripped (or tan) enough to be here.

God, I feel like a tub of lard. Pass me some bacon, eggs and hash browns. And, don't skip on the grits, honey.

Strangely enough, a high-school vibe is going around. Cliques. One group here, another there. Stake your identity. Everyone wants to be the cool one, the popular one. Yet, no matter how hard you try to assimilate, you're an outsider.

But, I don't care. Yes, I am not really an outsider amongst these protein-shake, fake-n-bake lovers. I don't feel embarassed if I have to walk around in my underwear - I do it all the time. The only thing that sets me apart is the fact I'm not wearing spandex and don't smell like coconut oil.

My contact finally arrives, and I get the tickets. The exchange is quick and painless.

As I walk back to work, I'm feeling hungry. Something fattening. Maybe a burger and fries. Nah, too unhealthy. What about a deep-fried, power bar? Now, there's some good eating.

Who cares if my ass gets fatter? Who cares if my stomach isn't as tight tomorrow? I'll live another day. I'll eat another burger. I'll form my own clique and I'll belong. Somewhere.

Busy signal

No matter how many times you try, you can't seem to get through. The same holds true for me.

No, I'm not talking about the phone (although, you can never get a hold of me that way). I'm talking about time. There are many things I can think of doing if there was 25, instead of 24, hours in a day. Just creating the list would make me want another hour to spare.

So many stories to tell, so little time: uncommunicative leaders, idiocy in society, stupidity in the workforce, and the list goes on and on.

But, I have to go. There isn't enough time in the day.

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

How to make your co-workers hate you

With the ergonomically-designed chair swaddling my ass, and the Herman Miller walls protecting me from intruders, I know a professional environment doesn’t get any better (or look better) than this. That is, until I hear the sing-song tone of my boss over the partition. She wants something. I can feel it. No. I know it.

"Steee-ven?" the two syllables stretch as if they’re made of Lycra. She comes around the corner and stands near the edge of my desk.

"Yes?" I drop my pittance of duties - whatever the hell they are - turn my chair around and cringe internally. What does she want? I wonder.

"I was wondering if you could do something for me."

"Sure," I smile. "That's my job." I'm nothing if not an ass-kisser.

"Well, C has been working on this newsletter for quite some time, and he needs a fresh pair of eyes to go over it." C is smart by not asking me directly and lets the boss do his dirty work. "Ask him for a copy of it when you have the chance..." She continues her tour of the office and her voice drifts off around another corner.

Since I have nothing real to do at the moment, I roll my chair to the next cubicle, which happens to be C’s.

"You heard the conversation, right? So, could you pass me a copy of the newsletter?"

"Oh yeah, just go over it to see if I missed anything," he says this as his index finger hovers over a couple of bullet points. "You know, like a bold or a highlight. Ok?" Although his words mean one thing, his thoughts scream, Don't you touch a fucking word. He barely lets the paper go of his hands. No one messes with his Proustian work of literature.

"Uh huh." My open palm waits for him to pass the paper. Grudgingly, he lays it on my palm.

Rolling over to my desk, and clicking some lead out my pencil (not as cutting as a red pen, but still leaves gaping wounds), I begin.

Pardon my improper grammar, but it ain't good. As my eyes glance over the paper, I begin to worry. A lot. But, instead of letting someone's insipidness of get a hold of my copy-editing skills, I decide to do what any intelligent person would do: make them feel stupid.

Large swipes of carbon sweep the page from left to right, up and down. Sentences are too long. Sentences make no sense. Misuse of semi-colons. No commas. No hyphens. Wrong choices of words. Lack of structure and flow... Should I even bother to go on? It's painful to read it, let alone write about it.

Who the fuck writes like this? You're not six. Hell, you're not even 16. You should know how to write a real sentence, by now. Christ. Aren't you pushing, like, 30?

After I finish fighting one war, I begin another battle. He did ask for my help (and maybe knowledge), but he didn't expect the destruction and the bloodshed.

"Uh, C?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to go over the newsletter?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Well, before I start, I have to ask you something…” I wait for his reaction. He seems worried. Perfect. “Do you want me to be nice, or honest?"

"I guess honest?" Now he looks fearful.

"Ok. Just so you know, you asked for it..." This is going to be fun.

Placing the masterpiece - which looks like Picasso's Guernica - on his desk, we take the next 20 minutes going through, line by line, the corrections. Since he's a nice guy, he takes it all in stride. But I know inside, he wishes he never handed me his work. Well, that, and he's plotting my violent demise.

“Do you have any questions? You know you can completely disregard everything I wrote down. Sometimes I get a little carried away.” No shit.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I’ll take it into consideration.” Deep inside he knows he made mistakes. Fuck, they’re on the page in black and white (not to mention swirls of grey).

He must really hate me. Oh well.

The diagnosis of truth is that noboby likes a smart-ass. Especially one who is never wrong. Never. Wrong.

The remedy?

Never outsmart anyone you work with. Sure, some may be dumb as posts, others as useless as old people, but you still have to work with them. And no one, and I mean no one, wants to work with someone who makes them feel inferior when they're near an impeccably and impossibly perfect person.

Inspiration takes off

The scene at the airport is crazy. The people, the planes, the parking.

People wait in incredibly long lines, expecting to be assigned a window seat (or at least one far away from the crapper). Staff from several airlines sit behind their counter, telling fliers the only seats remaining are the ones beside the facilities. Various loud conversations in multiple languages are heard as you step over large suitcases filled with too much clothing and not enough underwear.

Like I said, crazy.

The reason why I am slumming with the rest of the jet-set glitterati is because my father, Ari (not his real name), is going away on a much deserved vacation. He's been talking about this break for the past few months. Yet, the closer the date gets, the more panic-stricken he looks. The man is stressed.

Following his orders, we arrive three hours early because he believes if he avoids the rush, he can get a seat near the front of the plane, away from the can, and beside the window. Maybe watching the clouds roll by will calm him down. Well, that and a Xanax.

After waiting in line, and getting the seat assignment (ha ha - no window seat), it's time to kill two hours and fourty-five minutes. I tell my father to walk around because his ass will be kissing cushion for at least six hours. If he doesn't want to exercise his brain with a book, he can at least exercise his legs with a couple of laps.

As we walk towards the shops, I see a man who is huffing his way along the corridor. He must be at least 12,000 pounds. No, really. Twelve-thousand-fucking-pounds. His mass is so overwhelming, it takes up an entire orbit, and has the possibility of collapsing unknown galaxies into itself.

"You know, if you don't lose some weight on vacation, you'll resemble that man over there," I say as I nod my head in the direction of Attila the Hun.

My father pulls a Linda Blair.

"You mean I'll be in a wheelchair?"

Wow. He doesn't get it. I think it's an easy joke to laugh at. It even has visuals. Huge visuals, the size of Texas. I mean, come on, Dad. I'm trying to lessen your stress of flying. Laugh, damnit, laugh. Jesus, if you can't take a cheap shot at the sake of another, then why bother trying?

"Forget it," I reply as we continue walking.

After spending time walking around, drinking some juice, and taking three bathroom breaks, he's dropped off at the gate.

Before entering the boarding area, he turns around, smiles, and waves. I wave back. He goes in. A little tear forms in the corner of my eye. My biggest source of comic inspiration is leaving me for four months. I don't know how I'll ever cope.