Lives of Quiet Desperation

January 16, 2015

After I quit the job at the newspaper, I needed to save money, so I moved into a cheap apartment building on University Hill. It was an old sorority house that had long since been abandoned by the perky, young coeds who had once resided in its floral-printed halls and was now haunted by the type of middle-age men who commonly stalk said coeds in horror movies.

My room was approximately fifteen feet by twenty, with just enough space for a single bed, a couch, a coffee table, and one of those tiny refrigerators that holds precisely one six pack of beer, four ketchup packets, half a candy bar, and two potatoes. The bathroom and kitchen were across the hall. Both were cleaned once a week by a quiet Mexican family who did not live in the building.

I found out about the apartment from my friend, a full-time journalist and part-time junkie who used to live in the very room I was now occupying. He was forced to relocate when he ran into trouble with his drug dealers, a father/son duo who lived next door. He stiffed the landlord and the dealers during his departure, but neither of them held it against me.

The landlord was a twenty-three-year-old kid who had received the apartment building as a graduation present from his father and was milking us for rent money until real estate prices in the neighborhood rose to a level that warranted selling the property, at which point he planned on moving to Belize and retiring at the age of thirty. He was a nice enough guy, but you couldn’t help but resent his boyish good looks and the baseball cap that was always cocked slightly askew on a messy brown nest of curls.

The rest of the residents were primarily harmless headcases and transients who had just gotten out of jail or rehab or grad school and had nowhere else to go. They were men, mostly. Sad men. Angry men. Broken men. Men who were either on medication or needed to be on medication. Alcoholics. Drug addicts. Control freaks. Weirdos. Losers. They reminded me of that line Thoreau wrote in Walden. “Most men live lives of quiet desperation.” I say “they” but I lived there too, so I was one of the quiet and desperate I guess. There are worse things to be.

Occasionally some scruffy-looking hippie would show up with a guitar case and a copy of On the Road and try to turn the building into a commune. He’d post notes in the kitchen about hosting a drum circle in his room with free kombucha for all comers, and then he’d sit in there by himself playing folk songs until one in the morning before finally screaming “Fuck you all!” into the hall and slamming his door. Fortunately, the building seemed to repel these types of New Agey do-gooders and they were usually gone in a month.

On one occasion, a paranoid-schizophrenic with insomnia moved into the room next to mine. The building had no air conditioning, so during the summer it was almost unbearable. I’d sit in my underwear with the window open and a fan on, and I’d still have to take a cold shower every couple of hours to keep from passing out. But this guy was oblivious to the heat. He wore a ski mask, sunglasses, fleece hoodie, long pants, snow boots, and mittens, and then he would rap duct tape around the sleeves and pant legs so there was no skin exposed. In the middle of the night, he would slam the doors of the bathroom stalls for no apparent reason and then rant for thirty minutes about topics ranging from the CIA to the rising cost of milk to the reasons why black people couldn’t be trusted. He was there for less than three weeks before the landlord kicked him out. In a weird sort of way, I missed him after he was gone. When it’s too hot to sleep and you’re lying on your bed sweating and staring at the ceiling and you can’t get enough air in your lungs and all the molecules in your body suddenly start to freak out and you think “Maybe this is what madness feels like,” it’s comforting to have someone around to demonstrate the difference between insanity and a panic attack by screaming that Kentucky Fried Chicken is responsible for faking the moon landing.

The drug dealers and I got to be fairly good friends.  I mean, we didn’t go see Broadway musicals together or anything like that, but they would give me a head-nod in the hall, which was more than they did for anyone else in the building.  The son turned out to be some kind of computer wiz and he hooked me up with free cable and internet access in exchange for my Netflix password.  Every couple of months he would come over to my room and do something on my computer that gave it more memory or made it run faster or some such thing.  I never knew what was going on.  He would just knock on the door, enter my room without an invitation, sit down at my computer, and start typing away at breakneck speeds, all the while talking faster than seemed humanly possible.  He didn’t socialize much, but once he got started you couldn’t shut him up.  He was an unfortunate-looking guy: 25ish, pasty skin that was always moist to the touch, about eighty pounds overweight, almost bald on top with long, black hair on the sides and back, one of those patchy wispy beards grown by those who can’t really grow facial hair but refuse to give up the dream.  During these computer-repair visits, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about their lives.  Apparently, his father had been hit by a BMW earlier in the year, which was a huge stroke of luck.  It messed up his hip real good, but they ended up suing the guy and getting a $250,000 settlement.  However, the lawyers were still figuring out the legal mumbo-jumbo, so they couldn’t collect just yet.  In the meantime, they were holed up here, trying to stay off the street because they owed various drug suppliers money, which they would be able to pay after the settlement came in.  It was all sort of convoluted and I had trouble getting the details straight because he was talking so fast and banging away on my computer, but the gist of it was that I couldn’t tell anyone they were here.  Since he’d never told me his real name, I didn’t think that would be a problem.

One day, Son Drug Dealer knocked on my door, and when I opened it, he rushed into the room and slammed the door behind him.  “Don’t open that door for anyone,” he said.  I said, “Um…okay.”  He had shaved his head to the scalp and his beard was gone, and he was carrying a green backpack.  He said, “Can I trust you?”  I said, “Probably not.”  He ignored me.  “I need to leave something with you for a few hours.”  Before I could answer he launched into this story…

He and his father were making a drug delivery in Denver.  They’d been laying low for months, waiting for the lawsuit money to come in, but now they were behind on rent and they needed some cash.  So they agreed to run some heroin across town for this guy.  They picked up the heroin and then drove down the street minding their own business when a cop behind suddenly turned on his lights.  Father Drug Dealer started to freak out because he was on parole, and going on drug deliveries while you’re on parole is, well, bad.  The son was driving the car and he pulled into a church parking lot.  He didn’t know what to do.  He couldn’t let the cops catch them with this bag of drugs because his father would go back to prison and then they’d probably never collect that damn lawsuit money.  So the son waited until the cop got out of his car and started to walk toward them…and then he gunned the engine.  It just so happened that they were right next to an extremely busy street.  But they caught a lucky break in traffic.  They just missed two oncoming cars, jumped a traffic island, and took a screeching right turn.  In the meantime, Father Drug Dealer threw the heroin out the window.  They tore off down the street, took some rights, some lefts, and ended up in a Wal-Mart parking lot.  They ditched the car there, got on the bus, and came back to the apartment.  The car wasn’t registered in their name, so the cops couldn’t trace it back to them.  The only problem was that there was now $800 worth of heroin lying on Colfax and Son Drug Dealer had shaved is head and face to disguise himself and now he was going to take the bus back to Denver to see if he could find the drugs and he needed me to do him a big favor.  He looked me intensely in the eyes.  My heart began to hammer as he slowly started to unzip the backpack. I looked around the room for weapons. He reached inside the bag.

“Can you watch my cat?”

He pulled out a black-and-white kitten that could easily fit into a teacup.

“I just got him a few weeks ago.  His name is Grub.  My dad is staying with a friend until this all blows over, and I’m not sure how long this will take.  I don’t want to leave him alone.”

I managed to nod my head and croak, “Sure.”

So for the next seven hours, I sat on my couch reading a Philip K. Dick novel while Grub napped quietly beside me.  Son Drug Dealer returned after successfully finding the bag of heroin and making the delivery. He put Grub back in the bag, shook my hand, and returned to his room.

Two months later Father Drug Dealer had a heart attack and died.  A month after that the lawsuit check arrived in the mail.  I never saw Son Drug Dealer or Grub again.

The Rumpus is a wonderful website that publishes smart pop-culture writing. Recently, they accepted my essay, “Everybody Cut Loose,” about how the strange correlations between my life and the movie “Footloose.” I hope you like it.

(Click here to read Part 1 and/or Part 2)

Things you need to know before reading this blawg:

Number 1: I am bad at directions. No, that’s not quite right. How about this? I am terrible at directions. Actually, that still does not accurately describe my shortcomings in this particular area. OK, OK, I’ve got it. Ready? If “directions” were “making inoffensive public statements about Jews” I would be Mel Gibson. That about sums it up.

Number 2: I can drive perfectly well, but I haven’t owned a car since 1999.

Number 3: I mentioned that we have a cat, right? And I also happened to casually indicate that she might possibly be a demon spawn from another dimension, correct? OK, just checking.

Number 4: The Less Abrasive Pessimist and I both hate driving. H. A. T. E. She gets road anxiety; I get road rage. It isn’t pretty.

Number 5: When I get bored, I have imaginary conversations in my head. These usually start out as fairly innocuous chats with people I know or people I would like to meet or random inanimate objects. However, if I get really bored and tired and stressed and trapped inside the tiny cab of a truck traveling down an endless flat road with the sun shining directly in my face for ten hours at a time and small-town radio preachers telling me the world is going to end because Obama uses the wrong kind of spoon to eat his breakfast cereal, the conversations in my head start getting a little…weird. Just FYI.

Number 6: Google Maps says it’s about a 16-hour drive from Boulder to Austin. It took closer to 20 hours. (See Numbers 1,2, and4)

So we finally gave up on the moving company and rented a truck. And since there was no way in hell that The Less Abrasive Pessimist was going to drive it, and since it was my fault we were in this mess in the first place, guess who got behind the wheel. (See Number 2.)

By this time, we were more than ready to leave. We were like those neurotic tigers at the zoo pacing back and forth in their cramped cages. We wanted out. It was late notice on a Monday, so finding help was difficult, but we were soon joined by our musician friend Nate Cook, lead singer of one of my favorite bands The Yawpers (this pathetic plug and two Budweisers were his only compensation), and Mother Less Abrasive Pessimist.

We had obtained some prescription tranquilizers from our veterinarian for the journey, and The Less Abrasive Pessimist and her mother managed to force one down the throat of our agitated kitten. An hour passed. Nothing. If anything The Tempest was even more energetic than usual. So we gave her another one. Still nothing. But we couldn’t wait any longer. I told The Less Abrasive Pessimist that if the tranquilizers didn’t work on the cat, she could always take them. She was not amused. It was time to go.

The truck was loaded and we were on the road by 4pm. Not a great start, but at least we were moving. Our new landlords had expected us to show up and sign the lease on June 1. It was now the 3rd and we had more than 900 miles of road between us and our new lives.

When I got in the truck, I immediately noticed a fat housefly trapped inside the cab with me. I thought about rolling down the window and setting him free, but then I thought, When is a housefly ever going to have an opportunity like this again? He only lives a few weeks, and he’s going to travel almost a thousand miles in that time. He’ll be a legend in cyclorrhapha history! The Christofly Columbus of insects!

So I put the truck in gear, and we began our adventure!

We got two miles down the road, and The Less Abrasive Pessimist was forced to pull over. The cat was running laps inside the car, yowling like Fran Drescher receiving a rectal exam from a far-sighted proctologist. Apparently, the cat didn’t like the position of her litter box. So The Less Abrasive Pessimist adjusted it to Her Highness’s liking, and she calmed down.

And now back to the adventure!

We hit bumper-to-bumper traffic immediately in Denver. It was move three inches, slam on the breaks, move three more inches. The vein in the side of my forehead began to twitch. The cat kept crawling on top of the boxes in the back seat, and every time The Less Abrasive Pessimist hit the breaks she took a header. I love that animal, but it was still pretty funny to watch.

Finally, after about thirty minutes, the traffic opened up and we were on our way. I’d brought a selection of my favorite CDs for the journey, and I consulted Christofly on what to play. It turned out we were both Johnny Cash fans.

Observation: Johnny Cash proves that the supposed chasm between liberals and conservatives in America is not as wide as we think. Everyone listens to Cash, and he sings for everyone. “Man In Black” is basically a Marxist anthem, and I’m certain “Ragged Old Flag” is being played at Tea Party meetings across the country as I write.

The open road sucks. This is my humble opinion. Songs have been sung and stories told about wagon trains besieged by Indians and intrepid pioneers mauled by bears, but nowadays it’s just a series of gradual right and left turns with the occasional thrill of passing a slow-moving truck with cow butts poking out the back end. After about five hours, it gets to the point where you think a Sioux raiding party or a rabid grizzly would be a welcome change of pace.

Christofly agreed. It was amazing how much we had in common. True, we hadn’t yet discussed things like the Middle East or Obamacare, but there was plenty of time for that. We were trying to keep it light. I’d filled a Coke cap with soda, and placed it on the dashboard for him. Christofly had stopped slamming his head repeatedly against the windshield and was now sipping genially from the cap. We were having a grande old time, two brave journeymen cruising down the highway with the wind in our hair…or antennae or whatever.

We drove through Colorado and the gun barrel of Oklahoma before finally reaching Texas. Oklahoma roads are terrible. We were in Oklahoma for less than an hour, but the whole time it felt like I was driving on Ryan Gosling’s abs. But as soon as we got to Texas, the roads were as smooth as Ryan Gosling’s hairless buttocks.

There was a wind storm at dusk that was incredibly surreal. The sky was cobalt blue and there were all these giant windmills along the highway that were slowly turning like enormous robot drones on some desert planet. Thousands of them lined up in perfect rows. It was freaky.

Finally, we decided to call it a day at around eleven, and we pulled in to a Best Western that accepted pets in the town of Dumas. My guess is the name is supposed to be pronounced like the French writer, Alexandre Dumas, but I’d bet my right arm the locals will tell you they live in Dumb-Ass without a hint of irony. It definitely looked like a town called Dumb-Ass.

Observation: Texas has some great town names. My favorite were Roscoe, Wastella, Fluvanna, and Lawn.

I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it had something to do with the long drive or the excitement of the journey or the strange hotel room or the five cups of vanilla-flavored coffee, but I just stared at the ceiling as the hours ticked by. The Less Abrasive Pessimist had no such problem. She was snoring like an asthmatic walrus (albeit a cute asthmatic walrus) as soon as her head hit the starched pillow. The cat was still up though. By this time, she was so tired she was staggering around the room like a drunken sailor on shore leave, but there were strange corners to sniff and furniture that had never been jumped on and cabinets to stare at creepily, so she fought to stay awake in order to perform her duties.

After a refreshing three-hour nap, the alarm screamed bloody murder and I stumbled bleary-eyed into the bathroom. I obtained more coffee and we got back on the road. Christofly and I attempted to get the conversational juices flowing by talking about the landscape. We agreed that all these little Texas towns looked the same. One church, one post office, and one bar. But they made you slow down to 30 miles per hour to pass that one church, one post office, and one bar. I suggested that if you stopped at any of these facilities, there would be a small family of emaciated citizens waiting there with a net and a shotgun. “Now you’re gonna pray, have a drink, and send a letter…or else!” they’d say. Christofly agreed.

After jawing a bit more, we put in Johnny Cash again and had ourselves a good old fashioned sing along to keep the blood pumping. We were really getting into it. It was right at the end of “Folsom Prison Blues” when I looked in the rear-view mirror and noticed The Less Abrasive Pessimist’s car wasn’t behind us. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time it was behind us. I then looked at my phone and saw that it was on vibrate from the night before. There were eight missed calls, three voice messages, and two text messages. And it was right about that time I passed a road sign that said, “WELCOME TO OKLAHOMA!”

I’d driven almost an hour in the wrong direction.

Now there are many things I could tell you, dear reader, about how this happened. The phrase that comes to my mind is “sharing valid reasons,” or as The Less Abrasive Pessimist likes to call it, “spreading the bullshit.” For instance, I could bring up the insomnia again from the previous night. Or I could tell you that before checking in to the Best Western we’d pulled up to a La Quinta on the other side of the street, and in the process I got turned around. Or I could remind you that my sense of direction is like Mel Gibson making public statements about Jews. Or I could talk about all those little Texas towns that looked exactly alike (turns out they looked like the same towns from the night before because they actually were the same towns from the night before, but let’s not quibble over details). Of course, none of this explains why I failed to notice my future wife honking and flashing her lights at me for thirty miles. Or why I drove on for twenty minutes after she gave up and pulled to the side of the road, thinking I would immediately notice her absence and check my phone.

I could make excuses for all of this, dear reader, but I’m not the type of man to pass the buck. Nope, “take responsibility for your actions,” that’s my motto. So I’m going to put the blame squarely where it belongs: Christofly.

You see, we had an agreement. I would take care of all the driving, snack purchasing, music playing, and temperature modulating if Christofly kept just one of his many eyes on the rear-view mirror. That was his only job. But Christofly was the jealous type, and he’d gotten it into his little fly head that if he could get rid of the Less Abrasive Pessimist, we could be roommates in Austin. Never mind the fact that I’m a mammal and he’s an insect, or that he had no way to pay his half of the rent, or that he would be dead in a week. None of that mattered to over-possessive little Christofly. So when The Less Abrasive Pessimist pulled to the side of the road, he saw his chance.

I tried to explain all of this to The Less Abrasive Pessimist, but she seemed to think we needed to get back on the road immediately. She had a point. After all the delays, I’d promised our new landlords we would sign the lease before their office closed on June 4 at 5pm. It was now June 4 at 11am, and we still had to drive an hour just to get back to Dumas. (The name of the town was now definitely pronounced Dumb-Ass in my head, but for more personal reasons.)

I called the new landlord and told them we were still on our way, but it looked like it would be past 5pm when we arrived. She was very kind. It sounded like she said she would leave our apartment unlocked with the keys inside, but the phone kept cutting out and I couldn’t be sure. I decided I’d heard that the apartment would be unlocked with the keys inside.

Meanwhile, Christofly and I were not speaking to each other. He had betrayed my trust, and I was not in a forgiving mood. I glared silently at the road, while he tried to get my goat by crawling all over my face. I just ignored him.

Christofly said he wanted to listen to Paul Simon, so I turned on a local country station instead, knowing he would hate that.

Observation: For all its hard-nosed bluster, country might be the sappiest genre of music out there aside from teen pop. When they’re not talking about their pickup trucks or threatening to put a boot in bin Laden’s ass, there’s a lot of romance on the country airwaves. “I’m gonna find me a new way to light up an old flame,” “In all the world you’ll never find a love as true as mine,” “If you’re callin’ bout my heart it’s still yours.”

The great thing about listening to local radio stations is that you get to hear about the local news. For instance, in Roscoe, Texas, a man named Conway Alvarez died recently at the age of 78. He was a prison guard who was survived by his hunting dog and his sister. His wake was being held at his favorite bar, which also happened to be the town’s only bar. This was reported by a deejay simply named Stumpy.

Things were going along just fine until we hit a detour. And then another detour. The first detour worked out OK, and we were routed back around the the proper road. However, on the second detour, they failed tell us where to go, and we ended up on a frontage road next to an empty field. We turned around a few times, consulted the smartphone, and finally found our way back twenty minutes later.

We were hungry, so we pulled in to a truck stop cafe to eat a bunch of starch and meat. By the time we finished, I had gout.

Observation: Texas toilets are literally larger than Colorado toilets.

Observation: There’s a reason Texas toilets are larger than Colorado toilets.

By now we were several hours behind schedule, and it did not appear as though we would get into Austin until almost midnight. I tried to call the landlord and relay this information, but only managed to leave a voice message. We drove. And drove. And drove. When night came, we were alone on the road, aside from the giant semis, which were lit up like carnival floats after dark.

And then, just when I was starting to lose all feeling below the waist, we finally passed a sign welcoming us to Austin. Christofly and I cheered and high-fived, an act that unfortunately sent Christofly careening across the cab. But he shook it off and we laughed and laughed and laughed. It had been a long journey, and although we’d had our differences, we decided to bury the fly swatter. We were friends again, and I promised to share our new apartment with him, although he was not allowed to regurgitate on our food.

We pulled up to our new apartment complex, found the right door, and turned the handle.


I almost cried. I texted our apartment manager, Brooke, and she bounced right over, as if letting people in to their apartment in the middle of the night was her favorite part of the job. We thanked her profusely, blew up an air mattress, and fell asleep.

When I got up the next morning to move our stuff, I opened the truck door and Christofly Columbus flew out before I could stop him. He zoomed up into the bright blue sky, excited to explore the new land he had discovered.

(Click here to read Part 1 and/or Part 2)

(Read Part 2 and/or Part 3)

There are several things you need to know before reading this blawg post.

Number 1 (and this is by far the most important): I am an asshole. I’m not the kind of asshole that wears Ax Body Spray and roofies girls’ drinks at frat parties or the kind that wears wife beaters and refers to vaginas as “hotdog warmers” or the kind that pulls up next to homeless men in BMWs and tells them to get jobs or Ann Coulter. I’m just a cranky, pessimistic bastard who hopes that people will be good but assumes they will suck. It’s a perfectly valid point of view in my opinion. I try to use my powers of assholery to protect the innocent and thwart the evil, but I usually just end up mildly pissing off other assholes and making my friends chuckle.

Number 2: I live by a specific philosophical code. This is not a code that I developed after observing human nature for numerous decades, ruminating on my findings, and then attempting to codify the results of my study into a system of psychological/physiological/behavioral rules. I’m no Plato. No, I developed my philosophy for much less altruistic reasons. After living a relatively selfish lower-class existence for thirty years or so, it dawned on me one day that practically all of the decisions in my life were dictated by my attempts to balance two factors: cheap vs. lazy. Obviously, this has little relevance when I’m making macro decisions, such as voting for the president or plotting to overthrow the world with my super-villain powers, but in the microcosm of my everyday life it is surprisingly consistent. I am profoundly cheap and perversely lazy. And since this is America, where money very often purchases convenience, a person such as myself who does not want to work hard for more money but wishes to remain comfortable in his poverty must constantly seek harmony between the stingy ying and the snoozy yang. (I promise this will be relevant later on in the story.)

Number 3: I recently got engaged to a fellow pessimist, albeit one much less abrasive than myself.

Number 4: Me and the less abrasive pessimist decided to move from Boulder, Colorado to Austin, Texas. In June. To an apartment we’d never seen.

Number 5: Also, neither of us had ever been to Austin. Ever.

Now we can begin…

Hey, boys and girls! Here’s a fun social experiment you can perform with your liberal acquaintances! Tell them that you’re moving and when they ask where say, “Texas!” and then watch their faces melt off like that Nazi dude at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

People have opinions about Texas. Strong opinions. Strange opinions. Long-winded opinions. Opinions they feel the need to share despite the fact that you never asked for said opinions or cared about said opinions or really gave a shit about any opinion the person in front of you is now spouting off concerning the decisions you are making with your life that have nothing whatsoever to do with them. There are various ways to deal with these particular opinion-sharers, but my favorite is to simply yell “YEEEEHAW!”, grab my crotch, spit, and walk away.

If you perform the same experiment but say “Austin!” the person you are talking to will inevitably reply, “You know that’s in Texas, right?” and then laugh hysterically as though they are the first person to ever think of this clever witticism. This happens approximately 72 percent of the time.

We discussed the issue for months, and in the end here’s the short version of why we decided to move to Austin: we hate winter and Austin is fairly cheap for a culturally relevant city.

Also, I’ve never seen an armadillo. (It’s like a dinosaur and a possum made sweet sweet love and then had a baby that’s apparently prone to vehicular suicide.)

It’s hot in Texas.

This is one of the intellectual tidbits the opinion-sharers like to share, as if the temperature south of Oklahoma is some closely kept government secret that only they are privy to. And if you tell them that, yes, you know it’s hot, they will interrupt you and say, “No, you don’t understand. It’s really hot.” Actually, I do understand, Mr. Italics. I’ve traveled and lived in countries all over the world, some of them in the desert, some of them in the tropics. I understand heat. We know that in the summer is going to be uncomfortably hot. We get it. We would simply rather be uncomfortably hot in the summer than uncomfortably cold in the winter. We’re heat people.

The other thing people like to tell you is how far your journey will be. Once again, this is not difficult information to obtain, especially in the age of Google. Just clickety-clack for two seconds on the old computer keyboard and WALLAH! It’s a 16-hour drive from Boulder to Austin.

And this is where my idiotic philosophical code almost ruined our move.

(Read Part 2 and/or Part 3)

Several months ago, I received an email from Sundress Publications stating that my essay, “Off the Grid,” had been selected for their 2012 Best of the Net Anthology. I was somewhat confused because I had never entered such a contest but also overjoyed. It was a wonderful way to end 2012.

It turns out my essay was entered in the contest by the editor of Eclectica Magazine, Tom Dooley, to whom I am extremely grateful.

The good people at Sundress Publications receive thousands of entries every year from all across the Internet, and their tireless judges whittle those entries down to a few lucky winners. This year the judge in the nonfiction category was Pulitzer-finalist Lee Martin, a novelist and memoirist of wide-ranging talent.

I am honored to have my name associated with such a fine anthology, and I hope you take the time to read my essay.


I Mumble

August 3, 2012

I first started to notice it as a child. People would ask me to repeat myself constantly. I hated doing this, of course, because the reason I mumbled in the first place was because I was shy and didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Having to repeat myself always caused a minor panic attack and consequently I spoke even softer the second time around. When I was little, I would often just run away from the person I was talking to (a solution that works surprisingly well in many social situations, even to this day), but as I’ve grown older, I have decided to embrace my true nature. I mumble. I’m a mumbler. Deal with it.

Over the years, I have discovered that mumbling is a decent way to comment on the inane world around you without suffering the consequences of a publicly expressed opinion. If you don’t like the woman who smells like instant soup sitting next to you on the bus who is screaming into her cell phone about her intimate medical problems…mumble. If you’re starving to death in the middle of a road trip through Nebraska and your friend insists on finding a restaurant that serves vegan tofu because he watched Seven Years in Tibet last week and now he thinks cows are sacred creatures…mumble. If the person in front of you at the movie theater thinks their own commentary is more interesting than the dialogue happening on the screen AND that person happens to be large enough to beat ever-loving crap out of you in the parking lot after the show…just mumble.

Some people pray. Some people meditate. Some people send out positive vibes into the universe. I mumble.

Reading is Fundamental

July 30, 2012

Originally published in the Front Range Review

My father hates receiving mail from the government.  Census reports, tax statements, registration forms—it doesn’t matter what’s inside the envelope, he doesn’t want it.  First of all, it rankles him that those paper-pushers in Washington know his address.  He is aware, of course, that his location is a matter of public record and anyone with five spare minutes and a phone book can find him, but it annoys him to be reminded of this fact.  They’re just rubbing it in.  Secondly, they always want something.  Sometimes it’s his information, sometimes it’s his vote, but usually it’s his money.  Perhaps the local fire department needs a new hose or maybe some congressman wants to finance another prairie dog preserve.  It’s always something.  The government is like a stingy brother-in-law who keeps ordering fillet mignon at expensive restaurants and then misplacing his wallet.

But the primary reason my father detests official mail is simply because he doesn’t like being told what to do.  For those with authority issues, a government mandate is the ultimate slap in the face.  You can’t ignore it, you can’t fight it.  All you can do is bend over and take it.

Therefore, when the STATE OF COLORADO sent a letter to the house reminding our parents that their children were old enough to enroll in school, my father bristled.  This meant our family’s information would be recorded by some secret government agency, and his offspring would spend five days a week under lock and key in the public education system, where anti-patriotic hippies disguised as teachers would indoctrinate us with their socialist agenda.  Sure, it seemed like a good idea on the surface, free education, but now that the Supreme Court had removed prayer from school, it was just a matter of time before students started making Bolshevik Revolution dioramas and burning the American flag for show-and-tell.  The modern public school system was just a ruse invented by left-leaning academics to brainwash future generations.  Everyone knew that.

My father is not the type of man to back down from a fight, especially one that exists only in his head, and so he decided to start a school of his own.  What did he know about educating young minds?  Well, nothing, really.  But how hard could it be?  Give the students some flash cards, force them to memorize the Gettysburg Address, add a few multiplication tables into the mix—and voila!  Your kids were ready for Princeton.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy.

It should be noted here that there is a stubborn streak a mile wide that runs through the male descendants of the Bridges clan.  I have no idea if the cause is genetic or environmental, but I do know that it is often petty and can be shocking for unsuspecting bystanders to behold.  I once saw my grandfather fall thirty feet onto a gravel road while attempting to trim the branches of an oak tree on our property.  Frightened, I asked if I should call 911.  But he just shook his head, wiped the blood off his face, and—even though he was probably concussed—climbed back up to finish the job.  Why?  Because no tree’s gonna get the best of him, that’s why.  I think it was stubbornness that inspired my brother to become one of the best long-distance runners in the state.  Someone once told him that he couldn’t sprint from one end of town to the other, and, without pausing to contemplate the logic of such a challenge, he said, “Oh,yeah.  Watch me.”  When he finished, he fell to his knees and vomited for several minutes.  He then looked up at the person who told him he couldn’t do it…and smiled.  As for myself, in my mid-twenties I nearly drowned trying to swim across a lake in Guatemala because I was too stubborn to admit I couldn’t make it to the other side.  Not once, not twice, but three times local fishermen in boats stopped to ask me if I needed assistance—my desperate flailing was causing a scene and possibly scaring off the fish—but I waved them on.  Less than two minutes after the last boat departed, I realized I was going to die in a city whose name I couldn’t pronounce, and I began to scream for help.  The fishermen in the third boat turned around and picked me up.  He piloted me to the other side, where my friends were waiting, their hands strategically covering their mouths in an effort to hide their laughter.

Possibly the most stubborn branch on our well-trimmed family tree, my father is constantly on the lookout for opportunities to be uncooperative.  He enjoys doing things his own way, especially if his own way is unpopular in the community and inconvenient for the mainstream establishment.  Therefore, after being told by various family members and local government officials that starting his own school was a terrible idea, my father decided to do just that.

And that is how it came to pass that I began my formal education in a bomb shelter beneath the First Church of Christ in Fort Morgan, Colorado.

Originally, the space had been a basement where potlucks and prayer meetings were held, but as the Cold War wore on and fear of a nuclear holocaust increased, certain churchgoers began referring to the subterranean space as a fall-out shelter.  Whenever there was a tornado warning in the area—and in the summer this occurred at least twice a week—congregation members who lived nearby would huddle together underneath the church, singing hymns or praying silently while the storm raged overhead.  Of course, a nuclear bomb is not the same as a funnel cloud of wind, but when the sky is falling Chicken Little doesn’t waste time clucking about petty details.  Hypothetically, if the Ruskies ever decided to nuke the local Gas-N-Sip, we would be able to hide out in the cement sanctuary beneath our house of worship until the radioactive dust had settled.  After that, we would emerge like Noah from the Ark to witness the dawn of a new day in human civilization.

It was only logical to combine the school with the bomb shelter.  That way the children would receive a quality religious education while simultaneously being protected from an atomic blast.  It was like killing two adulterers with one stone.

Technically the school was open to anyone who wanted to pay the tuition fee, but for some reason the local citizens failed to see the benefits their children would reap from studying penmanship inside an armored foxhole.  Therefore, Christ Foundation School (or CFS, as the cool kids called it) matriculated exactly eleven students varying in age from five to eighteen, all offspring of our congregation members.  We were a collection of shy, homely children who said “sir” and “ma’am” far too often and had difficulty making direct eye contact with strangers.  You’ve probably seen young people like this handing out religious pamphlets at the mall or trudging door-to-door in suburban neighborhoods.  No matter what decade it is, the boys tend to have uneven home haircuts and the girls twist their pigtails into rope-like braids.  Braids are cute when you’re six years old, but they start taking on an air of creepiness as one approaches voting age.  Like doll collections and clip-on ties.  It wasn’t hard to understand why our parents put all their philosophical eggs in one spiritual basket.  In the physical world, we were a few yokes short of an omelet.

There was one teacher for the entire school, a large, pear-shaped woman named Roberta Dilrumple, who spent most of her time sitting on an aluminum folding chair in the back of the classroom, quietly humming “Nearer My God to Thee” while she embroidered Bible verses on pillow cases.  She wore pastel turtlenecks under denim vests, and there was always a turquoise broach the size of a tarantula pinned to her enormous bosom.  Mrs. Dilrumple’s ample hips had given birth to more than half the student body, which was the only reason she had been given the title of educator in the first place.  She was a nice enough woman, I suppose, but you could tell molding young minds wasn’t exactly her lifelong ambition.  Mrs. Dilrumple’s work philosophy was not dissimilar to that of a goat herder: as long as one of the kids didn’t wander onto the highway or get eaten by a pack of wolves, she considered the day a success.

The school itself was just a single room, a dark, damp space that always smelled curiously of moth balls and cheese.  There were no windows and the only door led to a dirt parking lot behind the church.  The ceiling was low and littered with exposed wires, as well as various metal pipes that made hissing noises and dripped brown sludge whenever someone flushed a toilet upstairs.  On the south wall, an American flag hung next to a watercolor painting of Jesus tending a flock of sheep, and on the north wall, there was a loan chalkboard with the words Welcome, Soldiers of God! written in large, cursive letters.  The i in Soldiers was dotted with a little, pink heart.  The other two walls were occupied by the students’ desks, each separated one from another by tall, plywood dividers, like rows of public bathroom stalls.  Add the dim lighting and cement floors, and the facility looked remarkably similar to the men’s room at the local swimming pool.  Except more educational.

The curriculum was based on a series of age-appropriate workbooks called Packets of Accelerated Christian Education, or PACEs for short.  These workbooks covered the same subject matter featured in most public schools, with one minor exception: everything had a religious theme. For instance, while attempting to complete one of the math PACEs, a student might have come across a word problem like this: If there are 4 sinners and God saves 2 sinners, how many sinners are left?  On every desk there was a red, plastic cup that contained various pens, pencils, and a small American flag.  If a student had a question, they would remove the flag from the cup and place its stem in a pencil-sized hole above their desk.  Mrs. Dilrumple would then heave herself off her chair with an irritated grunt and waddle over to answer this patriotic inquiry.

Christ Foundation School was based on the honor system.  When a student completed a section in their workbook, they would take it to the Grading Station, a long folding table at the front of the class, where their answers would be compared to those found in the teacher’s manual.  The Grading Station was littered with red pens, which were used to mark wrong answers and record the overall score at the top of the page.  9/10, 7/15, etc.  The graded workbook would then be carried across the room to Mrs. Dilrumple, who would put aside her knitting needles and record the final score in her grade book.  At the end of the quarter, these scores were tallied and report cards were either sent home by mail or, more often than not, passed out to parents following the Sunday-morning sermon.

Because my father was both the preacher of the church and the principal of the school, I decided that I must be better than the other students.  Not better at any one particular subject, just a better all around person.  Spiritually better.  Of course Mrs. Dilrumple insisted we were all equal in the eyes of God, but I knew this couldn’t possibly be true.  One look at Laura Freytag’s cauliflower ear or Gary Crismer’s back hump and anyone with an ounce of sense could see that God played favorites.  I just happened to be one of them.  As the son of a holy man, it stood to reason that I would be more intelligent and talented than my peers.  Not to mention the moral superiority that I wielded, if I did say so myself, in an impressively altruistic fashion.  Whenever a student giggled during the morning prayer or made farting noises with their armpit, I would immediately raise my hand and inform on the little heretic.  More often than not, the perpetrator was a pudgy, freckle-faced dullard named Philip, who happened to be the youngest member of the Dilrumple brood and as such was prone to acts of immaturity as a means of drawing attention to himself.  It wasn’t entirely Philip’s fault.  Not blessed with an overabundance of intelligence or charm, he needed some way to distinguish himself from his numerous siblings, so imitating flatulence became his calling card.  Philip and I quickly became oppositional clichés, he of the class clown variety and me the teacher’s pet.  Whenever I informed on Philip, Mrs. Dilrumple would either yell at him or smack him in the back of the head or both.  Watching these mini-beatings I felt a sense of accomplishment.  I was helping punish the wicked.  I was doing God’s work.

Since I was not yet fully literate, I spent a majority of my first year at Christ Foundation School memorizing Bible verses and then carefully copying them into a large notebook that I kept at my desk.  I got to be pretty good at it, too, going so far as to imitate the ornate calligraphy found in certain passages of my father’s ancient King James Version.  But the satisfaction was negligible.  There was no need to grade these clumsy scratchings, as it was simply an exercise designed to sharpen my reading and writing skills.  As long as I completed the assignments in a timely manner, my report cards were exemplary, but no one was impressed by them.  I was like a family pet performing a trick on command.  “Good boy,” my mother would say when I showed her my finished homework.  Then she would pat me on the head and give me a treat.

But I didn’t want to be merely good.  I wanted to be exceptional.

At the start of my second year, I received a stack of PACEs along with the older students and was told to complete them as best I could.  Expectations were not high.  So far I had displayed no special talents in the academic department.  Despite constant prayers requesting a genius brain and the ability to shoot laser beams from my eyes, my intellectual progress remained average, at best, and my enemies refused to burst into flames no matter how hard I stared at them.  “What are you looking at?” Mrs. Dilrumple asked after informing me that, no, I could not skip a grade, and, yes, it was too early for me to apply to Harvard.

“Does your head feel warm?” I replied.


“How about now?”


“How about now?”

But then a miracle happened.  Much to the astonishment of everyone concerned, I cruised through my first set of workbooks in a single week with just a few wrong answers along the way.  The second week yielded similar results, as did the third, and by the end of the quarter people were starting to take notice.  I received perfect marks in all my subjects.  It was an unbelievable turnaround.  The school soon ran out of workbooks at my age level, and I was given a three-day vacation while more were ordered.  My fellow students regarded me with wonder, and their parents suggested I lead a study group.  By the end of the school year, even Mrs. Dilrumple was forced to acknowledge my intellectual prowess.

My parents were delighted, especially my father, who now felt vindicated for his decision to start the school in the first place.  All those naysayers had been proven wrong.  Public education was a farce.  There was no need to waste taxpayer money on expensive textbooks and “certified” teachers when students could thrive just as well in a hole in the ground.  His own son was living proof that religious education worked.

Gaining my father’s attention was no easy feat.  Not only was he the leader of our church and our school, he had also been tasked with converting as many sinners to our faith as possible before the world ended.  With the fate of the human race in his hands, it was sometimes difficult to convince my father that he should drop everything and listen to a story about how I’d caught a lizard in the backyard that afternoon.  Even if the lizard was big and green and I had to run really fast to catch it and then its tail fell off and that was pretty gross and then I put the lizard in a jar and then it escaped and then my sister screamed and then I chased the lizard around the kitchen and then I took it outside and then I saw a squirrel.

Normally my father listened to these riveting lizard stories from the other side of a newspaper, pausing intermittently to clear his throat and turn a page, but now that I was the star pupil at his school he began taking an interest in my life.  Unprompted, he volunteered to tutor me in math and purchased a set of used encyclopedias, which sat thenceforth unused on a bookshelf next to my bed.  I was thrilled to receive his full attention and became even more determined to be a model student.

News of my educational accomplishments reached the company that made our workbooks, and they sent me a medal in honor of my success.  It was bronze plated and about the size of a silver dollar.  On the front was a cross floating above an open Bible, and on the back it was engraved with the words, For exceptional academic achievement.  God Bless America.  The medal was attached to a red, white, and blue ribbon that had a stickpin on the back so the exceptional recipient could fasten it to his exceptional shirt.  I wore it everywhere that summer.  It was physical evidence that I was indeed special, and I wanted to rub it in everyone’s face.  Often I would pin the medal to my Sesame Street pajamas before I crawled into bed at night or attach it to my uniform before soccer practice.  Eventually the ribbon became frayed and the medal itself began to tarnish, but nothing could convince me to take it off.  After a few months my mother gently suggested that perhaps the medal should stay at home when I went certain places, like to the swimming pool, say, or anywhere else in public.  She tried to explain that it was important for me to be humble like Jesus, but I wasn’t having it.  I figured humility was something invented by ordinary people to keep the extraordinary in check.  Why should I pretend to be just like everyone else when it was obvious that I was better?  How did I know I was better?  I had a medal to prove it.  So there.

As summer vacation drew to an end, I prepared to return to school a conquering hero.  By this time I’d retired my medal to a prominent spot on top of my dresser, but only because I planned to earn a dozen more the upcoming year.  Now that I’d had a taste of public recognition, there was no limit to my ambition.  I expected Mrs. Dilrumple and the other students to fall all over themselves when I walked through the door.  Flash bulbs would pop from all directions and autographs would be requested.  Reporters from a variety of national and international newspapers would fight for my attention as I held up my hands.  “Please, everyone calm down.  One question at a time.”

But when I arrived at school, there were no photographers and everyone acted as though I was just another student, not a celebrity genius.  I was tempted to go home and retrieve my medal just to remind everyone who they were dealing with, but decided against it.  Better to prove myself again in the trenches than to rehash old war stories.  So I graciously accepted my stack of PACEs and settled back into my cubicle, prepared to eclipse the previous year’s performance and claim my rightful place next to Newton and Einstein in the pantheon of prominent intellectuals.

Everything went as planned for the first couple of months.  I continued to fly through my workbooks with incredible ease, scoring almost perfect marks in every subject and earning the admiration of my peers along the way.  I made room on my dresser for more medals and petitioned my parents for a glass trophy case.  At night in front of the bathroom mirror, I often practiced the witty conversations I would have with Dick Cavett when he invited me to appear on his popular talk show.

“So you’re the boy genius we’ve heard so much about,” Dick would say.  “How does it feel to be one of the smartest kids on the planet?”

I would dismiss his compliment with a blasé shrug.  “I’m really not so special,” I’d say.  “Surely there are other children out there who can sing the ‘Alphabet Song’ really fast while standing on their heads.”

Then I would shock the studio audience by doing a perfect headstand right there on stage while simultaneously reciting the alphabet at an astonishing pace.  The audience would gasp and erupt into wild applause.  As a special bonus prize for being the most interesting person to ever appear on his show, Dick would give me a million dollars and a spider monkey.  I would name the monkey Cornelius and train him to attack my sisters whenever they attempted to enter my room uninvited.  We would be very happy together.

It was Philip Dilrumple who ended my dreams of owning a territorial primate and becoming the youngest person ever to receive the Nobel Peace Prize.  Later he would claim it was an accident, but I never believed it.  He was getting even for all those times I ratted him out.

It happened one afternoon in mid-October, just after lunch.  I had recently finished a PACE dedicated to social studies that featured a cartoon image of a soldier saluting the American flag on the cover, and I was going over it at the Grading Station when Philip, who was sitting across from me, suddenly yelled, “Mom!  He’s cheating!  He’s cheating!  Mom!”

I looked up, surprised by the sudden outburst but otherwise nonplussed.  After all, I was innocent.  Why would a genius need to cheat?  It was absurd.  When asked, I willingly extended my workbook to Mrs. Dilrumple, expecting her to glance at it and then give Philip a good, hard whipping for attempting to incriminate the school’s star pupil.  Instead, her eyes widened and she said the seven most horrible words in the English language: “I need to talk to your father.”

It turned out my entire academic career had been a lie.  I had been cheating from day one without knowing it.  The vacations, the medal, the accolades—they meant nothing.  I was not a genius, I was a charlatan.

Here’s how it happened.  On the first day of class, Mrs. Dilrumple spent several hours explaining the numerous rules and regulations of Christ Foundation School to the students.  She went into painstaking detail concerning the importance of punctuality, what to do when we had a question, and even how many times we were allowed to urinate in a single afternoon.  I listened as long as I could until I became bored, which was approximately two minutes, and then I leaned back in my chair and began daydreaming about what it would be like to deliver my valedictorian speech.  I pictured a large audience dressed in formal wear hanging on my every word.  The President of the United States would be there, of course, along with certain important political figures and various members of the entertainment industry: Robert Redford, Hulk Hogan, the cast of The Dukes of Hazzard, etc.  My parents would be seated in the front row, and toward the end of the speech, after thanking God and America, I would graciously acknowledge their role in my upbringing.  My mother would burst into tears, and my father would put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her.  It would be clear even to the television audience watching at home that there were no two prouder parents on the planet.

My ears were still ringing with applause when Mrs. Dilrumple’s lecture ended.

I was able to figure out most of the rules and procedures simply by watching my classmates and using common sense.  However, the grading system tripped me up a bit.  I decided that I was supposed to sit in my cubicle and answer all the questions I knew in my workbooks.  I left the questions I didn’t know the answers to blank, because why would you write down an answer if you didn’t know it?  That would be absurd.  Afterward, I would take my workbook to the Grading Station, check to see if the answers I’d written down were correct, and then fill in the rest of the questions with the appropriate solutions.  I assumed my peers were also using this method, as it seemed the only logical course of action based on the physical evidence available.  And that was how I completed more PACEs than any other student at the school.  It was simple.

During the meeting with Mrs. Dilrumple and my father, I was confused.  I knew I had done something dishonest, but I still didn’t entirely understand where I’d gone wrong.  Academic assignments had been given to me, I completed them to the best of my ability, and then I corrected them.  Why all this fuss over a procedural technicality?

My father’s disappointment was considerable.  Just a few short hours ago, his son had been a budding prodigy who proved his theory that big government had no business educating the youth of America.  Now I was just an odd, lizard-chasing kid with an inflated sense of entitlement and a short attention span.  I’d gone from hero to hoax in the time it took to boil an egg.

In the end, it was decided that mine was an honest mistake and instead of announcing it publicly, which would embarrass everyone involved and diminish the school’s credibility, I would simply start grading my workbooks in the appropriate manner.  I returned to my studies a chastened man.  My academic performance immediately slowed to a snail’s pace, and the words “average” and “potential” began appearing on my report cards.

Despite the fact that there was no official announcement, somehow my little misunderstanding spread quickly through the ranks.  Considering all the gloating I’d done the previous year, my classmates were magnanimous when I fell off my pedestal, although they failed to completely hide their amusement.  For the next six months, it became a running joke amongst the older students to ask if I would grade their workbooks when they were doing poorly in a subject.  For some reason, they were certain their scores would improve if I was the one correcting their work.  Mrs. Dilrumple scolded the students for teasing me in this manner, but on several occasions I was certain I saw a wry smile tug at the corners of her mouth when she did so.

With my whiz-kid reputation publicly dismantled, I was left with an enormous, attention-starved ego and nothing to feed it.  Over the past year, I had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, one that included public recognition and the smug sense of self-importance that is common to those who think they’re smarter than everyone else.  I couldn’t go back to being just another average kid, not after being told I was exceptional.  And so, with my vanity against the wall, I fell back on the only other trick in my bag: moral superiority.  After all, there would always be someone more intelligent, talented, attractive, or athletically gifted, but that did not necessarily mean they were walking the righteous path, right?  Of course not.  In fact, if you niggled enough and narrowed your criteria until it became impossible for any normal, red-blooded human to live up to, you could find character flaws in just about anyone.

I became the living, breathing embodiment of sanctimony.  Whenever one of my peers skipped class or stole so much as a nickel from the tithe box, I was there to point a diminutive, judgmental finger in their direction.  No lie was too white, no crime to petty.  Nothing escaped my hypocrisy.  And being that ethical purity was far more important at our school than academic prowess, it wasn’t long until I regained my old pedestal—and then stacked a soapbox and a high horse on top of it.

While my father generally approved of my new-found zealotry, he was not about to let me off the hook so easily.  I was allowed to keep the medal I had been given as a reminder of my behavior.  It was supposed to be a badge of dishonor to keep me humble.  However, I quickly turned the shameful souvenir into a prop.  Alone in my room, I would stand on my bed and deliver acceptance speeches for a wide variety of honors and awards, as my stuffed animals applauded below.  Sometimes I had just won Best Actor at the Oscars, sometimes I was accepting my twentieth Grammy, and sometimes I was simply being recognized for being an all-around great person by everyone who had ever met me.  Whatever the occasion, when the speech was over I would pin the medal to my shirt and take a deep bow, while the audience cheered and cheered.

I once had a job where the employees were required to celebrate Valentine’s Day.  This was a retail position at a mid-size corporation that sold books, music, and movies.  I spent eight hours a day alphabetizing used CDs and ringing up customers at the cash register while wearing a green smock with a button attached to it that said, “Hello, my name is Dale!  I’m happy to help!”  I was not happy to help.  In fact, I had never been so unhappy to help in my life.

Working at a corporation is a humiliating experience for the low-level employees.  Its’ not enough for those suit monkeys to monopolize your time and energy; they want your soul, as well.  This particular job paid $7.00 an hour with no benefits, which was a mere 50 cents above minimum wage, and for that extra half dollar the company expected you not only to show up on time with a smile for the customer but to also express gratitude for the opportunity to scrub their toilets and receive abuse from their patrons.  The official company motto was, Let Us Entertain You, but unofficially it was, Thank You, Sir.  May I Have Another?

At some point, a group of pencil-pushers at corporate headquarters organized a focus group and decided they needed to boost employee morale.  I can say without reservation that a livable wage and a dental plan would have improved my outlook considerably, but instead the company decided to mandate certain celebratory activities.  On birthdays, cheap cakes were purchased and songs were sung.  Cards were handed out during major, non-religious holidays, and Valentine’s Day became a compulsory activity.

Few things are more degrading for the average human being than forced happiness.  Telling someone they will be fired if they don’t have fun is a bit like requiring a POW to write out a thank-you card after his tormentors have broken all his fingers.  America has always been known as the Land of Eternal Optimism, where brilliant minds like Walt Disney and Henry Ford are allowed the freedom to realize their dreams. However, once those dreams have come to fruition and those genius brains have been rotting in wormy graves for a few decades, another American tradition takes over: greed and exploitation. In our current system, it’s not the innovators who are rewarded but those who take a wonderful, new idea and transform it into a cheap cliche that can be crammed down the public’s throat with such relentless determination that the original dream becomes nothing more than a shallow mockery of itself.

Hence, Valentine’s Day.

But I digress…

During the first week in February, the employee break room at my workplace was suddenly cluttered with brown paper bags, scissors, construction paper, glue sticks, tape, markers, crayons, and glittery paint. It looked like a kindergarten classroom for clinically depressed children. Two days later the staff received a memo stating that every employee was required to create a Valentine’s Bag with his or her name on it and give one another cards by Feb. 14. Or else! In response, I wrote my name on a bag with a black marker and placed it in the designated area. My supervisor was not amused. He called me into his office and delivered a speech similar to the one given to Jennifer Anniston’s character in the movie Office Space concerning the amount of flair she had on her Chotchkie’s uniform. I was told that my attitude was a problem and it needed adjusting. Why couldn’t I be positive about this? Was it really so bad to spread a little love and good cheer to my fellow employees? What was the issue here?

I was twenty-two years old at the time and incapable of articulating the precise reason why being mandated to spread love and cheer by an amoral, money-hungry corporation made me want to firebomb my supervisor’s BMW, so I capitulated. I decorated a new sack with various pink and red hearts, while secretly cursing my supervisor for making me do so. The bag was then filled with stupid little cards and those gross heart-shaped candies that taste like chalk. I quit two months later.

Over the years, my attitude toward Valentine’s Day has not improved. If anything, it has gotten worse, a prejudice that has often made my love life difficult. Though I have never been the type of person to date girls who listen to Celine Dion or cry during cheesy romantic comedies, most of my exes wanted to at least acknowledge February 14th and perhaps go for a nice meal at a restaurant that didn’t feature a drive-up window. Go figure. Arguments ensued and I was often accused of being unromantic and cynical, insults that are difficult to deny while you’re setting a Nicholas Sparks novel on fire. In the end, the reasons most often sited when these relationships ended were my inability to express emotions and my impulse to see the negative side of every situation. I was exhausting. And depressing. And narcissistic. And misanthropic. And I wore socks to bed.

These things are undeniably true. I am not good at relationships; I hate expressing emotions; and even though I am now in my mid-thirties, I still make gagging noises whenever I see couples feeding each other in public. (I don’t care how in love you are–if the recipient of the food is not wearing a diaper, there is absolutely no reason to feed another human being. Ever!) An ex-girlfriend who also happened to be a psychology major once diagnosed me as “a pathologically unromantic person who uses humor to hide your true feelings.” My response: “You get me!” She then added immaturity to the list.

Several years ago, I met a blind date at a bar near my apartment building. This was my favorite dating bar. If things went well and it looked like intercourse was on the horizon, I would take the date back to my place to consummate our doomed relationship. If things didn’t go well (which was usually the case), I could say goodbye to my date and get blind, fall-down drunk without having to worry about how I’d get home. It was a win-win.

This particular date was a young woman named Michelle whom I’d met via the Internet (long story). When she entered the bar, she hovered near the door for almost a full minute, her gray-blue eyes darting around like those of a frightened mouse searching a new environment for a hungry cat. I waved. The fear in her eyes did not dissipate. Nevertheless, she crossed the room, sat on the bar stool next to me, and, in a voice barely above a whisper, told me how much she hated bars. “Actually, mostly I hate people,” she said. “And bars are always filled with people. Strangers. And sometimes they try to talk to me.” She shuddered. The look on her face indicated there was nothing so horrible in her opinion as unwanted human contact.

It wasn’t difficult to see why strange men would attempt conversation. She was beautiful in a way that was almost disturbing. She had perfect alabaster skin, a long sexy nose, a swan-like neck, and dark brown hair that she was constantly attempting to hide behind. Oh, and she had pointy ears. Like an elf.

I have always been attracted to physical abnormalities, so I asked her about these ears, and without a hint of reservation she told me it was a genetic trait called human vestigiality, which is a characteristic passed down from monkeys that still appears in certain human beings. “You know, like some people have a vestigial tail,” she said. “When you think about it, we’re really just a bunch of animals. If you condense evolutionary history into a single lifetime, we just climbed down from the trees about five minutes ago.”

I was smitten.

It just so happened that on this particular night there was an open-mic poetry reading at the bar in question. I hadn’t known this when I planned the date. I hate public poetry readings. They are most often attended by the type of annoying artsy people who wear scarves indoors and insist on talking in loud voices about Allen Ginsberg so that everyone in the room can overhear their witty repartee. This event was no different. As the room filled with bongo drums and tweed jackets, I shifted uncomfortably on my bar stool. I was enjoying the date so far and did not want to risk expressing my loathing for what was about to happen next. After all, Michelle didn’t look like the type of person who delighted in reading poems about her menstrual cycle in front of Kerouac wannabes, but you never could tell. She seemed anxious, but I got the feeling this was pretty much her permanent emotional state. It was impossible to know how she felt about the whole affair. Finally, when a a young man in a goatee and beret stepped up to the microphone and announced that he’d written a haiku about Charles Bukowski’s liver, Michelle broke down. Speaking rapidly and in a voice that sounded as though it was attempting to suppress a mounting hysteria, she said, “I’m-having-a-really-good-time-and-I-don’t-want-to-offend-you-but-I-hate-when-people-read-poetry-in-bars-I-can’t-stay-here-I’m-sorry-can-we-please-leave.”

I downed my beer in three swallows.

Since the night was young and we had no specific plans, I suggested we take a walk through a nearby cemetery. Michelle thought this was a fine idea. As we strolled, I pointed out my favorite tombstones–Adolfus Livernash, Samuel Belcher, Esther Reeks–and we talked about how much we hated open-mic poetry readings.

This all happened two years ago.

It turns out Michelle is even more antisocial than I am and just as repulsed by modern romance. Currently she works at a gourmet chocolate shop, where she spends five days a week making expensive cakes and candies. Feb. 14 is their busiest day of the year, and Michelle has forbidden me to say the V-word. After spending ten hours a day crafting chocolate roses and attaching hearts to cheese cakes, she wants nothing to do with the holiday.

There are other words we don’t feel comfortable saying, as well. The L-word, for instance. I realize there are those who believe saying “I love you” several times a day is an essential part of a good relationship, but we are not these people. We tried it a few times, and it just didn’t take. It felt forced and embarrassing, like an enema. However, there are instances when even pathologically unromantic cynics feel the need to express (blah) affection. Therefore, we’ve had to improvise.

For awhile, I told Michelle that I “lurve” her, a line from a Woody Allen movie called Annie Hall, which we both admire for its unhappy ending. Eventually, “lurve” transformed into “larve” for no particular reason, “larve” became “larf,” and then “larf” made the inevitable metamorphosis into “barf.”

This is the perfect expression for us because it removes all sentiment from the term. To say “I love you” in our current culture means to act out a scene from some cheesy Meg Ryan movie. However, to say “I barf you” is to express a shared hatred for the cliches of modern romance while simultaneously sharing something personal and sacred. We’ve never actually discussed this, because that would involve expressing our feelings to one another, which would immediately make those feelings disgusting and shameful. Therefore, we simply continue to barf one another in text messages and email. We barf each other in restaurants and we barf each other at the mall. We barf each other in the morning and we barf each other at night.

On Feb. 14, we will return to that old cemetery near my apartment building where we had our first date. We will stroll amongst the tombstones thinking about all the poor saps out there buying flowers and feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries in an effort to reenact some unattainable bit of cultural nostalgia that has long since become a trite marketing ploy. We will laugh and enjoy ourselves. We will sneer and roll our eyes. We will drink cheap wine. We will avoid poetry at all costs. We will talk about all the things we hate about Valentine’s Day. And then we will fall in barf all over again.

Originally published in Boulder Weekly

December 2008

Believe it or not, there is a man in Boulder named Sam Kent who lives with an 8-foot-tall robot named Gort.  At first glance, Sam and Gort do not seem to have much in common to base a friendship on.  Sam is small.  Gort is humungous.  Sam wears round, bookish spectacles, brown corduroys and Velcro shoes.  Gort wears a helmet with a visor and is the color of a shiny new dime.  Sam is witty and gregarious and has a mischievous twinkle in his eye at all times.  Gort is more of the strong, silent type and—well, he doesn’t really have eyes, much less ones that twinkle.  However, despite their many differences, these two companions share a modest, two-story house near the downtown area.  “He’s not much for conversation,” said Sam during a recent interview.  “But he’s a great listener.  Besides, I probably do enough talking for the both of us.”  Gort had no comment.

If you are ever invited to Sam’s house, the first thing you will probably notice is that the doorbell plays an odd tune when you ring it.  Instead of the usual ding-dong, you will hear the theme song to Steven Spielberg’s famous extraterrestrial movie Close Encounters.  The second thing you’ll probably notice is Gort standing motionless no less than five feet inside the front entrance.  Gort is a life-sized replica of a character from the classic sci-fi movie The Day the Earth Stood Still.  Sam found him at an auction in Newport Beach—where Gort was hanging out with other replicas of other famous Hollywood robots, such as Robbie from Forbidden Planet and Dave from Lost in Space—and decided a faceless, silver automaton would be the perfect addition to his foyer.  Sam admits that it might be slightly unnerving for some visitors to be greeted by an enormous creature from outer space when they cross the threshold of his house, but he can’t do anything about it.  “That’s is the only spot where the ceiling is tall enough,” Sam explained.  “He won’t fit anywhere else.”

It’s difficult to tell what the next thing is you’ll notice after entering Sam’s house.  It might be the framed, wall-length poster in the dining room commemorating a movie called The Island of Dr. Mareau, or perhaps the incredibly realistic Frankenstein head in the work room, or the rotary phone in the kitchen shaped like Mickey Mouse, or the rare scale model of Captain Nemo’s submarine from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.  But one thing is certain: you won’t have a problem finding something to notice.

Sam’s passion for movies started when he was a child growing up in Chicago.  “I had about 12,000 cousins living nearby at the time,” he said, “and when we all became too obnoxious for our parents to handle, my older brother would take us to the movie theater around the corner.  I was particularly fond of monster movies and the old, animated Disney films.  I can’t really explain why.  Perhaps it was an escapist technique, although I’m not sure what I would have been trying to escape from at the age of six.  I’ll give you my therapist’s number, and you can ask him.”

Not content to be just another voyeur in the audience, Sam was bitten by the performance bug at an early age.  When he was 9 years old, he began frequenting magic shops, and would often entertain his family by pulling quarters out of their ears and producing floral arrangements from empty hats.  “Is this your card?” became a common phrase in the Kent household.

In high school, he found a place amongst the quirky, melodramatic teenagers known as “theater nerds,” and this social outlet eventually developed into a bachelor’s degree in the performing arts from the University of Colorado.  Since that time, Sam has remained a fixture in the local arts and entertainment scene, albeit often in unorthodox ways.

“People sometimes have limited perceptions of art.  They think if you’re not dressed in tights performing Hamlet in the park, then you’re not an entertainer.  I don’t like that. I say an entertainer is anyone who entertains you.”

After graduating from college, Sam worked his way through a variety of jobs connected to the entertainment industry.  He spent time booking shows at the Boulder Theater, attempted to broaden the public’s awareness of Dracula movies at the Video Station, operated a movie-poster store in Denver, and even returned to his childhood fascination with magic for a brief period.

“For a few years, I owned a magic store in Boulder,” said Sam.  “It was really great. I had all kinds of neat things in there.”

Like what?

“Like trick knives and handcuffs and playing cards.  I also had some white rabbits and some doves that I would let loose from time to time.”

You let animals loose in the store?

“Oh, yeah.  I think a magic shop should be magical, don’t you?  I think it should be more than just a place to buy things.  It should be its own little world.  It should be an experience.”

Creating new worlds is another one of Sam’s passions.  He is a firm believer that reality is what you make of it, and Sam likes to make his reality as imaginative and whimsical as possible.  In his house, Sam has created a tiny, carefully organized universe filled with all of the things he loves: model airplanes and boats and monsters and aliens and amusement park rides and anthropomorphized cartoon animals.  Many of the items are rare or one-of-a-kind, almost everything appears to be vintage.  Sam has no idea what his entire collection is worth, and what’s more, he doesn’t care.  “I’m never going to sell any of this stuff,” he said.  “So I guess that makes it all worthless.”

Sam does not look like the type of passionate eccentric who would own such an unusual assortment of pop culture bric-a-brac.  In fact, he looks more like a landlord. In fact, he is a landlord.  Currently, he makes a living collecting money from a number of tenants, who rent space in various buildings that he owns.  However, Sam has a restless nature and seldom sticks with any job for more than five years or so.  He’s the type of man who is prone to flights of fancy, and recently he developed a new obsession that might soon lead him down yet another track: trains.

“There’s something very romantic about trains,” said Sam, holding up a caboose that he’s been working on for some time.  “Historically, they represent innovation and connection.  The United States is a big country, and railroads helped unify the nation—you know, back before we had the Internet.  I think the sight and sound of a locomotive will always be an exciting experience.”

How many times has Sam been on a train?  Twice.  But that’s not really the point.  Once again, it’s all about inventing your own little world and finding new opportunities to entertain the public.  Serious train modelers don’t just build railroads; they create an entire landscape for the train to travel through, complete with cities and cars and people.  In other words, they reconstruct our world, only smaller and hopefully with fewer lawyers.

This time, Sam wants to go public with his vision. “I would like to create a complete scale model of Boulder in the 1950s.  That’s when I first moved here as a kid.  It was a different city back then.  There weren’t so many trendy restaurants and shops; it was just a town near the mountains.  I would give tours and answer questions—I think people would really enjoy it.  The thing is, I’m at a point in my life where I’m ready to settle down.  I want to find a career that combines all of my interests and dedicate myself to it. I’d also like to get married some day.  I’m really an old-fashioned kind of guy at heart.”

Sam glanced over at the large shadow near the front door and grinned.  “Of course, I’d have to talk it over with Gort first.”

Hair: A Confession

January 14, 2012

Originally published in Stays Magazine

January 2010

I don’t like my hair. Never have. It is straight and boring and it has been slowly falling out since I was twenty years old. I can’t remember a day in my conscious life when I didn’t think about my hair and wish it was different. I always wanted thick, flowing locks on my head; the type of hair that looks natural behind the wheel of a convertible. You know, cool hair. But my hair does not look natural behind the wheel of a convertible. My hair looks natural behind the wheel of a bus. I don’t have Convertible Hair. I have Public Transportation Hair.

There are other things I don’t like about my body. My nose, for instance. It’s long and pointy, like a goddamn shark fin in the middle of my face. It looks like the Egyptians built a pyramid out of dry skin and blackheads underneath my eyes. Speaking of which: my eyes are okay, I guess. But they’re dark. Very dark. Like almost black. This would be fine, except I have pale skin, and the two just don’t match. I should have blue eyes, or at the very least, green. Hazel eyes would be nice. What’s the difference between green and hazel? Who cares? I want hazel eyes. Actually, forget blue, forget green and hazel; I should have tan skin to match my dark eyes. I always wanted smooth, caramel-colored skin. My brother has tan skin. He also has a normal-sized nose. I hate my brother. My knuckles are hairy. So are my arms. And my legs. We’re talking werewolf-type hairy here. Gorilla-type hairy. Old-Greek-man-walking-on-the-beach-in-a-Speedo-type hairy. My chest and back do not have excessive hair, but this only seems to draw attention to my hairy arms and legs. It’s like some mad scientist took a normal human torso and sewed orangutan appendages onto it.

This next part is kind of gross, and I understand if you don’t want to read it. In fact, I recommend that you do not. So I’ll give you the opportunity to bypass what I’m about to say and spare us both the embarrassment. Just stop reading right here and skip the next four paragraphs. Right here. Just lift your eyes from the page after this sentence and continue reading when the gross part is over. No? Are you sure? Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you…

My buttocks are hairy.

See. I tried to tell you.

Both cheeks and also in the, um, crack. It’s like evolution in reverse. My body is trying to grow a tail. I really do believe this. The hairy knuckles, the arms, the legs, and now this. I am Darwinism undone. I am becoming a monkey.

It is especially cruel that hair is falling out on my head and growing on my ass. Sometimes I wonder if the two are related. Perhaps the follicles on my head have simply decided to uproot and move south for the warmer climate, like all those retired octogenarians in Florida.

Where I come from, men aren’t supposed to care about their physical appearance. Men are supposed to care about things like carburetors and guns and how to cook various meat products on the barbeque. Worrying about your hair is for women and Democrats.

All the men in my family are going bald, and we suffer this indignity in various ways.

My dad has a large collection of baseball hats that he wears to cover his receding hairline. Most of these hats feature the University of Nebraska’s mascot, which is a robust man in overalls holding an ear of corn. My dad is very athletic, but he wears these hats even when he is not participating in sports activities. For instance, we will go out to a nice restaurant, and he will wear a conservative blue dress shirt, a pair of tasteful gray slacks, and a fire-engine red hat that says “Nebraska Cornhuskers” right on the front. On the back, it says “GO BIG RED!”

My older brother Wayne has a similar collection of hats. One summer, Wayne went to work on our grandparents’ farm in Minnesota and came back with a new hat. It was something a gay Australian cowboy might wear, and he was very proud of it. No one was allowed to touch that hat. He said, “If you touch that hat, I will kill you.” There was a long list of things my brother would murder me for doing. Such as: “If you change the channel to cartoons while I’m watching football, I will kill you,” or, “If you drink the last Mountain Dew, I will kill you,” or, “If you don’t stop looking at me weird, I will kill you.” My brother has shoulders like a moose and could probably snap me in two if he wanted, but I’m not afraid of him. I once saw him rescue a baby mouse from a neighborhood cat. He picked up the mouse and took it to a safe place in the backyard. Afterwards, he said, “If you tell anyone I rescued that mouse, I will kill you.”

Of course, I touched his hat.

Not only did I touch it, I put it on and pretended I was Indiana Jones. The hat was too big. It kept falling down over my eyes while I was trying to kill Nazis, and I accidentally walked into a wall. The hat was scuffed. Not torn, not bent, just scuffed. I brushed it off and returned it to the exact spot on my brother’s dresser. I swear it looked exactly the same, but right away my brother knew what I’d done. He chased me around the house, and when he caught me, he said, “If you ever touch my things again, I will kill you.” And then he took me to get ice cream.

Wayne has a tan line on his forehead from wearing so many hats, but he doesn’t wear the gay Australian cowboy hat anymore. I don’t know what happened to it. I imagine it sitting in the back of his closet in a sealed glass box. One day, thousands of years from now, archaeologists will dig it up, brush off the dust, and read the inscription on the box: If you touch this hat, I will kill you.

When I was growing up, the only time I ever saw Grandpa Bridges without a hat was in church. I was told that it was disrespectful to wear hats in “God’s house.” But as soon as he stepped into the parking lot, Grandpa put his hat back on. Apparently, God doesn’t mind if you wear hats in His driveway.

When he’s not wearing a hat, you can see my grandpa’s comb over, which is amazing. The only hair he has left is around the edges of his head. On top, he’s as bald as a refrigerator. At some point in his life, my grandpa started parting his hair on the side and combing it over the top of his head to hide his receding hairline. In the beginning, this might have worked, but somewhere along the way things went horribly wrong. Now, my grandpa parts his hair on both sides of his head, just above each ear, and combs it to the top, where it meets in the middle and then moves forward, like a pair of don’t-pass lines in the center of a liver-spotted highway. My grandpa is a smart man but he can be slightly delusional at times. I sometimes wonder what he thinks when he looks in the mirror: “And now, I will comb these five hairs over my bald scalp like so… Perfect. No one will ever know.”

I don’t look good in hats, and I’m not at the comb-over stage just yet. But I have never liked my hair, so I drastically change it every couple of years. I’ve always thought that if I could just get the perfect haircut, the perfect style, the perfect look, I would have the perfect life. It hasn’t happened yet, but I keep trying.

Five Hair-Raising Moments:

ONE: I am seven years old. I have a rare kidney disorder, which causes me to get sick and stay home from school for months at a time. I don’t mind. I like staying home. As soon as everyone leaves the house, I go through their things. I put on my dad’s crazy 1970s suits and lip-sync to Elvis songs. I use my mom’s bras to slingshot marshmallows across the kitchen. When I get bored with my parents’ closet, I read books. I particularly like books about the Old West.

Today, I am reading a book about a tribe of American Indians called the Mohawks. The book says the Mohawks were part of a fierce warrior culture that would kill white settlers and take their scalps. The person who wrote the book obviously wants the reader to empathize with the white settlers, but I immediately side with the Indians.

There is a picture of a Mohawk warrior in the book. His skull is completely shaved on the sides, and the hair on top of his head is sticking straight up, like the plumage on some exotic bird. It is the coolest haircut I have ever seen.

I go to the kitchen and find a pair of scissors. I take the book and the scissors into the bathroom. I prop up the book on the bathroom sink so I can see the picture of the Mohawk warrior. And then I start to cut.

I’ve finished cutting the hair on one side of my head and I’m about to start on the other side when my mom comes home on her lunch break. I try to explain that I am part of a fierce warrior culture that kills white settlers and takes their scalps, but she refuses to listen. She takes me to the barber, who ruins my Mohawk hair by shaving my entire head. In other words, he scalps me. I look ridiculous. At school, kids laugh and call me Baldy and Humpty Dumpty, and it’s all my mom’s fault. She says I will thank her one day, but I never have.

Ten years later, Bobby Westfall sticks a safety pin through his nose and gets the exact same haircut that I tried to give myself in the bathroom when I was seven. He becomes instantly popular. I curse my mother.

TWO: I am twelve years old and my favorite television shows are Knight Rider and Magnum, P.I., both of which feature attractive male actors who drive around in sports cars and have thick, wavy hair. Since there’s very little chance my parents are going to buy me a Ferrari when I start sixth grade, I want thick, wavy hair. Nobody in my family has thick, wavy hair. We all have thin, straight hair.

However, the women in my family have a solution to this problem. Every month, my mom gives herself and my two younger sisters home permanents. This occurs in the kitchen, usually while my mom is cooking a pot roast.

Here’s what happens: My sisters sit on chairs at the dining table. My mom wraps towels around their shoulders. My sisters argue about who gets what towel. (“I want the blue one.” “You had the blue one last time.” “Fine, I’ll take the yellow one.” “No, I want the yellow one. You take the blue one.”) My mom squirts their hair with a bottle of Windex, which she has emptied and washed out and filled with water. My sisters tell her the water is too cold. My mom tells them to stop whining and be quiet. My mom rolls their hair up in plastic rollers. My sisters say, “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!” My mom tells them to stop whining and be quiet. My mom applies some sort of chemical solution on their hair that smells like embalming fluid. My sisters cover their faces with their towels and say, “My eyes, my eyes! It stings!” I tell them to stop whining and be quiet. My mom tells me to mind my own beeswax. After about forty minutes, my mom takes out the rollers, and my sisters’ hair is magically curly. Four weeks later, they do it all over again.

I tell my mom I want to have my hair permed. She says no. I say please. She says no. I say pretty please. She says no. I say she’s a horrible mother and she never lets me do anything I want to do and I will run away from home and never speak to her again even on Christmas and Arbor Day and other major holidays. She says no. I say please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please— FINE! she says. “But remember, this was your idea.”

I sit at the dining table. My mom wraps a towel around my shoulder and squirts my hair with water from the Windex bottle. She rolls my hair up in plastic rollers. I say, “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!” My mom tells me to stop whining and be quiet. She applies the embalming fluid. I cover my face with my towel and say, “My eyes, my eyes! It stings!” My sisters tell me to stop whining and be quiet. My mom tells them to mind their own beeswax. After forty minutes, she takes out the rollers. I rush to the bathroom mirror, expecting to see David Hasselhoff or Tom Selleck staring back at me. Instead, I find a fair-haired Little Orphan Annie. I find an Aryan Ronald McDonald. I have a blonde afro. I look like a dandelion.

I am not very popular at school already, and my new hairstyle does nothing to change this fact. If anything, the other kids think I’m even weirder than I was before. The boys in my class either avoid me completely or they call me names like “faggot,” “fairy,” or “butt pirate.” I don’t really know what these names mean, but I know they’re not making me more popular. Some of the girls talk to me. At first, I am thrilled by this, but then I realize they are asking me hairstyle questions. They don’t want me to be their boyfriend; they want me to be their sister. I don’t know much about dating, but I know this is not good.

Surprisingly, the negative reactions from my peers do not deter me. For an entire year, I force my mom to keep giving me perms. She protests, but she does it anyhow. Secretly, I think she enjoys the fact that she has such a stubbornly weird son.

THREE: I am twenty years old and I am in the middle of either my second sophomore year or my first junior year of college, depending on how you look at it. Like all twenty-year-old college students, I have decided that my parents are backwards and ignorant and I am going to be the exact opposite of them. This means I instantly reject all their conservative values and adopt liberal values. It’s an amazingly simple procedure. I throw away my Amy Grant CDs and buy a Rage Against the Machine poster. I hide my Bible under the bed and start carrying around a used copy of On the Road, which I pretend to read but never actually read because I secretly think the writing is terrible. I wear tie-dyed clothing. In public. With no sense of irony.

I purchase a marijuana cigarette from a stoner down the hall and smoke it in my dorm room while I drink a wine cooler, watch a rated R movie, and listen to secular music. Afterwards, I puke in the toilet for approximately seventeen hours.

I start growing my hair long in a belated attempt to become a hippie. My dad hated hippies when he was in college, so this is the perfect revenge. The year is 1995, which means I’ve only missed Woodstock by a few decades. I also get an earring and a tattoo. I am so rebellious it’s almost frightening. To go with my new hairstyle, I grow mutton chops and start writing free-verse poetry. I don’t know why.

My sister Sonya announces that she is getting married and asks me to be an usher at her wedding. This is perfect. My family has not mentioned my long hair yet, but they will not be able to ignore it now. I imagine a dramatic public scene involving a toppled wedding cake and the words “You are not my son!”

I go home for the wedding. When my mom sees how long my hair has grown, she wrinkles her nose and says, “Maybe you should get a haircut.”

Before I can deliver my scripted indignant response, my sister says, “Why? I like it. Maybe you can just put it in a ponytail. That’d be cute.”

“Or I could braid it for you,” says my brother. “That’d be adorable.”

Everyone laughs and the subject is closed. Two weeks later, I get a haircut.

FOUR: I am twenty-three years old. I have just graduated from college and I am completely and utterly lost. I have no idea what to do with my life. I have a bachelor’s degree in history, but I do not want to be a teacher and I don’t know what else to do with my extensive knowledge of World War II propaganda films. I rent an apartment across town from the college that I just graduated from. During the day, I work at a corporate book store, and at night, I read too much Ernest Hemingway and write minimalist short stories about my experiences in the Spanish-American War. I send my writing to literary magazines and receive rejection letters in return saying my stories don’t make sense. For some reason, I take this as a compliment. I am misunderstood; ergo, I am an artist.

After reading Siddhartha and seeing Seven Years in Tibet, I decide to become a Buddhist. This will solve all my problems. Unlike Christianity, which is oppressive and boring, Buddhism is from the East, which makes it exotic and cool. I’ve heard that Steven Segal is a Buddhist. So is Richard Gere. Of course, I’ve also heard that Richard Gere likes to put rodents in his anus, but I don’t think that has anything to do with achieving nirvana. At least, not for the rodents.

There’s a slight problem: I have no idea how to become a Buddhist. Should I stop eating meat? Do I need to purchase a gong? What about chanting? And yoga? How often should I trim my banzai tree? Of course, I could probably research the subject, but that sounds hard. What I really need is an elderly Chinese man to recite peaceful homilies while simultaneously showing me how to snap a man’s neck with my pinkie finger. Like Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid.

There’s not exactly a large elderly Chinese population in Greeley, Colorado, but I do the best I can. One of my coworkers is half Hawaiian, and I start writing down what he says, hoping to find the words of wisdom that will guide me on the path to enlightenment. Here’s what my half-Hawaiian coworker says: “I hate this job.” “Don’t you hate this job?” “I got so wasted last night, brah.” “This job sucks donkey balls.” “My girlfriend has huge tits, brah. No, seriously, they’re really big.” “I don’t mind the blacks, but the gays creep me out.” “I’m gonna quit this job.” “I think I got herpes, brah.”

Eventually, I decide the best way to become a Buddhist is to shave my head. I have seen numerous kung fu movies about ass-kicking Buddhist monks, and they always have shaved heads. I plug my electric hair clippers into the bathroom outlet and cut off all my hair. Afterwards, I lather my scalp with shaving cream and remove the stubble with a razor. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I do not look like a Buddhist monk. I look like a skinhead. All I need is pair of Doc Martens and a swastika tattoo and I would be right at home spray-painting anti-Semitic graffiti on the side of a Synagogue. This is not a good look for me.

There might not be many elderly Chinese people in Greeley, but there is a substantial Jewish community. I did not realize this until I started looking like a cast member on the set of American History X. My next-door neighbor is Jewish. So is my landlord. And my boss. I had no problem with any of these people before, but now they give me strange looks and avoid talking to me. I can’t tell them that I shaved my head to become a Buddhist, because when I actually try to say those words out loud, I feel like the biggest jackass in the world.

The only person who treats me the same is my half-Hawaiian coworker. He says, “I never trusted those kikes either, brah. Have you seen my girlfriend’s tits?”

FIVE: I am twenty-seven years old, and I still want to be Ernest Hemingway. Instead of working harder to improve my writing, I decide to grow a beard and move to Europe. Hemingway lived in Paris during his early career. However, Paris is expensive and filled with French people, so I buy a ticket to Prague instead. On the plane, I practice calling myself an ex-patriot: “Hello, I’m Dale Bridges, writer and ex-patriot.” “Greetings. Dale. Ex-pat.” “Ciao, Ex-patriot Dale Bridges at your service.”

I find an apartment in the center of the city for $250 a month. This apartment has ten-foot ceilings, oak floors, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a furnished kitchen. It is by far the nicest place I’ve ever lived in my life. My roommates are two medical students who are studying at the local university. Deidrich is from Munich and Wade is from Houston. I immediately nickname them Da Fuhrer and The Redneck. They do not particularly like their nicknames.

It is strange living with medical students. For instance, Deidrich keeps a human skull on the kitchen table. I don’t necessarily mind this. In fact, I think it’s sort of quirky and amusing. But one day Deidrich tells me where he got the skull. “Dat zkull belonged to my grandfazer. He found it when he waz in ze zecond World War.” (Deidrich actually speaks perfect English, but I think it’s funnier to make him talk with an accent.)

My concern is this: Where does a German officer get a human skull in WWII?

I’m not saying Deidrich’s grandfather needs to make a trip to Nuremberg; I’m just saying it’s sketchy.

One day, Wade accidentally brings home something strange. He is digging around in his backpack for a notebook, when suddenly an odd look comes over his face. He picks up an object and holds it to the light. It looks like a melted rubber ball. “Yeehaw! Well, ain’t that the damnedest thang.” (Once again, the accent is just funnier.)

It’s a testicle from a male cadaver he dissected earlier that day.

“Musta fall’d in thar by mustake. Don’t mess with Texas!”

When I’m not hearing about Nazi war crimes or looking at some dead guy’s balls, I am growing out my beard and trying to comb my hair like Hemingway. It’s important that I look the part. After all, I am an ex-patriot now. Which is a lot like being a patriot, except you wear more turtlenecks.

After getting settled into the apartment, I hit the town.

Prague is the most beautiful city I have ever seen, but the Czechs don’t care. They’ve been conquered at least a dozen times, and they don’t have time to appreciate where they live because they are too busy grumbling about the administration in power, especially if it’s their own. Prague is famous for being the home of Franz Kafka, the guy who wrote The Metamorphosis, which is perfect—the citizens of Prague are gorgeous, intelligent people, but they all think of themselves as cockroaches dying of tuberculosis.

As a tubercular cockroach myself, I love Prague. Perhaps a little too much. I start going out every day. I see street markets and castles and bistros and bars, but I don’t see much of my computer screen, which is what I’m supposed to be looking at while I write my novel. For nine months I have the time of my life, but I have nothing to show for it except an empty bank account and a drinking problem. No novel. No European supermodel girlfriend.

I fly home with my tail tucked between my legs. When I get off the plane, my friend Chris says, “What’s up with the beard, Hemingway? You trying to write The Old Homeless Man and the Sea?” I shave my beard, get a haircut, and then I punish Chris by sleeping on his couch for the next six months.

Biologically, hair is just long strands of fiber growing out of your skin, but culturally, it’s like your own personal magic talisman. Nothing else on your body can change your life in such dramatic ways. Grow your hair long and you’re a hippie. Cut it short and you’re an insurance salesman. Change the color and you’re a washed-up pop singer desperately trying to get attention.

Hair sends a message to the world: This is who I want to be.

During the course of writing this essay, I have looked at my hair in the mirror approximately five-hundred times. I have combed it to the right, and I have combed it to the left. I have combed it back, and I have combed it forward. I have done everything in my power to make my hair represent who I want to be, but it’s no good. That’s because I’ve never really decided who I want to be. Today, I’m a starving writer. Tomorrow, I might be a documentary filmmaker. Or an aspiring actor. Or a Mohawk warrior.

In the past, people have suggested that I get plastic surgery or try Rogaine if I’m dissatisfied with my appearance. That’s how things work in our culture now. If your body does not conform to your self-delusion, you go to the doctor and get beach balls implanted in your chest.

I think the idea of hair plugs is funny, especially if they took the hair from my ass and transplanted it to my head. I can just imagine those follicles waking up one day and saying, “What the hell? How’d we get back up here?”

But I will never cosmetically alter my body. Personally, I think that’s cheating. I may not like my hair, but it’s mine. We’re in this together.

Besides, I have a better solution for improving my appearance. It’s an old family secret that has been passed down for generations, and it goes a little something like this: “And now, I will comb these five hairs up over my bald scalp like so… Perfect. No one will ever know.”

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