My First Spam

Back in the mid 90's, I was in graduate school taking classes at night. We were encouraged to sign up to a "listserv," a new means of communication back then. Listservs were a great way to get the word out. It was also an effective means of effortlessly sending mindless emails to a large group of people. That's what happened shortly after I subscribed to my first listserv. I got my first ever spam.

Jim was a student from Europe. I don't know what country in Europe Jim was from, but he was most definitely European. He wore clothes that were likely once his uncle's. He also smoked heavily. He sported a fedora long before Justin Timberlake. There were three students named, "Jim," in our class. He became known as "euro-Jim." The most notable thing euro-Jim did to identify his European lineage was express his dissatisfaction with our country by saying,

"Americans always discriminate against Europeans."

Euro-Jim didn't mince words. He routinely accused Americans of victimizing the people of an entire continent. Most Americans can't find Europe on a map so it's unlikely they would collectively do anything discriminatory against a whole continent. Euro-Jim always went on about how much better his country of origin was as compared to the United States. He said once,

"The education I got in my country would have gotten me a PhD here."

I've heard this many times from foreigners. We're supposed to believe their high schools are superior to our doctoral programs even though they have to wait two months in a line for a roll of toilet paper. If it was so great in Krackistan, why did they leave in the first place?

Euro-Jim hated Bill Gates and Microsoft. In between expressing his strong belief of America's hemispherical discrimination policy, euro-Jim also badmouthed Microsoft all the time. He said things like,

"Microsoft intentionally displays the blue screen of death even when it's not necessary."

I don't know how euro-Jim knew this, but he said it with conviction. One time, someone sent an email to the listserv informing the readership that March was MS Awareness Month. Euro-Jim followed with an email comparing the symptoms of multiple sclerosis to the Windows Operating System. In it, he wrote,

"Memory loss, fatigue, dizziness, heat intolerance, vertigo, weakness. These are all symptoms of the Windows Operating system as well as multiple sclerosis."

I didn't find euro-Jim's comparison funny at all. Apparently many subscribers to the listserv didn't think it was humorous either. After euro-Jim's attempt at humor, the listserv was flooded with emails containing only one word,

"Unsubscribe."

People always think European movies are more edgy and more artsy than American movies. I don't think my dissatisfaction with euro-Jim's analogy was a cultural issue. I think he was just an euro-jerk. Clearly, others agreed with me as the exodus from the listserv continued. I responded with one word as well,

"Uncouth."

My accusation of no class angered euro-Jim because he countered with,

"Unintelligent."

Of course, I was unintelligent. I was an American with my deficient American education. I sent just to euro-Jim,

"Unglued,"

I made it look like it went to the whole listserv by leaving just one letter off the listserv to ensure it would bounce. Euro-Jim took the bait. He sent back to the listserv,

"Uncivilized."

To which I sent just to him,

"Unravel,"

keeping with my "you're nuts" theme. Euro-Jim sent to the listserv,

"Unscrupulous."

I sent,

"Unhinged."

Euro-Jim sent,

"Unjust."

to which I followed with,

"Unwell."

This went on all day, me sending my slightly insulting "un" word that was a synonym for "lunatic" to euro-Jim, and he responding with his equally childish "un" word to the entire listserv. The difference was no one knew I was doing it except euro-Jim, but everyone was aware that he was spamming the listserv for what appeared to the outside observer no intelligible reason.

Eventually someone sent,

"What is your problem?"

Euro-Jim took time to respond. He obviously looked closely at the emails flooding his inbox. He sent to everyone,

"I thought I was responding to another student."

I guess I was just discriminating against his European heritage when I baited him into making a fool of himself. An inquiry by the IT Department led to an email to the listserv stating,

"The listserv is a tool used by the university to provide important information to the student body, faculty and employees. An environment of intimidation, abuse or discrimination will not be tolerated on the university supported listserv. Subscribers who abuse the system will be unregistered immediately."

Being a consummate dick, I sent to the listserv just before I unsubscribed,

"Does this policy include people from Europe?"

Editor's Note: Originally published on February 21, 2017.

A Valentines Story

I first saw her at a new hire party. My boss told me that it was a casual event, but he was wrong. The only one dressed casually was me. I was dressed like I was going to the mall to buy clothes. She was in a blue skirt with matching jacket. I looked at her for a long time, but due to my inadequate clothing, I figured it wasn't a good idea to try to talk to her. Not a woman like her surrounded by a bunch of dudes in suits, threads way better than my Dockers and Polo shirt. I decided to do what every respectable, professional engineer would do when they were interested in a woman, but elected not to talk to them. I decided to stalk her.

Stalk is probably the wrong word. I was collecting information. Someone as good looking as this woman certainly was going to meet up with some guy once she cleared this lame office party. I followed far behind her as she left. She went to her car and drove off alone. Best I could hope for is she would stay alone, just long enough for me to amass enough testosterone to ask her out. That would likely take a few days.

I saw her again at a new hire lecture. Based on the sign up sheet, she was either "Chris" or "Pat." There was only one woman in a room full of thirty men. I was going to find out as much as I could about ChrisPat. I passed ChrisPat in the hallways at work. We worked for a large defense contractor at a site that had multiple buildings and mostly no women. ChrisPat was often seen in what was called "the old engineering building." I made every excuse to cut through that building when I had to go somewhere. Once I passed her in a narrow hallway. The name on her security badge began with a "C" and ended with "e." Her name was "Christine."

A colleague of mine returned one day with critical intel. He had stumbled across where she sat. Armed with her coordinates in the cube farm, I didn't waste any time. I got a fresh flattop and sprang into action. As I approached her desk, I noticed this square, jawed jock seated next to her named "Rickie." He was talking up a big game as Christine half listened.

"What a dope," I thought.

When guys are young, they always talk about themselves as though women just can't wait to hear about their saving plays in their sports league. I approached with the utmost confidence. I was a successful engineer with a great job who worked out daily. While the rest of my contemporaries were drinking themselves blind on Friday nights, I was getting ready to buy a house.

"I don't know anyone who knows you so I'm introducing myself. I'm Robert," I confidently stated as I positioned myself to block Rickie, cutting short his glory story about his fabulous lacrosse plays.

"I'm Christine," she said.

"Say, can you show me where the Plan Vault is?"

I thought I would get her away from Rickie the Jock to ask her out.

"No, I can't leave my work area," she responded.

What a crock. Christine was a salaried engineer. She wasn't restricted to a particular work area. I immediately interpreted this as "I'm definitely not interested." I collected up the pieces of my shattered pride then excused myself. As I left, I heard Rickie start back up,

"Now, where were we? I was shredding it down the infield as I neared the goal..."

I didn't talk to Christine for another four years. We passed in the hallways, and I doubted she even knew my name. I certainly knew hers. I accepted that some women just aren't attracted to certain guys. I first encountered this in high school with my friend, Heidi, a beautiful, talented writer. I became her friend when I sat next to her in creative writing. Heidi had a great imagination for poetic children's stories. She caught the eye of a senior, Michael, a tall, dark, handsome dude who was planning to move to Italy to study medicine.

Michael was in love with Heidi. He wanted to marry her and take her to Italy with him. Heidi chose a different guy than Michael. She picked Arty, the Whirlybird operator at the local amusement park. When I asked Heidi why she rejected Michael, she answered,

"I just don't like him that way."

Now, Arty was short, balding yet had a mullet, smoked pot, and sported a cheesy, porno mustache. Arty didn't have great career prospects. Along with being a skilled amusement park ride operator, Arty boxed. He wasn’t any good being the kind of fighter a real boxer pummeled to build confidence. The pinnacle of Arty’s boxing career was when Vinnie Pazenza knocked him out in the gym. Why a beautiful, talented woman like Heidi would make such an inferior choice baffled me for years. Arty eventually cheated on Heidi ending their relationship. I know love is blind. I just didn't know it was stupid too.

I always prided myself on trying to be a good catch. I got highest honors all through high school and college. I led a healthy lifestyle, working out regularly. I saved money. I took women on extraordinary dates to shows and expensive restaurants. My competition was bringing women out to cheap, buffet style eateries that had salad bars. There was no sneeze shields on my dates. If I took you out, it would be a memorable experience like meeting Elvis. Elvis never travelled incognito. If you met him, he wanted it to be an unforgettable encounter. That's the way I approached dating. But I had to accept that all the best prep and iron pumping in the world couldn't make somebody like you. As with my friend Heidi, some women just preferred Arty.

Four years later a small team of top engineers formed to design the next class of submarine, and who was picked to work in that group? Christine and me. Great. Along with pining away for this woman for years, now I had to work with her daily, all while knowing that I was Michael, and she would eventually marry Arty, the bumper car operator at Fun Land. This was going to suck.

After a few months I became resigned to becoming Christine's colleague and friend and later her confident. If she wasn't interested, I would at least make sure she made a good choice even if that choice would never be me. I guess that's when I knew I really liked her because I wanted her to be happy knowing full well that her happiness did not include me. We talked about work, the dates we went on and our families. When we were whispering some gossip between the two of us, and Christine would lean in close, I would jokingly say,

"You're in my personal space."

She would always back away laughing. It was hard enough to be infatuated with her without enduring an occasional physical closeness. One time, I was telling her of a bike frame I had purchased. I was into biking. That was my thing. I brought her outside to my car to marvel at the exquisite piece of engineering I had in a big box. Christine thought it was cool that I had a passion.

"What do you like to do?" I asked.

"Ride horses," she answered.

"Then you should buy a horse," I exclaimed.

Each weekend I visited my parents and at the gym I talked my father's ear off about how great Christine was. My dad always wondered why I wasn't with her, and I would explain that I was Michael and she wanted Arty, the Sit and Spin operator at Coney Island.

So one time our whole department travelled to Washington, DC to give presentations to the Navy. Later when we were free, Christine and I went to some museums together. It was wonderful, just the two of us at the National Air and Space Museum. I held her coat under a big yellow winged airplane when she used the bathroom. As I waited alone I thought that this felt so right, but it just never could be.

A few months later I got another job within the company. I never said "Good bye” to her, choosing instead to just pack up my desk and leave. Two months later she called me at my desk to see how I was doing. She took over some of my work so I figured she was calling about that. Christine asked about my new job, if I was dating anyone, how school was going. We were both getting a masters degree at night and occasionally crossed paths. It was nice hearing from her. Earlier I had read that the Rhode Island poet laureate was retiring, and there would be a formal final public reading of his work. It just kind of spit out of me,

"So do you think you'd want to go with me?"

"Ok,"' she answered.

A few nights later we were well dressed in public going to dinner then a gathering for a poet to read his life's work. When friends are properly dressed and out on the town, it's perfectly acceptable to venture into each other's personal space. It's the "well dressed exception." After dinner we walked arm in arm to a small venue where the poetry reading was being held. It felt so right to be with her. Surely, she felt it too.

When the night came to a close, I wanted to kiss her, but that was outside the acceptable personal space exclusion for well dressed friends out together. I came back to reality, that even though it all seemed right, Christine wasn't interested in me and that was just the way it was. I gave her a hug at her doorstep then sadly got into my car and drove away. It was both a great and awful night. A week later I couldn't stop thinking about her. I figured I would write her a note saying how much fun I had. I thought I would end it with

"If you like me, check this box []"

but, that seemed like a bad idea. She called to tell me that she purchased a registered quarter horse that she intended to show. She wanted to take me out to the barn to meet her new horse. We went that afternoon. His name was "Dubious Conclusion," "Dube” for short. I took great and real interest in the animal. Christine showed me how to brush him down. We made plans for me to watch her ride. While at the barn, I told her that I had a great time the other night. She seemed preoccupied as she asked if I would help her obtain a gate for Dube's stall. Trying to be overtly helpful, I agreed even though we were in my small car which was seemingly incapable of transporting a large metal gate.

The site that was selling the gates was another horse facility. We picked out a gate from a large out building. I got filthy digging through the old farm equipment. As we freed up the gate, it started to rain outside trapping us in the dusty space. Together we waited out a summer thunderstorm in an old barn. I turned to her and asked her out to dinner on Friday night. Unhesitatingly she answered,

"Yes."

There was a long pause as I added,

"This is a date though. You know, not friends."

Then there was a real long pause. I blew it. I crossed the boundary too soon. I thought she might have felt what I was feeling and just maybe missed me a bit, but the long pause was a sure sign I messed up. The rain had stopped. I lifted the gate and brought it to my car. It was obviously too large to fit. I pulled out my bike rack from the trunk and fastened it in the back then proceeded to lash the gate onto the rack. We both jumped into the car. Christine was quiet on the ride back. I figured I would just ignore my comment, and hopefully she would forget it as well. After we dropped off the gate at the barn I asked,

"So Friday at seven?"

I expected her to tell me she couldn't go because she didn't want to be out of her work area unless it was to meet Arty, the Flying Horse Carousel operator at Knott's Berry Farm, but she replied,

"Okay."

That's it. Okay. No enthusiasm. No smile. This wasn't a good idea. She probably didn't want to reject me again right after I helped her. Friday night would be a disaster as I overstepped my bounds. I couldn't compete with the Bumper Scooter operator at Six Flags. There's no way to make sense of it. Women are a mystery. I learned that from watching Titanic. A women's heart is as deep as the ocean. That was especially true when Rose exclaimed,

"I'd rather be his whore than your wife."

Then Rose spit in the dude's eye. That movie is every twelve year old girl's Star Wars, and Jack boffed Rose in the back seat of a car. It was hopeless. I couldn't spit like Jack, but I still was going out with her on Friday night. 

The next few days in the office, I avoided running into Christine. I'm sure she was going to let me down gently as her gratitude for helping with the gate waned. With the weekend approaching, I prepared myself for my Friday night crash and burn. I picked her up at seven and off we went to a restaurant in a nearby town. We had a wonderful dinner and conversation. Afterwards, we visited a small Victorian place called L'Ezabeth's for dessert and coffee.

When we returned to her apartment, we approached her door awkwardly. I was sure I was going to get the "I just want to be friends" speech. I wasn't ready for it so I asked,

"Do you want to walk down by the pier?"

I wanted to extend the night and delay the inevitable rejection. I thought maybe I could have just a few more minutes with her, pretending we were a couple.

"Sure," she answered.

As we walked, I reached for her hand. Sometimes when you hold hands, it doesn't work. Someone's arm is too long, and you don't match up right. When you don't feel right, walking hand in hand, it just isn't right. I know that's not very scientific, but it's true. Christine's hand fit perfectly in mine. We watched the moon rise from a railing at the edge of a pier on a warm summer night. I expected at any moment she would express her disappointment that I crossed the line, that she was head over heels for a guy named Arty who was a talented Scrambler operator at Wally World.

"Do you feel like I do?" she asked.

"That depends on the way you feel."

"This feels so... so..."

Here it comes. I think the word she was searching for was "wrong." This seemed so wrong. Then she would go on how our friendship was ruined. I would agree with her just to salvage our relationship, then I would vow to never let her know that I loved her.

"...perfect," she said.

"Perfect?" I asked.

"Unless you don't feel that way," she exclaimed.

"I thought I was Michael, and you wanted Arty," I blurted.

She looked puzzled.

"You didn't answer when I said we were going out not as friends," I added.

"I thought you were just being nice," she explained.

"I thought you preferred the Whirlybird operator."

There was that look again.

"You know, I didn't do it for you," I offered.

"I just thought you weren't interested in me," Christine revealed.

"I thought the same about you about me!" I replied.

"So what are you saying? You're not interested or you are?" she asked.

"Yes, I mean no. Wait! Which question are you asking?"

This got rather confusing.

"The last one," Christine answered.

"I think that one is yes," I clumsily offered.

"Me too," she said.

I looked into her eyes not sure what to say next. I thought I should just stop now because I think she just said she liked me. In retrospect the check this box question would have been much easier. After what seemed like an eternity Christine asked, 

"Who's Arty?"

I shrugged. Even though I wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, we walked back hand in hand. It was perfect. I told her that we shouldn't spend too much time together otherwise we would ruin things, but the next night she called.

"What're you doing?"

"Ironing shirts," I answered.

"Can I come over?"

"No! We can't spend too much time together."

"Why?"

Sensing this might get confusing again I went with,

"Sure, come over."

Christine drove to my house then sat on the couch and read some Dickens while I ironed. We rarely have spent a day apart after that evening. The bike frame I showed her months earlier became hers and the quarter horse, the first horse I ever rode, became mine. Later we would pedal a tandem down the west coast camping along the way. We rode horses in Ireland on our honeymoon. When our first son, Aidan, was in kindergarten we returned to the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC to take a picture under the yellow winged airplane. We have one more trip planned to capture a picture of William in the same spot.

That's the way it happened, or should I say the way it almost didn't.

Happy Valentines Day

Editor's Note: Originally posted on February 15, 2017.

Stephen Hawking, Pop Icon

Stephen Hawking

If you’re really smart, like Will Hunting smart, you have to follow Stephen Hawking, the late wheelchair bound genius of theoretical physics. No one ever doubted Stephen's intellect. He was an author of several technical books, and held the same position at the University of Cambridge in England that Sir Isaac Newton once occupied. He was the premier professor of astrophysics. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Astrophysicist to the Stars, referred to Hawking as a "badass." He wrote about time, the expanding universe and the existence of aliens. He was married twice which is amazing considering he was a bit of a dependent personality. He attracted women purely on his super genius status. That’s impressive.

Being a professor of astrophysics means Stephen could postulate just about anything, and the lay public was mesmerized by his sheer brain power. He stipulated that black holes emit radiation and the collective brain trust of society gasped at the beauty of his hypothesis. They even named the radiation after him, "Hawking Radiation." It took Stephen minutes to type one letter so writing a book was a monumental task, but he soldiered on against unbelievable odds in a life that was incomprehensibly difficult.

Astrophysics is a tough subject with some equally tough math. I'm talking partial differential equations here. Stuff that will tax your neurons long before you get to “x = 8.” Real math for real smart people like Hawking. The chief advantage of being in the field of astrophysics is that you can postulate just about anything and since the advances don’t do anything beneficial for humankind, no one really questions any of it. If Hawking said Pez was emitted from black holes instead of radiation, no one would have challenged it. It would be called Hawking Pez and everyone would have accepted it. Sure, whatever. In think tanks all over the world, people would be heard saying,

"Did you know Pez is emitted from black holes?"

Everyone would nod in agreement, all thinking that the speaker was brilliant for even understanding the concept. The movie about Hawking’s life, The Theory of Everything, had a scene in which Eddie Redmayne, playing Hawking, sits in a wheelchair in front of the world’s leading astrophysicists in a small amphitheater and rambles on about a whole bunch of hypotheses regarding the heavens. When he finally completes his diatribe, David Thewilis, the onetime Professor Lupin who had a nasty case of the werewolfs, jumps up and exclaims,

“Hawking has done it!”

A foreign sounding scientist, somehow insulted by Hawking’s statements as if what he postulated was an outright insult to his family name, pops up from his seat and yells, “Preposterous!” as he makes for the exit.

I think that guy was on to something. Maybe he knew that civilized society would be sympathetic to Hawking and simply agree with him because of his plight. Or maybe Hawking was refuting this dude’s life’s work. Perhaps this guy was adamant about black holes not emitting radiation. Maybe he had proved it with countless peer reviewed technical papers in which the math showed that radiation could never be emitted from a black hole. Perhaps, he penned,

“Say what you want about black holes, they don't emit radiation. Period. End of story.”

I’m not sure what the deal was but that dude was pissed.

Stephen once disclosed that at Oxford he put in only about a thousand hours of the requisite 10,000 necessary to become a master in any field. He also admitted that he didn't learn to read until he was eight. Stephen’s publicist probably suggested that if he wanted to become more famous he would need to push the Hollywood version of genius which is that of a consummate slacker. This was best illustrated in the movie that launched Matt Damon’s and Ben Affleck’s careers, Good Will Hunting. Will Hunting was a janitor genius who intrinsically understood organic chemistry and had a natural ability with advanced mathematics. The big conflict in the movie was how Will didn't give two quarks about his advanced, superior intellect. Two percent of users on Rotten Tomatoes disliked this movie, ironically the same percentage of actual geniuses in society.

Hollywood loves the concept of the genius slacker, and Stephen wants to be a “pop icon.” He once declared,

“I don’t feel like a true pop culture icon until I’ve been on the Kardashians.”

I’m not sure if Stephen ever actually watched Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

Kim Kardashian

Admittedly, I've never watched a full episode of the show either. Every time I tune in one of them is lamenting about fame, taking a picture of themselves or just doing something so painfully stupid that I had to watch a half hour of Lassie just to cleanse the palate. Last time I tuned in, they were all playing charades. It must have been a special family version that they alone engage in because the word to guess was, and I'm not making this up, "motherfucker." I tuned out when Robert Kardashian started air humping his mom, Kris. Before I could scramble the remote, Kim's expression changed from someone trying to discover the origin of a particularly foul smell to sheer delight as she shouted out the answer.

Exactly how does Stephen Hawking think he would scissor into that scene? If I was him I would fear being in the care of the Kardashians. They’re a little on the surface for me. I’d be scared they’d leave me in the corner with a dead battery, facing a black and white, tube TV tuned to MTV’s Pregnant at 16. Stephen shouldn’t have ever thought he could rely on Kanye West for the Heimlich maneuver if he choked on a piece of chicken. I think they would have discovered something is wrong only after Stephen started to smell bad.

Kanye West

Another time I watched the show the Kardashian clan was visiting their mother land, Armenia. Some of them were being given a tour of a thirteenth century monastery by a religious dude in a tunic who through a translator conveyed fascinating historical anecdotes. It didn’t really matter that none of them could understand a word the guy was saying because no one was listening anyway. Kanye began smiling and circling the guy while admiring his clothing. Kim was narrating when she said something about how she can always tell when Kanye’s fashion senses are piqued. Forget that this guy might be talking about some historically significant devastating tragedy that once befell the Aramean people. Kanye was more interested in the dude’s threads. Stephen would have been a great addition to that episode. At least one person would have appeared to be listening. Problem is they would have likely forgotten him on the bus.

Maybe it would have worked out. I don’t know. I just keep wondering who Stephen would've talked to, and if he did find one of them he could converse with, what would they talk about? Something tells me Scott Dipstick doesn’t have an opinion if light is a particle or a wave. I don’t think Kanye muses much about string theory, and I imagine what Kim knows about worm holes wouldn't interest Stephen Hawking. My money is against Khloe being well versed in special relativity, or Kendall embracing a stance on dark energy. Kylie might have an opinion concerning the Grand Unified Theory because I think it's the basis for her lip kit.

I always hoped one of the Kardashians stumbled across this post and launched an extensive social media attack of my blog, but it never happened. I would've been more than happy if they made this bitch famous.

Editor’s Note: Originally published on September 1, 2016.

Bus Ride

The Ole Grey Dog

Back when I was younger, I wanted to surprise my sister on her thirtieth birthday. I thought an unscheduled visit would really offset the potential impact of leaving her twenties behind. I also thought it would be fun to travel from Rhode Island to Virginia on the bus because I had never ridden on a bus before. While I was right about my sister's attitude towards her birthday, I was dead wrong about the bus. I should've known something was amiss when I went into the bus terminal and asked to buy a ticket, the clerk asked,

"To Virginia? You want to ride the bus to Virginia from here?"

"Yeah," I answered.

"Okaaaaay," she responded.


She printed out my ticket which looked like the perforated strip you win at arcades. You know, one of those dimly lit places where you get 36,000 tickets for playing Skee-Ball which you cash in for a few, bite-sized Twizzlers. I folded up the strip as I asked,

"Are these everyone's tickets or just mine?"

She frowned. There was no waiting room at the bus terminal. It was more like a tiny space just big enough for the clerk and a terminal. Once I got my tickets, I was supposed to wait outside on the street for the bus which would be along shortly. I said my goodbyes to my parents as the bus rolled up.

Back then buses were the only means of travel which allowed passengers to smoke. While airplanes and trains all banned smoking, bus companies actively advertised that one could enjoy the cool menthol flavor of their favorite cigarette while traveling onboard an ole grey dog. People primarily travelled by bus because it was cheap, and you could light up. Although I appreciated the low cost, I didn't care for smoking at all. In fact, I despised it having grown up with siblings who smoked in our childhood home. I never understood how someone could get addicted to cigarettes because right from the start, smoking is vile. I never got past the putrid smell of burning tobacco to the euphoria of nicotine without giving up. Good thing too, because not for nothing, but smoking kills you.

Soon I was on the highway, burning up the miles, the wind blowing in the vents, the countryside streaming by my window. I settled into my seat. As I looked at the endless prossession of cars threading down the highway, I tried to think of something poetically pretentious like how small we all were on our insignificant journeys. I spotted my parents driving home in their blue Saturn. Before I had time to get their attention, the bus veered off an exit as my parents continued on. I thought maybe we had mechanical troubles or something before I realized that we were stopping in the next town to pick up more people. The whole process of pulling off the highway, loading humans, then getting back underway took almost a half an hour. When we got back on the highway, I thought,

"Okay, now we're going."

Just when the bus got up to speed, we started slowing down for the next exit. I surmised that maybe we blew a tire or something, but we threaded our way to a terminal in a small town. As more people climbed onto the bus, I suddenly realized why my ticket was eight feet long. Every perforated section represented a stop we were to make. I quickly counted through all my tickets. Less the two stops we already made, we would be getting off the highway 36 more times. The next stop was West Warwick, Rhode Island, my parent's hometown. It took me two hours to get back to where I started out. This was going to be a long ride, made longer by the dude who sat in the window seat next to me. He began to snore like he had a gaping chest wound.

"Hey buddy. You're snoring," I said.

"Like I can do something about that," the guy exclaimed as he awoke.

He began searching his pockets until he found something he liked. As he turned to me, I noticed a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"You got a light?" he asked.

I shook my head. Eventually, he unearthed a book of matches. He wasted no time lighting his cigarette then inhaling deeply. Being on the last mode of transportation to be concerned about secondhand smoke, I realized I was trapped in a moving cloud of carcinogens. When he was through with his cancer nail, Smokey crushed the remains of the butt in a flip up ashtray on the armrest then nodded off. Shortly thereafter, he resumed his guttural snoring as the bus pulled away. I looked through my tickets again. I thought of getting off at the next stop and finding alternate transportation, but I wasn't near a train terminal. Best to sit back and take in the firsthand snoring and secondhand smoke.

We made a big stop in New York City, weaving our way through crowded streets. I thought I would get off the bus and use the loo. The bus driver was having no part of that. He warned,

"I'm pulling out in five minutes with or without you."

He recommended I use the toilet in the back of the bus. I found the head by following my nose. Back in my cheese wagon riding days in middle school, the cool kids rode in the back. The rear of the ole grey dog smelled like, well, the rear of an ole grey dog. When I opened the door to the loo, I discovered that the toilet was clogged with three different color turds. I tried to flush, but the logs only rocked gently in the pressurized blue flow. Obviously, others tried the same thing, but with no luck so they just heaped on their contribution to the growing art project in the bowl. Luckily, I was just pumping the bilge, and as far as I could tell, I'd make it to Virginia without having to drop any friends off at the pool.

As I stood before the biscuit laden bowl and deposited my lemonade, I noticed a big hole in the wall of the bus. It was the size of a fist and I was thankful for the fresh air pouring in. When I finished, I bent down to look out the hole. I saw a bunch of people sitting on some steps of an impressive looking building. They all had a clear view of my junk as I relived myself. I washed my hands in a sink full of cigarette butts and discarded gum then got out of there.

Back in my seat, I looked through my string of tickets. There was about 25 stops left. Eventually the bus began moving. My row mate was sleeping heavily as the last cilia in his lungs struggled to keep his spindly frame alive. Secretly, I hoped he was having terrible dreams like his girlfriend cheating on him with his brother or his dog dying in a hunting accident. Before long, I dosed off. I awoke with a jolt. My row mate was smoking. The bus driver was standing before us in the aisle issuing strict instructions to the passengers.

"You have a half hour. Don't be late. I don't do a head count, and we leave promptly in thirty minutes," the bus driver recited.

It took me some time to get my bearings. I asked Smokey,

"Where are we?"

"How the fuck would I know?" he answered.

Funny Bone

I looked about groggily. We were in a rest stop. Everyone started to get up and fiddle with their luggage in the overhead. I seized the moment and shot off the bus, making a beeline to the convenience store. As I entered the little mart, I considered the bathroom which I surmised would be cleaner than that on the bus. I checked my watch. I was already ten minutes down and t-minus twenty minutes and counting. I hit up the refrigerators for a drink. The only thing I could find that wasn't a sugar laden sports drink was apple juice. At the register there were gobs of little packages of crap, Slim Jims, Hostess Ding Dongs, Gummy Bears. I settled on a Drake's Funny Bone, which according to the manufacturer is a devils food cake "filled with rich peanut butter crème and enrobed with a milk chocolate-flavored icing." Whatever.

If you ever had a Funny Bone, introduced in 1961, you know they're foul tasting Twinkies, most likely consumed by people who have firsthand experience with the Vietnam conflict and the moon shots. I couldn't recall ever eating one and since pickings were slim, I had a go. I bolted back to the bus with seconds to spare. When I entered, I was the only one onboard. The thirty minutes window elapsed, and still I was alone. I broke into my apple juice and Funny Bone as I looked about. I thought,

"Bus driver's going to be pissed."

I hoped Smokey didn't make it back in time, and we ditched him in Munson, Ohio or where ever the hell we were. As I tried to wash down the the Funny Bone with the apple juice, I noticed the drink tasted odd. I didn't think much about it as I began reading the ingredients of a Funny Bone on the wrapper. I really wasn't sure what "crème" was. There was a whole host of things comprising a Funny Bone like partially hydrogenated palm kernel oil, polysorbate 60, soy lecithin. Although I prefer my palm kernel oil to be fully hydrogenated, bus riders can't be choosers.

When I came across an expiration date on the wrapper, I wasn't immediately sure what each number meant. The first was under thirteen and was probably the month, the next was in the twenties so was likely the day while the "1991" was certainly the year. The only problem with all this is that it was 1992. My Funny Bone had expired a year ago. I swigged down the last of my skunk apple juice as I contemplated the expiration date on the wrapper. Suddenly, the Funny Bone didn't seem so funny. Some people began filtering onto the bus. They were fifteen minutes late. Smokey came onboard holding a fresh pack of Marlboros. The bus driver finally arrived last after being gone for an hour. Not being a seasoned bus patron, I didn't know that the bus driver's strict orders where bullshit. Shortly, we were back on the road as my row mate tore into his collection of carcinogenic sticks.

I wasn't able to sleep so I looked through my string of tickets. Twenty left and I would be off this bus to purgatory. Shortly after we got underway, something began to awaken deep in the recesses of my lower gastrointestinal tract. I looked at my tickets, wondering if I was going to make it off this ride without having to contemplate returning to the turd museum in the back. I tried to sleep but things seemed to progress rapidly. Before long, I was staggering like a zombie to the aft septic tank. As I entered the toilet, the smell alone almost made me hurl. The toilet was still clogged by the tricolor turds. The thought of having to puke in that bowl was enough to make me, well, puke. I leaned against the wall as the bus rocked back and forth. If I was to bob for spumoni, it would be in the trash laden sink for sure.

Before long, my stomach settled to a point where I was pretty sure I wasn't going to spew. Instead, I suddenly had to take a power dump. Now, you might think that things had changed for the better, but you'd be wrong. Having the Nutella squirts meant I had to use the already clogged toilet in lieu of ralphing in the relatively clean cigarette and gum filled sink. If I was going to get near that toilet, and do anything explosively, I was going to have to rid the bowl of its current inhabitants.

I began flushing the toilet vigorously as I rifled through the cabinets for whatever I could find. I came up with yellow rubber gloves and a toilet brush. There was little choices and very little time which allowed me much later in life to relate to Captain Sullenberger flying Cactus 1549. Do I don the rubber gloves and pick up the turds and dump them in the wastepaper basket? My stomach groaned ominously. Landing in the Hudson looked like the only option. I tried flushing again, then I noticed a very small plunger behind the toilet. The handle was only about a foot long. It seemed like it was a better option to try to clear the toilet with the plunger rather than handling stranger's shit, but the short handle meant my hands would be inside the bowl.

I felt and heard a rush of fluid inside my bowels. I was certain I going to have a surgical shit, that is, when you take a dump and your feel like you just underwent a major operation. I needed to act fast.

"Wait! The gloves!" I thought.

I pulled on the gloves, took up the little plunger and began pumping the clogged bowl which was now filled with a brown broth of bacteria as well as the aforementioned tricolor turds, only one of which was floating. I was very concerned with my proximity to splash back. The breech in the bus wall began to whistle in the wind as if to say,

"Luke, use the hole."

I thought of reaching in and snagging the floater and tossing it out the hole which was at eye level as I plunged. Peering out the portal, I saw we were crossing a river. I knew if I remove the human C4 from the toilet, and the gloves ripped, I'd be dead by the time we reached Virginia. I thought of the Tallahatchie Bridge and the song, Ode to Billy Joe, by Bobbie Gentry.

She and Billie Joe was throwin' somethin' off the Tallahatchie Bridge.

Just then I noticed the broth level decreasing. A few more plunges and the bowl emptied, thankfully. Another flush and we were Challenger go for throttle up. I cleared and cleaned up the bowl in time to meet my growing needs. Later, I returned to my seat. My row mate was smoking as he said,

"Where are we?"

"Choctaw Ridge," I answered with authority.

I arrived in Virginia right on schedule as my tickets ticked away. My sister was suitably surprised.

"How was the bus?" she asked.

"Wonderful," I answered.

My bus ride taught me the importance of minding expiration dates, especially on food. A few days into my surprise visit, I learned that bus tickets were nonrefundable so I threw them into the trash then flew home. There was no stops, no smoking and relatively cleaner toilets.

The little bag of beer nuts they gave out never tasted so good.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on June 29, 2017.

Send in the Clowns

Back in 2016, there was a rash of clown sightings across the country. It all started during the summer in South Carolina, not the funniest state in the union, but apparently one in which the clown population was allowed to go unchecked. People began to report that clowns were seen in the woods. It was believed that they were living in an abandoned house by a lake. Clowns near a lake in the woods? That's not good. Stephen King just stopped what he's doing to find a pencil.

In the fall a few hundred students from the University of Connecticut mobilized in a cemetery at midnight to hunt clowns. They carried shovels, hockey sticks and golf clubs. Presumably if they encountered a clown, they would have beaten it to death. Students organized a clown hunt at Penn State University as well. Five hundred people showed up. Something tells me that the kids involved in these activities are not majoring in STEM.

Two clowns were arrested by the police in November. They were charged with an obscure blue law about donning a mask in public. Apparently one of the clowns stayed in character and answered all the officer's questions by squeezing a horn. If you tase a clown, does its nose flash? I wonder.

The police crack down on clowns across the country was more unsettling than the clowns themselves. I read about a dude who is a professional clown being arrested while driving to some kid's birthday party. It's bad enough that his career choice is one rung lower than a puppeteer, but he gets dumped in a holding cell full of drug dealers dressed up as Bim Bom.

Experts said that copy cat clown hoaxes, spreading across the country via social media, were taxing emergency personnel, who were already stretched thin. The real problem is that we have a society that calls the cops for just about everything. I have a friend who once called the police for deer in her backyard.

#ClownsLivesMatter trended briefly on social media. People were urging restraint and a policy of "if you see something, say something." Of course, this discriminated against mimes. Experts advised that ignoring a clown is the worst thing you can do. They also believed that clowns are probably more afraid of us than we are of them. Being chased down by an angry mob wielding hockey sticks and golf clubs would certainly shake me in my boots even if they were four sizes too big.

During a White House press briefing back then, Press Secretary, Josh Earnest, was asked if President Obama was aware of the growing presence of clowns in many states. Imagine having the opportunity to pose a question to the Press Secretary for the leader of the free world and asking about clowns. They could have bombarded Earnest with inquires concerning the staggering nation debt or what really happened in Benghazi. They could have asked him if he thought we were doing enough to stem climate change. Instead journalists wanted to know what the president planned to do about all the clowns on the loose across the country.

One thing is for sure when it comes to sending in the clowns, don't bother. They're already here.

Editor's Note: Originally published on October 13, 2016. Clown sitings dropped off by the holidays which was a good thing since if it kept up, clowns were going to die, and nobody wanted that no matter how far down the uncanny valley this whole thing went.

Prince's Greatest Moment

Back in the spring of 2016, the untimely death of Prince at 58 preoccupied the media which were mainly concerned with the cause of his demise and what I recalled at the time "unsettling revelations." For me the latter chipped away at the pedestal I always imagine Prince standing on. In the 80's when the movie, Purple Rain, came out, starring Prince as "the Kid," you couldn't help but think he was way cool. He played a crazy guitar. He was a genius musician like a modern day Mozart. He rode a motorcycle. He got the girl in the end, and he was a showman with a troubled past like James Dean with a dash of Liberace.


I, for one, was blissfully unaware of how short Prince was. Back then I read he weighed 112 pounds. I really wanted the news media to stop ruining my larger than life image of Prince, but they kept reporting things like he stood 5' 3" and kept two doves as pets. One news source reported that the birds grieved following Prince's death as recalled by his sister, Tyka Nelson. I didn't want to know every detail about Prince's private life, but the news kept flowing in. At the rate they were going I expected the autopsy to reveal that Prince had a boil on his ass.

Prince often wore clothes that were a bit effeminate. He wore purple tuxedoes and frilly shirts. Now I was wondering where did he get these articles of clothing? You certainly can't get such flamboyant threads in the Boy’s Department of Kohl's. Prince was a showman even if he never wore capes or furs or expensive jewelry. It was a testament to how cool he really was. Anyone who can pull off a frilly shirt as a fashion statement has so much excess swag that they could drop some on the side walk and still be awesome.

Prince grew up a Seventh-day Adventist and as an adult he became a Jehovah’s Witness, hawking religious pamphlets door to door. I read an article in which a Jewish couple recalled Prince coming to their door with other witnesses. I image he was mistaken for the little well-dressed, well-behaved child that always accompanies them. One time some Jehovah’s came to my door and tried to drop off a copy of the Watchtower, their seminal monthly magazine. A teenage boy accompanied them. To this day, I swear the kid was trying to speak to me through Morse code via eye blinks. He relayed,

“Please rescue me from these nut jobs.” I often wonder what happened to him.

The constant dancing around the stage in high boots apparently wreaked havoc on Prince’s hip. His religious beliefs prevented him from getting a blood transfusion, necessary for hip replacement surgery. Jehovah’s Witnesses eschew blood transfusion because they believe the Bible prohibits ingesting blood. They even get down to the nitty gritty stating that red cells, white cells, platelets and plasma are a no go while the use of parts of blood such as albumin, immunoglobulin and hemophiliac are okay. I didn’t realize the Bible was so specific. It makes sense because Jesus never got a blood transfusion.

Prince’s music was cool in the 80's, but it never really evolved. Same ole extended droning guitar tracks. John Parelese, who writes about music for the New York Times, described Prince as, “a master architect of funk, R&B, rock and pop.” Funk maybe, but in an olfactory sense. Prince would often get into long drawn out tracks and make all sorts of unscripted rambling statements like

“That's what the people say! Right Sheldon?”

He’d often bring it all home in overdrive by scream something unintelligible like,

"Take me away!"

His shining moment was during one of these extended riffs when he invited Kim Kardashian on the stage. This concerned me as Stephen Hawking warned to never put matter and antimatter together because they'll annihilate each other along with the release of “a large amount of energy." The hugely talented, multifaceted, artist should have never stood so close to Kim Kardashian. I expected at any moment they would cancel each other out. Not to mention there was more antimatter than matter. Stephen never told us what would happen in that case. Best I can tell, there would be a big flash. Prince would be largely consumed, leaving a small amount of Kim along with her butt implants on the stage.

Surgical butt implants are certainly a trend my generation could never have predicted. Call me ole fashioned, but I just don’t get deliberately making your ass larger. I grew up on the Sir Mix-a-Lot trend setting song, Baby Got Back, and I might be out of my element here, but I think it was more a cautionary tale than large ass advocacy. I don’t think having a huge gut will ever be fashionable nor will people in the future get belly implants even though Sarah Robles won a bronze medal in powerlifting in Rio in 2016 and again in Japan in 2020. Now, if she had won the gold, things might have been different.

Whatever Kim did to get up onto that stage, she certainly didn't think it through. Apparently Scott Dipstick, the dude the Kardashians collectively ignore, gets paid to exist at parties. They call it a “club appearance.” The Kardashians ignored Bruce Jenner too until he won Glamour’s Woman of Year, prompting women all over the country to acknowledge that white men have to take that away from them too. It’s not enough that Caucasian males have dominated the workforce for decades, taking all the leadership roles, Glamour has made it clear that white men make better women as well.

Maybe Kim thought she would just exist on the stage like a club appearance. Prince didn't think it through either. It wasn't like he was coaxing Lady Gaga up there. She could have sang or danced or played the piano. Prince clearly wanted Kim to dance, but this is a closely guarded Kardashian secret, - none of them can dance. If you saw her sister, Kendall, in the futuristic video, Balmain x H&M, battle strutting from scene to scene as she calls in her minions, you know she can't groove either. For the big finish when Kendall finally gets warmed up, she kills it with some tight hand dancing.

Kim is famous for an odd array of things. Growing up in a room in which OJ almost offed himself, a sex tape, marrying a dude for 72 days, balancing things on her ass. Something tells me Prince was hoping for one of these, and I'm not talking about the balancing act.

Kim later explained that she was so star struck standing that close to Prince that she forgot to take a selfie. That’s like the Pope forgetting to genuflect. I kept waiting for Kim to whip out a Rubik’s cube, do a handstand. Anything. When Prince wants you to dance, you dance, and if you can’t dance, then you fake it fast. I’m sure, beyond any doubt, Kim Kardashian must be able to twerk. I would just stand back because I'll bet Kim could crack a walnut between her butt cheeks. After a rather uncomfortable twenty or so seconds in which Prince tried to get Kim to dance, bum hip and all, he realized she wasn’t going to play along then turned to her and screeched, 

"Get off the stage!"

Followed by,

"Welcome to America."

Kim made a quick exit much to our collective relief. It was a terribly uncomfortable moment. Kim is famous for having a large seat cushion which anyone can see is too big to fit into Prince’s wheelhouse. Kim did her best. If you watch closely about a minute in, Kim extends her arm and says,

“Pick a card. Any card.”

That was Princes greatest moment, kicking Kim and her huge fake butt off the stage. Thank you, Prince for that timeless moment raining purple on the Kardashian's phony world.

Editor's Note: Originally published on August 25, 2016.