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The following post was conceived while the sports-watching nation winced simultaneously as Kevin Ware broke his leg awkwardly and painfully during the NCAA Tournament. I never quite got back into my initial thoughts for my story in the aftermath of the incident that at the time was analyzed like the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination; as I’m easily distracted by life.   

It’s only been a few weeks but I barely remember the Final Four and after this past week’s focus on the chaos in and around Boston delving into the ramifications of one basketball player’s broken leg seems pointless.  I am in no way intending to make a grand statement on the fragility of an athlete’s career or to delve deeply into the comparison of the media’s focus on one athlete’s broken leg with the loss of limbs and life sustained in Boston. In fact I can assure you this is the last time I use the word delve in this story.

As I get back to the normality of my random pop culture thoughts I realize Kevin Ware’s injury is now as topical as Psy appearing in commercials running in March promoting his love of eating pistachios “gangam style.” Watching that ad about three months after his 15 minutes of “trending” viral fame had reached its crescendo, made him seem as relevant pop culturally as the Macarena guys, Dana Carvey’s George Bush Sr. impersonation or “The Noid.”

I personally spent a good portion of high school not going out on dates on Saturday nights, with the only benefit socially in college being an expertly honed ability to mimic all of Dana Carvey's impersonations. It’s a shame that I rarely find the opportunity now to break a lull in a conversation with a well timed- “Not gonnnnna doittttt. Not gonnnnna doitttt. I don’t think I’ll have another Keystone Light at this juncture. Bitter beer face is badddd. It’s badddd.”

I have spent the past 20 years or so making sure that I live a “Noid” free existence and this might have cost me a possible relationship or two along the way but it was well worth it. For those of you under 35, who have no idea what I’m talking about, the Noid was a demented claymation character in late’80s Dominos Pizza ads that for some reason was hell bent on ruining the inherent goodness of Dominos pizzas.

I don’t know how associating your brand of food with an annoying bug-like creature could possibly have been thought of as a great idea for an ad campaign; even if you’re thwarting the Noid's nefarious intentions and delivering Dominos pizzas to your target audience of overworked, single parent/ divorced households in Phoenix and anyone enrolled in college saving money for beer.  For one, the Noid resembled some sort of Ritalin addicted combination of the the Heat Meiser & Cold Meiser, with rabbit ears, except it only spoke in high-pitched mumbles (as opposed to catchy song and dance numbers.) He also wore a red costume and a mask for some reason as if the Noid was hiding his secret identity as Mark Mannix, mild mannered Metropolis food inspector. 

 Kevin Ware’s broken leg is probably only still being discussed this week in barber shops in Louisville in which Kevin Ware happens to be waiting in,  but it is still more relevant than the story I have been thinking about since the early ‘80s and will eventually devote the proper time and energy into. The working title is “Nellie Olson. TV’s First C**t.”  But, that is a subject for another day and now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Since my school had already been eliminated in the Sweet 16, as Arizona is historically prone to do and I did not fill out a bracket sheet with the other random assortment of freelancers/ med students/ 23-year- old girls having informational interviews with former sorority sisters, schizophrenics,  women knitting the hat current resting on their head, and Jews for Jesus members hanging out at Starbucks-  I was not watching the Louisville-Duke game when Kevin Ware suffered the gruesome bone break that was heard ‘round the world and unfortunately around the court.

I read about it on Facebook and started noticing the shocked comments building in rapid succession comparing it to when a rampaging Lawrence Taylor accidentally snapped Joe Theisman’s leg. The way Ware's leg twisted in almost cartoonish fashion as he landed awkwardly after jumping to attempt a block  made him look like a G.I. Joe doll  that was tossed against a wall by a hyper 8-year old.  It seemed the entire sports watching world was having a collective moment of shock and a guttural, physical repulsion that reminded me of Tone Loc wiping his tongue dry after noticing Ace Venture reveal Lt. Einhorn’s ‘winky.’

I am in no way trying to make light of the pain that a young basketball player suffered. I understand the physically and emotionally taxing road he has ahead of him in rehab and I hope he makes it back to the court. It’s the collective, seemingly primal reaction that everyone who saw it seemed to experience at once that made me take notice.  I was watching a replay with my girlfriend who has had her share of ankle sprains from a childhood spent dancing and she hid from the replay on the news like there was a mouse about to leap off the top of the TV.

I feel like anyone who has ever experienced any sort of sprain or broken bone in their life felt a psychological twinge of residual pain, like when a twin who lives across the country gets hit by lightening or stubs a toe really hard and the other twin feels a slight shiver down their spine while calmly washing dishes.

This is how the psychic twin phenomenon was presented to us in old sci fi movies and TV shows and what I’d like to believe is true but if extreme pain caused a slight shiver, wouldn’t an incredible, leg shaking orgasm of a woman in California illicit a goofy grin or a raised eyebrow from her twin drinking coffee in Seattle.  I’m not saying she should all of a sudden grab the hair of the guy serving her a frothy latte and hold on while she shakes the cup as coffee spills onto the table and her hand. But, if there was anything to this twin psychic mind meld, you’d see a lot more women and men smirking and saying “Hey now” for no apparent reason and this supposed phenomenon would have been proven a scientific fact long ago.

Does it make me a desensitized-to-violence, inhuman cyborg that I can watch footage of someone breaking their leg like Sea Biscuit and not want to immediately switch the channel to anything less abhorrent to the senses, such as a rerun of the show Yes Dear or a live E! News Special Report from Kim Kardashian's  uterus?  Besides muttering "Holy crap, that's fucked,” I still felt the need to watch it over-and-over again on YouTube to see just how awkward his landing was to cause that severe a break.  

Does that make me as analytically cold and removed as Dexter dissecting a corpse or Sheldon trying to dissect a human feeling on The Big Bang Theory? Am I doomed to wander the barren emotional wasteland of the NY dating scene again as my girlfriend re-evaluates her decision to share a bed with someone who purposely looks up footage of a man injuring himself that caused her to cringe in residual pain and hide under the covers?

Possibly my curiosity stemmed from the fact that I have never broken a bone or even sprained an ankle, so even though I can imagine what it must feel like it prompted more of a curiosity than a repulsion. I have been lucky in that my athletic prowess lies in my ability to play air hockey, which outside of a few bars in Edmonton, is a pretty much a non-contact sport.

There are many questions about the amazing power and frailty of the human body and mind that I will never answer. As for myself, my pain-filled curiosity was short-lived and my attention switched to other trending topics of the day that resonated with me for as long as it takes to read a few hash-tagged comments.

 I may have the occasional mildly sinful thought at inopportune times and in random places (like waiting on a line at CVS) but I’m a good person who loves his friends and family. One of the secrets to sanity surely has to be surrounding yourself with people who you don't find annoying.  Even though we can’t always avoid pain and suffering in life, isn’t it somewhat comforting to know that we can always avoid the Noid?  I think so.

Lighten Up Francis

 A few hours after Monday's bombing at the Boston Marathon had occurred and enough time had passed for it to resonate with those tuned into social media or watching the news, I read someone's purposefully rude response to a friend’s post on facebook.  She made a comment on the stupidity of facebook’s always changing ways, like anyone on facebook is wont to do on a seemingly daily basis. 

On a day not marred by a senseless tragedy it would’ve garnered a few likes. But, this guy seemed like he was incensed at her for having the gall to change the subject from sorrow to the mundane and talk about anything besides the tragedy in Boston. 

This was after the simple outpouring of thoughts and prayers with the people of Boston had begun to blend in with the creative memes posted online, like ones using quotes from Mr. Rogers, or photos of a red sock bleeding onto a red apple. (I didn’t see that one but the copywriter in me thinks it would’ve made a stark image.)

The memes and quotes posted were designed to sum up our collective urge to scratch our heads at humanity or a lack thereof, in visually creative ways and the sharing of which is somewhat of a slight bonding mechanism for people. We live in a society that has now connected people who may or may not know each other well or at all and can read each other’s random, spur-of-the-moment thoughts, which should for the most part be taken with a grain of salt.

It has always annoyed me when someone goes out of their way to point out the so-called social faux pas that others make, which is much douchier than the actual breaking of a social norm.  Several years ago I was stuck in my thoughts waiting for an elevator door to open. (This seems a more appropriate description than the term ‘riding’ in an elevator. The act of riding in or on anything seems like it should require some anticipation of enjoyment, like riding a roller coaster, or riding on the back of an ATV  as your 8^th grade friend who had an iguana and got the Showtime channel in the early ‘80s drives it over the creek in his backyard.) As the door to the elevator is about to open the woman in front of me, who had her back to me, sneezed.

She turned around and said “Bless you” while over-enunciating and dragging out the youuuuuu. Her cartoonish and childish response and "put off" reaction to my ambivalence brought to mind  Francis, Pee Wee Herman’s arch-nemesis in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. The sour puss expression on her face reminded me of my 7th grade Math teacher and like her, I think it's not too far off of a presumption to say she might have been going home to an old cat named Mr. Squiggles and an angry looking vibrator named Mr. Tickles.

She acted as if I had just  lifted up my shirt and picked a piece of lint out of my navel before asking if she wanted it as a memento of our ten-floor trip together, when I was just clearly following New York City protocol of not letting things strangers do register with me. It seemed such a misplaced reaction that I was caught off guard and had no immediate response to her bitchiness.

 I was too stunned to reply back with a response like “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I fail to acknowledge that you blew germs out of your mouth into the air hovering above the enclosed space we unfortunately are forced to ride in together during flu season, your royal highness? I’m such a fool. Take my 1950s era handkerchief that I keep folded in the pocket of my hoodie sweatshirt, please. (In my anger I would assume I wouldn’t have had the time or the desire to go into why “ride” is not the best word to describe travelling in elevators.) But, alas my mouth was stuck in a half-smile/half amazed grin as she left the building in a huff.   

There was another occasion of public ridiculousness that I encountered that I will surely not soon forget. I was walking past a bar in my area that was as "Jersey Shore" as you can get on a weekend night in Manhattan and I saw a girl doing something that left me in a state of pause.

I graduated from the University of Arizona and live in Murray Hill, so I have come across the occasional drunk, young guy urinating in the street.  Most guys pee facing a wall, usually with one of their friends as a lookout. This inebriated young lady who I happened to come upon, was holding up her skirt as she relieved herself into the avenue while squatting with surprising dexterity and leaning against a wall next to the bar. 

  I stopped in my tracks with my mouth open once again, at first disgusted by the act itself, but then I became kind of awed by the fact that she was nonchalantly propelling this high-arcing stream that seemed to want to touch the sky. I felt like a tourist standing in front of the Fountain at the Bellagio hotel in Las Vegas. I was transfixed for a longer-than-expected moment and didn't know whether I should toss a coin at her feet and make a wish or take a photo.

 I decided against the photo, since she didn't need me pointing out her social faux pas and making a spectacle of her abilities best utilized at a Tijuana bachelor party. My favorite part of stumbling upon this public showing of a private act was the fact that she had two friends that were flanking her on both sides; as if it was possible to camouflage the fact that she was blissfully spraying the length of the sidewalk like she was Larry Bird floating up a continuous array of old-school three-pointers out of her urethra.

I’d rather think about this random act of craziness than the crazy act of horror like the senseless bombing on Monday in Boston.  The fact is there are people out there who seem to want to disrupt our Facebook obsessed, Game of Thrones watching, Target shopping society.  An act as despicable as this will unfortunately stay in the back of our minds but we can’t dwell all the time on fear and chaos or the crazies win in the end.  

The reason Israelis don't wake up every day and play Russian roulette while drinking fizzy bubbly/crystal meth cocktails (otherwise known as a Very Dark and Stormy) is that they don't let fear control their daily lives. Hopefully, cowardice bombings won't ever become a common occurrence in this country that we have to get used to, but there's nothing wrong with talking about other things that happen in our lives during times of distress, and especially after an unimaginable act of evil. 

The use of humorous, well timed sarcasm as well as complaining about the day-to-day stuff that bothers us provide a necessary release from thinking about things that can weigh us down emotionally. I’m not saying not to acknowledge that the world can be a fucked up, hate-filled place, because it obviously can. But, it’s also the world that gives you beautiful little everyday treasures, like the smell of a fresh pot of coffee percolating in the morning, Buttermilk Eggo waffles with syrup on top toasting in the kitchen, and waking up with a morning erection, next to a beautiful woman who has just percolated your coffee and buttered your waffles. And that’s just the amazing treats we enjoy before leaving our homes and noticing the budding cherry blossom flowers on our streets and the clear blue spring sky.

The subtle art of complaining about life’s little annoyances, affectionately known as kvetching, has gotten my ancestors through thousands of years of nomadic craziness and persecution, not to mention Brooklyn in the 1940's. I believe it was the immortal words of Alfred E. Newman, who once said “What, me worry?” I also believe that it was the slightly less memorable words of my Great Aunt Silvia who might have said on more than one occasion during The Great Depression- “10 cents for a loaf of bread? What am I made of money?”

Siskel & Ebert Give Think Fink Two Shrugged Shoulders Up.

I don’t want to eulogize Roger Ebert here because I don’t know anything about Roger Ebert, the man. His passing has gotten me reflecting on his career as Roger Ebert, the critic and how his movie reviews influenced my views on movies for almost as long as I have been watching them.  

Roger Ebert, along with his former partner in crime, Gene Siskel, brought the film critic out from behind the cloak of a newspaper byline and on to the Sony Trinitron TV resting on the trunk in my family’s den.  Being part of the first cable generation, I devoured movies on TV, like other kids consumed Pepsi, Sprees and Cool Ranch Doritos, which is a perfect combination to suit the discerning palate of any 12-year-old foodie in the ‘80s.

As an aside, the reason foodies are more annoying than hipsters, although one can easily be both, is because most people have never opened a conversation after sitting down at a restaurant on a first date like this-”You know I read about this place in New York Magazine and I have been dying to try it. I hope you don’t mind that it’s a bit expensive but the chef supposedly once worked in the kitchen at Babbo. Have you ever been to Babbo? I love Babbo.  I’m kind of on a truffle oil kick right now. You know, I have to admit, I’m kind of a foodie.”

If you offer up that you’re kind of an anything to show off your knowledge of something in the first two minutes of meeting someone, you’re usually kind of an ass.  

My digression into a rant on food snobs has nothing to do with Roger Ebert except for the fact that he was a master at pointing out things in movies that annoyed him.  I started watching Siskel & Ebert: At The Movies around the same time that video stores began popping up in every suburban strip mall. If you got a 'Thumbs Up' by both Siskel & Ebert your movie was most likely going to do well.

Their entertaining bickering, Laurel and Hardyish appearance (or Spade and Farleyish appearance for those too young enough to remember black and white comedies on TV) and opposing viewpoints on whether a movie was worth a “Thumbs Up,” lead to a perfectly natural on-screen chemistry. They not only engaged you into thinking about why you should or should not see a movie but they also introduced you to what was playing at the theaters in a time before Google. I’m pretty sure Ebert would have hated the film “A Time Before Google” for its predictable ending and wooden acting performances but Siskel might have given it a reluctant thumbs up for its surprisingly satirical script and tight dialogue.

Ebert’s review of the movie North is remembered for breaking the record for the amount of times the word hate has been used in a review of anything that a human has ever had to endure. His quote from his review for Freddie Got Fingered is equally as classic. "This movie doesn't scrape the bottom of the barrel. This movie isn't the bottom of the barrel. This movie isn't below the bottom of the barrel. This movie doesn't deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence as barrels."

If Siskel and Ebert were to review my blog, I’m sure it would go something like this:

Siskel: “The next blog we’re going to review is Think Fink. It is filled with a random collection of fictional stories and observations from a man who clearly has too much time on his hands. At the same time, he doesn't post often enough for the viewer to get sucked in to his haphazard, yet whimsical observations. There is something here though and even though he tends to put himself in the center of his mostly fictionalized tales that often go off on major tangents in the middle of thought processes, I liked where he was taking me. I found myself laughing out loud on more than a few occasions and I give it a reluctant but surprising 'shrugged shoulders up'."

Ebert: “Gene, I agree with you in the fact that the voice behind Think Fink seems to get as distracted in his own thoughts as a child trying to recite lines in a school play while fireworks suddenly go off outside the window. But, that's kind of what this new ‘blog’ medium is all about. The writer is no longer limited by the narrative rules of a screen play or novel. His sensibility seems to have grown out of a steady diet of John Hughes movies and Pop Rocks and you get the feeling there is a bad ‘80s sit-com constantly going on inside his head but I found myself rooting for his ‘Fink’ character. I even thought about it afterwards. albeit briefly."

"There is a romantic, hopeful side that is pervasive throughout his sarcastic pop culture references. In the story about climbing out of barrel full of monkeys, you want this likable dreamer to get out of that figurative barrel and get ‘the girl in the dorm room next door.’ Normally, I would have stopped reading at his Greatest American Hero song parody on experiencing a "fridgid finkie" which on the surface seems as infantile as a porn title, but what can I say, it sucked me in.  This writer might not be ‘the greatest’ or even a hero but I found myself enjoying the view from his world and I give “Think Fink” a less reluctant ‘shrugged shoulders’ up.”

In short, Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel helped me learn to articulate why I like movies, why I hate movies and why I love to hate movies that other people like and for that I'm grateful.  I'm not sure if Roger Ebert would phrase it quite this way but you know, I have to admit, I’m kind of a goonie.

             

Green Schmeen; Go Red or a Writing Sample I Did a While back for a Job Application I Never Heard Back From and Wanted to Post to Break my Ridiculously Long Posting Slump and signify that I'm Back in the Habit like Lauryn Hill. (Actually, The Miseducation of Jyff Finkle might have been a good title but I'll save that for another post)

Green Schmeen: Go Red: 5 Red Fruits That Will Keep You in the Pink.

Roses are red and violets are blue and if you eat red and colorful fruits, your body will thank you. Now that’s a cheesy way to begin a blog post but it’s better than showing a photo of Regis Philbin or my dad wearing a tank top,  eating an apple and showing off their old, yet surprisingly soft skin. Whether you’re just out of college and experiencing the ‘real world’ with two friends in a railroad apartment in Hoboken, or you are single and still young enough to be excited about the return of Boy Meets World, you’re probably not going to be cooking too many healthy, well-balanced meals (or any meals that can’t be prepared in a microwave at the 7-11, for that matter.)  

Fruits with reddish hues have pigments called carotenoids, which might sound like an ugly wart you’re going to have to get frozen off but carotenoids, like lycopene and beta-carotene, act as antioxidants in the body. Antioxidants are not just diametrically opposed to everything oxidants stand for they are also great for the skin and can help reduce the risk of many cancers, including prostate cancer.  Here are five fruits to think about eating on a regular basis that can help you live long and look young, just like Marisa Tomei.

·         Berries:  Whether it’s a cranberry, a strawberry, a blueberry or a schnozzberry, berries are the little fruit that packs a big punch of antioxidants and will give your skin a healthy glow that you can’t get from a tanning bed.  Studies also show that eating berries can prevent age-related memory loss.  So, if you don’t want to end up forgetting the intro to the “pull my finger” joke like your grandfather, you should start popping berries into your mouth before you have to start popping pills.

·         Red grapes: There’s always room for red grapes (and Jell-O) and even a Kardashian can master the preparation of holding red grapes under water for three seconds before eating them. Red grapes are abundant in polyphenols, which have been shown to protect against certain cancers as well as heart disease in women. 

·         Peaches: “Millions of peaches, peaches for me.” Songs by the Presidents of the United States of America are probably not downloaded too often but the love of peaches that they sung about is still shared by people everywhere.  Peaches are low in fat but filled with sweet goodness. By replacing chips or cookies with a peach or two each day, you can get your sugar naturally and you’ll feel the energy it provides like a jolt, without feeling sluggish afterwards.

·         Watermelon: Summertime without watermelon is like wintertime without hot chocolate but watermelon is a lot better for you and just as refreshing.  Watermelon juice provides nutrients to the skin that act as a natural moisturizing cream to your face.  Like the banana, the watermelon is also high in potassium, but watermelon with seeds provides the opportunity to spit without being rude and that’s just more fun.

·         Tomato: No matter how you pronounce it, the tomato is a wonderful ball of nutrients and provides numerous health benefits. A salad without tomato slices is like the ‘70s band Kiss without makeup. It’s just not right. Tomatoes are high in antioxidants like Vitamin C and A that can help ward off diabetes and regular consumption of tomatoes can greatly reduce the onset of heart disease in women. The beauty of tomatoes is that they are just as good for you cooked as raw. The lycopene found in tomatoes that help ward off cancers are absorbed better in the body after it is cooked. Unlike cake, when it comes to long term health, you can have your pizza and eat it too.  

The Fragments of My Mind are a Terrible Thing to Waste

I'd like to congratulate my kid sister (who now has a child, which kind of makes me feel like the kid brother) for actually making the world a slightly smarter place with her charity that helps keep financially-strapped students in college. She helps deserving students who are already receiving Financial Aid and teetering on the brink of dropping out, stay in school. While she keeps people on their feet, I tend to become fixated on the guy walking past me wearing a winter coat and flip flops.

 I occasionally try to point out the ridiculousness of life to those bored in cubicles. I'd like to imagine them  enjoying my blog around 3:30ish, before they're IMing their coworkers about the stupidity of their clients, taking their 5 hour energy shots and/or posting on Facebook that they have gotten coffee for the umpteenth time that day (I believe the umpteenth amount of repeating any activity falls at a number between 3 and right before needing to switch from whiskey to Adderall and whiskey)  before heading to Starbucks for a break (while I’m inside with my laptop wishing I could have a cubicle break from Starbucks.) And exhale… (Time to limit my daily coffee type beverage intake to 1ish)

This gives them the chance to one day have a job they actually like and are good at, and in turn get paid accordingly, which will enable them to build a life in which their children will not be financially disadvantaged. Thus breaking a vicious circle (is there any other kind of circle that warrants breaking?) and the proverbial glass ceiling to a better life. A college education hopefully prevents them from getting stuck in dead end jobs (or worse being out of work hoping to land dead end jobs) that suck the marrow from their soul with each punch of the time clock. 

Now these future happy, fulfilled Americans may no longer feel the need to devour as much Coors Light and Taco Bell as well as celebrity gossip and fantasy football stats. They may be too busy being productive members of society and shopping for duvet covers and loofas in Bed, Bath & Beyond to take time out to read my random thoughts strewn together haphazardly like a toddler trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle of an actual jigsaw. Oh well, there’s always room for jell-o, a day dream involving young Phoebe Cates stepping out of a swimming pool in slow-motion and a little Think Fink.  

Brotherly Shove or Meet, Cute, Coffee, Date

“This is my life. My life, my life,” sang the Starbucks employee in a calm tone as he carried a box into the back room. In the current economy, Starbucks might be the only place in New York City where the people being served feel the same as the people doing the serving.

It’s Monday and I find myself in Starbucks, writing about being in Starbucks, which if I were to dwell on it is even more depressing than spending an afternoon in Starbucks looking online for jobs.  It’s one of those days where the conversations I hear and the people watching I’m addicted to much more than caffeine, seep into my thoughts and spew out as observations about the world inside Starbucks as opposed to the world inside my own head or the world outside. 

If I tried to write a short story right now it would probably be an updated version of the classic tale “The  Lottery.”  It's the only short story from junior high anyone remembers reading as adults. You might not recall your 6th grade English teacher's name who assigned it to you, but the story is embedded inside your imaginative 12-year old brain in the same way that Hubba Bubba gum might have stuck to your braces.

The Lottery has always been an eye-opening, sly introduction to the wonderful world of allegories and one of the first things you read that gets you thinking about life, as opposed to your own everyday life in the wonderfully awkward world that revolves around your school, and extends as far as your bike can ride, or your mom can drive.

My version of The Lottery would revolve around a town where every year the residents meet outside the local Starbucks, while the group of chosen elders play the part of baristas and write everyone’s name down on cups.  The people hang around outside the store with their families and lounge around on a warm summer day as if they’re having a picnic in a park. They talk about the light winter they had and how it’s a beautiful day for the lottery before an elderly man named Leopold Millstone, with bifocals, white hair and whose holding a cane, says to a woman and her child in a voice that resembles the guy from the old “Pepperidge Farm Remembers” commercials- “Lottery in June, jobs be coming soon.” 

A man, let’s call him Jeff, pulls up to the parking lot with a half eaten bagel in his hand. Jeff has short, slightly messed up brown hair that gives off his casual nature without looking like he spends time creating a casual look.  He walks over to his family and gives a nod to his relatives and neighbors milling about next to them. “What was there a line at the bagel store?  Every person in town is here by noon. How are you late on Lottery Day?” says his brother, Brad, while wiping the frames of his designer glasses (that put the cherry on top of his anal-retentive lawyer persona) and fixing his striped tie.

 “You have some cream cheese on your cheek,” his mother Ruth says as she wipes it off with a napkin from her bag. You look good though.”  “Lottery in June, get here by noon,” sings a cute seven year-old girl, while smiling at Jeff and shaking her head.  (She is with the family standing next to Jeff’s.) “I’m only ten minutes late. How about a donut, young, but wise Kate?” Jeff sings to her before grabbing a donut from his bag.  “Thanks Jeff. You may be a dork who’s late, but donuts are always great,” Kate says, while biting a huge chunk of glazed goodness and laughing.

“And why may I ask are you wearing a suit my brother?,” Jeff asks Brad as he leans into him while smiling at Mrs. Johnson as she’s methodically wiping the crumbs off of Kate’s cherub-like face and trying to no avail to get her to stand still as she giggles, squirms and dances.  “People haven’t had to wear suits on Lottery Day for twenty years, ever since blue shirts and khaki pants became an option. You know, 'Lottery Casual'. Look around,” says Jeff.”  “Look, Brad whispers, you ask me this every year. The lottery is as old as the hills. It’s been around in one form or another since the first settlers reached our state. There’s been a Lottery since before our family ever came to this country. The tradition may have been slightly relaxed but I have a hard time relaxing,” 

“No shit Cameron. Let my people go,” Jeff sings in a deep voice. “Look at most of these people,” Brad says quietly while gazing out at the crowd. “They’re slobs. They wear Lottery Casual because they can’t pull off this look or any look for that matter.  “And you, you’re wearing a Ramones t-shirt under your button-down short-sleeve shirt.  What do you think people can’t see that?  They’re already chattering on about you showing up 15 minutes late, which is 30 minutes late for most and an hour late for the elders. And, why were you late again? How does one get stuck in traffic when you’re the only dumbass on the road?” Brad says while smiling as Mrs. Johnson looks back at them with a wide, gum commercial like grin affixed to her face.” 

“Hey, let’s just say I had a good night last night and knocked my cell phone off the bed after the first couple of snoozes, said Jeff.” Brad looks at him with a quizzical look. “Who would hook up with you the night before The Lottery? Where is this mystery woman if the entire town was already here before you?" “Actually, Jeff replies, while leaning in to Brad’s ear, I don’t know. I met her last night at the bar.  She just moved to town and I think she said she was staying with her sister. When I woke up all I found was a scribbled note that took me a while to decipher.  It said, “Lottery at noon. Gotta run. Last night was fun.”

“What does this say, Donna or Dora?” Jeff shows Brad the note, prompting Brad to laugh out loud before lowering his head and coughing as his mother and Mrs. Johnson turned their heads towards him. “Dora? Brad mutters out of the corner of his mouth to Jeff. Hey, can you say Cunnilingus, boys and girls? C-u-n-n-i-l-i-n-g-u-s, Brad repeats slowly before shaking his head, sticking out his tongue and cackling to himself. Jeff stares at Brad’s hair weave that borders the line of actually merging with his eyebrows, giving the 35-year old the hairline of a 15-year old. 

“Can you say a-s-s-h-o-l-e?” Jeff replies while smirking.  “Hey, didn’t you used to have curly hair?” “Didn’t you used to have a job?” Brad retorts without missing a beat.  “Hey, I have a job now. Sure, they don’t give me benefits and I’m technically considered an independent contractor which makes me sound a lot more professional then what I actually do,” Jeff said. “You mean using your graphic design school skills to put dog faces over celebrity’s bodies for a Web site that will probably be made obsolete by a Facebook app, noted Brad.”  “Exactly, Jeff mumbles out of the side of his mouth. They smile while gazing around at their former neighbors having their own conversations with friends and mini family reunions of their own taking place in anticipation of the Lottery.  

“Hey, it takes a true artist to re-imagine “The Last Supper” with the Kardashians, especially if they have Shih Tzu bodies. The hard part was picking a Jesus.” “Who did you choose? Brad asked.”  “Oh, Bruce Jenner; with the 70s do which blends into Shih Tzu hair nicely.  You’d be surprised at how many people waste precious seconds of their day looking at Surreality.com,” Jeff says as he reaches into his pocket.

 “Oh Shit Tzu. Jeff says as he smiles while pulling out a small white sock and holding it up to his blue eyes. This sock belongs to the cutest foot I’ve ever seen, which just happens to be connected to the cutest leg I have ever seen, which leads to up to the cutest hazel eyes I have ever seen.” “That’s not all it leads to,” Brad said, while raising his eyebrows. 

“Hey, you’re talking about possibly the future Mrs. Burke. This wasn’t just me winning the hook-up lottery and smiling at the right drunk girl, who’s had the right amount of tequila shots, and has spent the right amount of months without getting laid. Thus, enabling me to separate her from her friends at the bar, and almost separate her from her clothes, as she ends up grinding her not quite-naked body against my jeans for an hour before she falls asleep diagonally on my bed; and I lay teetering on the edge like a horizontal tight rope walker for two hours; before I’m forced to wake her up, tell her I forgot I have to go into work early on Sunday, and call her a cab before she sobers up. No, this was different.  We clicked from the second our eyes met. Hell, our eyes had a whole first date before we ever started talking.”

“Whoa.” Brad snaps at Jeff under his breath.  Don’t even joke about a hook-up lottery where you end up chafed with ruined jeans, right before The Lottery is about to start.  Show some respect for the institution of The Lottery. If Dad heard you talking like this, he’d shit, Brad said while shaking his head.” “First of all, I wasn’t disrespecting The Lottery and second of all, Dad isn’t nearly as uptight as you.   It sucks that he and Julie aren’t here for the Lottery but I’m sure they’re enjoying themselves with their friends at the Lottery in Springfield. Remember when we were little kids and Dad would wake us up on Lottery Day and he’d hold us up over the bed and he’d say “Lottery Day, what do you say?”

“Oh yeah, and then we’d shout “Burke family all the way,” and he’d have a pillow fight with us.” As Brad recalled his early childhood memory fondly standing next to his brother he lifts his head and unknowingly scratches his left eyebrow with his index finger while simultaneously scratching the dangling thick, black bang of hair weave with his pinky.  “Yep,” Jeff says while watching Brad and smiling goofily. “Jeez. It must suck being single, man, Brad says while putting his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Having to bullshit with chicks at bars or worse, scour through dating profiles from crazy bitches on online dating sites. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jeff says while looking around to make sure his mother or anyone else isn’t listening to him. “In what way does boning a married partner in your law firm put you “in a relationship?” Jeff makes air quotes while emphasizing his point and looking at his brother incredulously. “I hate to break this to you brother but if your partner has a partner, and a home, and a child, and a dog that she shares with that partner, you’re still single.”

“Hey, you know what.” Brad says out of the corner of his mouth while smiling and waving at his mother and Mrs. Johnson. “We do have a relationship. We see each other every day. We spend quality time together.  We fuck routinely at the end of a work week. We take away each others stress and occasionally we even comfort each other. I call that a relationship.” “Yeah, I get it,” replies Jeff. “It’s demented and sad but social.” “What can I say, Jeffie? Life is complicated. The Lottery isn’t.”  

“You know what? I don’t even care that you called me that because today is a beautiful day, Donna is here somewhere and I’m going to find her before the elders start the Lottery. Life isn’t always so complicated.  It’s random as hell, that’s for sure. Last night, I get three drinks spilled on my arm simultaneously as I’m leaning against the bar. As I turn around to see who did it, I see a group of girls in short skirts and heels that look like they were raised on Cosmos and Sex and the City episodes. They were like clones of each other, and were oblivious to the fact they had all spilled their drinks, one after the other, on my arm.”

My buddy Jack of course saw this as a perfect in to approach them and demand they buy me a drink before accepting their apology on my behalf and grabbing me to join the conversation. But, as I was about to reluctantly join him, I heard laughing coming from a girl sitting to my left. I turn around and see this girl with dirty blonde, wildly wavy hair who looked like she was born to rock a Blondie t-shirt, laughing at me. She offered me a handful of napkins and as I wiped my arm and grinned,  I remember our eyes locked and I said something like “The sad thing is I came with those girls. Then she replied back with “well, you just don’t have much luck with women, now do you? When I volleyed back with “not yet”, she came back with “you’re lucky I have a thing for semi-cute, slacker nerds.” I said, "I’ll take that as a compliment" and she hit me back with “You should.”

 We both smiled and I sensed the sweetness in her mischievous eyes that I figured she doesn’t reveal often. When "Jane Says” came on the jukebox, our eyes lit up and we both started air steel drumming at the same time. When I told her it was my favorite song she hit me back with “Oh yeah, I once kissed a girl in college while "Jane Says" was playing because she told me her name was Jane.  I volleyed back with “Hi, my name is Jane.”  She laughed in this adorably uncontrollable way that prompted her beer to spill on my other arm. She had me at her laugh and her “aww” face which lead to our night of flirting and fooling around.

“I hope that wasn’t the only “ing” you were doing to warrant you oversleeping for The Lottery,” Brad said while shaking his head and gazing out among the crowd of townspeople, wondering where his partner in more ways than one and her family were standing. “Oh and I’m amazed at your ability to retell your flirtation from the night before so precisely and yet not remember your future wife’s first name.” Yeah, I have always been bad at that, Jeff said. “I once dated a girl for two months before finding out her last name wasn’t “From Pink Berry.” 

Jeff’s pants then begin to vibrate and he checks his cell to see a message that reads “Late to the Lottery. What am I going to do with you?” He turns around to see Donna nodding to him from about ten feet away looking surprisingly refreshed on two hours of sleep. Jeff pulls her sock out of his pocket and holds it up over his head, and receives another text that reads “Don’t expect me to call you Prince Charming.” As their eyes connect again from a distance and have a brief interlude, Brad begins to tell Jeff to put his phone away when the bell goes off and the selected five elders step up to the platform in front of the Starbucks. 

The eldest of the elders, Leopold Millstone, welcomes the townspeople to The Lottery, and expresses his joy at seeing all his friends and neighbors coming together to share in the festivities on such a beautiful day. After the second eldest elder bangs a ceremonial drum, the third eldest elder reaches his hand into a barrel filled with coffee cups, and hands it to the fourth eldest elder, who looks at the cup and hands it to the fifth eldest elder, who gives it to Leopold Millstone.

This act is repeated five times until Mr. Millstone has five cups on a table with the names facing his body.  Leopold stands up straight, taps his cane against the table before placing it on the floor, and takes a drink of water before loudly clearing his throat. He begins to hold up the first cup as the crowd silently awaits his pursed lips to separate. He begins to bellow each name and turn the cup around to show the crowd. Barry Most. Hank Schweitzer. Mary Huggins. Jamie McElroy. Geoff Burke.

The crowd stays silent as each Lottery winner is escorted by their immediate family and friends to the front door of the Starbucks. As Brad Burke, Ruth Burke and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson take hold of Jeff’s arms, the word “wait” struggles to emerge from his mouth. “Wait,"  he shouts. "Geoff with a G. Do I look like a talking giraffe? I’m Jeff with a J. Are you kidding me? There’s been a mistake." “Hey bro, the Lottery is as old as the hills, there are no mistakes. Suck it up.” Brad says while dragging his brother, by the arm as a few large men nearby take hold of his other arm and force him towards the front door of the Starbucks. Young Kate is skipping and holding on to Jeff’s shirt. “Jeff Burke is a stupid jerk. Jeff Burke is a stupid jerk." She sings gleefully.

As the other winners are brought into the Starbucks before him, a song begins to play and Jeff can hear the music as his family forces him through the doors like a shy kid being pushed on the bus for the first day of sleep-away camp by his parents or a shy white collar criminal being dropped off at federal prison by his parents.

 “ I Ain’t got no home. Ain't got no home. A-no place to roam. Ain't got no home. A-no place to roam. I'm a lonely boy. I ain't got a home.”

 As Clarence “Frogmen” Henry’s voice is heard, high tech collars are put on the necks of each of the five winners as instructions by the eldest elder is given to them. (On each collar, there is a black and white image that appears to be a mermaid with wavy, long hair.) They are told that they can’t walk more than five feet out of the Starbucks without high voltage shocks being inflicted on them and that they are to sit in these assigned seats and sleep in cots provided in the back section near the bathrooms. Leopold Millstone tells them that they will be given a Netbook PC laptop to use and Jeff moans “Oh man” under his breath.

 “You will fulfill your duty for one year’s time, from this date, June 5^th 2012, to June 5^th 2013.”Then Mr. Millstone smiles and says, “Lottery in June, jobs be coming soon. Just, not for you, yet.”

 “I ain't got a home. Ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo. Ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo.”

The rest of the town slowly starts to mingle in and wait on line as reality sets in for Jeff and his fellow winners as they repeatedly attempt to get the att wi-fi to connect.”Oooh, it’s caramel macchiato happy hour,” Mrs. Johnson says to her husband while fixing the hair of her daughter Kate, whose bouncing up and down on the line next to her. Brad and Ruth Burke walk up to Jeff and Ruth lovingly kisses him on the cheek. “Mocha Frappuccino. Right. I’ll get this one, Brad says, before motioning his fingers like a gun at Jeff and making a clicking sound out of the side of his mouth. As the color begins to slowly return to his face, Jeff notices the sweat build up on the bangs of Brad’s weave and Jeff raises his eyebrows and cradles his own chin with his hand.

Donna taps Jeff’s shoulder as he’s gazing out the window at the perfectly clear sky and takes out a pen from her bag. She begins to write her email address on his forearm. “Hey G-e-o-f-f,” Donna whispers in his ear. “You can reach me here,” as she points to his newly decorated arm. “If you’re good and lucky, in a year, you can reach me here. She leans further into him, and quickly flashes her belly ring  and somewhat see-through black bra. She smiles at Jeff and life comes back to his eyes.

 Donna turns around and waits with the rest of the townspeople for her morning iced coffee. Jeff sighs and wipes the burgeoning moisture from his eyes. Next to him, Jeff overhears another winner, Barry Most; calmly say to himself, “This is my life, my life, my life.” The blue and white glow of Facebook lights up his screen and Jeff Burke awaits the present. He can’t yet think about the future.

  “Shooby Doo Wop ba baa (hey hey. ) Shooby Doo Wop ba baa (hey hey). Shooby Doo Wop ba baa (hey hey.) My heart is cryin',cryin'. Lonely teardrops. My pillows never dry of, lonely teardrops.”

As Jackie Wilson’s sweet voice fills the Starbucks, Jeff Burke can’t help but bop his head and now heavier neck in a Pavlovian response and hum along to the lyrics. “Just say you will, say you will.”

 Brad sits down next to Jeff and hands him his Mocha Frappuccino and the two stare at each other in awkward silence as Donna walks by holding her cup. She turns her head and sticks her tongue out and the two brothers smile. As she leaves the store, she points at Jeff and kisses the glass. They both watch her walk away into the sunlight, until Jeff nudges Brad to stop watching.

"Half a mile from the county fair.
And the rain came pourin' down.
Me and Billy standin' there
With a silver half a crown.
Hands are full of a fishin' rod
And the tackle on our backs
We just stood there gettin' wet
With our backs against the fence

Oh, the water
Oh, the water
Oh, the water
Hope it don't rain all day."

The Fly Who Mugged Me

It’s 3 a.m. and I’m being held captive in my own bedroom by these B-movie villain mosquitoes that are attacking me with laser like precision. I feel like I'm sleeping in a hornets nest and that’s only a slight neurotic exaggeration. Why are there mosquitoes in my bedroom harassing me like I’m a beautiful Dominican girl with an amazing, gravity defying Puerto Rican ass in too-tight sweats that say Juicy on the back and a low-hanging U-neck t-shirt, walking through an entire city of construction workers? (I wonder if Puerto Rican men ever say “Damn, that girl’s got a fine Jewish ass. I mean there are plenty of Jewish women that I can personally attest to having gawker worthy booties but I don’t think Jewish women’s asses have ever been used as an adjective. I’m also not sure if there is a proper plural form of booty. I don’t have the Sir-Mix-A-lot-to English dictionary with me, but I digress.) 

 There is no reason for my exposed arms to be tortured like I'm a character on Breaking Bad and I have threatened to destroy the meth lab. I grew up in the suburbs, with a front and back lawn and trees and bluebirds and fresh air and I never got bit up by mosquitoes. I’m currently cowering under my covers in the fifth floor of my apartment that is facing the brick wall of the Verizon building. I don't live in a bunk on top of a hill off the lake at a Jewish sleep-away camp where British counselors take out their indentured servitude frustrations by giving kids wedgies; and boys eagerly discover their boners for the first time under the soft caress of the peaceful moonlight; before waking up in their stiffly made, hospital cornered bed and being forced to jump in a cold lake.

I live in New York City where the only wildlife consists of drunken guys on the prowl in plaid shirts chasing lionesses in short skirts and heels. (I think it was some time in 2011 when Mayor Bloomberg instituted the men of a certain young age must wear plaid shirts rule, but I digress again to take my mind off the merciless attack that is underway.) What the hell is going on and why is the dog lying peacefully next to me not suffering the same slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as I? Hath he not skin? Hath he not blood? If you bite him, hath he not swell up? 

 I do everything for this so-called man’s best friend and the one time I need him, he’s literally curled up in a ball looking at me with the same heavy eyes I once had while listening to a professor lecture me about geology at an  8 a.m. class. This is actually worse than water boarding. I feel like I should have Sally Struthers next to my bed filming an infomercial as I lay twitching and flinching awaiting the next attack on my exposed skin, as Sarah McLaughlin’s haunting music is playing.  These predatory mosquitoes, or what seems like one tiny super mosquito, are acting like my own private shark from Jaws.  Except I’m not at the beach where I can just take one step backwards, I'm floating in the water trying to sleep. 

After turning on the lights to type, I realize it’s just biding its time, hovering high above me in my room. It’s gazing down at my CD collection that has gathered dust over the past few years and is probably judging me for purchasing the 80s Time Life Collection. It’s just waiting for me to turn off the lights again and try and sleep so it can make a dive bomb for my arms like a World War 2 Kamikaze pilot with a nagging wife at home, student loans, a defaulted mortgage and a VHS copy of the film Gung Ho (with the prescient knowledge that the VHS won’t be invented for another 40 years but still angered by the depiction on the box.)

Tomorrow, if I can lift my swollen arms, I’m going to have to go on Craigslist and put an ad out for a crotchety, old mosquito killer who spent time in Africa and was probably a consultant on the Harrison Ford film, The Mosquito Coast.  I assume he’ll show up and scratch his nails on my wall to announce his seeking the reward.  He’ll probably kill a bug and dissect it only to find out it’s not the mosquito we are searching for. As we reluctantly begin to bond while camped out on my comforter, he’ll show me the bite scars that have ravaged his knees and turned him away from society to seek solace in the bottle.

As my unlikely bond develops with  this hate-filled, crusty, world weary, swamp shanty singing wackadoodle, he will eventually and unintentionally,  force me to face my fears and ultimately become the man I was meant to be. (Either that or he'll want me to step on his nuts or flog him while he wears a Catholic school girl skirt. I mean I did meet him on Craigslist.)   If I survive tonight, I’m sure he would want me to stock up on netting, traps and some explosives; or at least a can of Off.  As I lay here sweating in sweats with the sheet pulled over my head I can make out the feint sound of buzzing beginning to build up again and my eyes dart frantically across the battlefield that has become my room trying to locate it. This flying thing, this perfect stinging machine, simply refuses to die, or at least fly into the hall for fucks sake. Looks like I'm gonna need a bigger bed.