Two weeks have passed since my decision to cut coffee from my daily diet, and it has been anything but pleasant. Since then, I’ve discovered that I am NOT the morning person I once prided myself on being. In fact, it’s best if no one talks to me before 9 a.m. I’m not a night person now, either. I’m just this sort of weird middle-of-the-day person. And who cares to be wide awake then?

 Honestly, I can’t see how anyone has the natural energy to do life without coffee? Man, my hours of daily required sleep have soared from six hours to nine, and I spend just about any waking hours daydreaming about taking naps.

But deep down, I know I did the right thing. Since nixing coffee, my heart rate has returned to almost normal, and those mysterious reoccurring back pains and involuntary twitches seem to have subsided.          

I first got hooked on coffee a few years out of college. It’s shocking that its high-octane ingredients had been kept secret from me for so long. One cup gives me something like superpowers. Among other miraculous feats, I can run a mile, place a complaint with the cable company, and complete an entire Tolstoy novel — all in in the span of five minutes!

Coffee makes me feel as energetic as I believe I’ll feel one day in heaven. It’s like injecting a happy dose of lightening into your heart. With coffee, my blood just circulates better. My eyes don’t burn with sleep as much. My IQ increases tenfold.(Later I learned that I was equally as dense on caffeine, only, without blinking, I could let fly unrehearsed thoughts while maintaining a hazardous, warm, caffeine-induced false reassurance that everything leaving my mouth or pen was gold. This of course was rarely the case. In fact, after coming down off an all-morning coffee binge, I often found myself wanting to apologize to anyone I may have emailed or spoken with under the influence. But, despite these minor cons, drinking coffee promised to make life better.)

Had I known about coffee in college, I’d have knocked out a grade-point average at least ten points higher. Heck, I might even have graduated summa cum laude, whatever that is. Instead, I tried lesser alternatives to perk me up, such as soda and piles of sugar. I failed at pulling an all-nighter during finals week once by downing a two-liter of Mountain Dew. I barely got through my first page of notes before it sent me to bed in a heap with a stomach ache so violent I thought I saw Elvis. By God’s grace, I believe I ended up pulling off a C- on that exam.

What’s funny, I used to hate coffee. It tasted to me like a potted plant or dirty fingers. Back then, I was young and fancy free, untainted by the black caffeinated sludge that would later appear in my system as regularly as blood or bile. Then, one day, my old roommate got a job as a coffee horse at the nearby Starbucks. And everything changed.

I’d stop in to say hi from time to time, first only sporadically, then daily, then hourly. On days business was slow, my roommate would experiment with various coffee concoctions for me to try. The first one he handed me came topped with a ball of whip cream and tasted like chocolate mousse. I nearly spit it out all over my roommate’s green Starbucks smock when I learned there were three shots of espresso in there. This is coffee! You gotta be kidding. Can I have another? 

After that, I drank coffee every day. At first, it posed as a harmless habit. In time, I couldn’t seem to function without it. Whenever I knew I’d have to be somewhere for more than two hours, I’d panic over whether coffee would be served there. And if the hazelnut creamer in my fridge was to run out before I had the chance to buy a backup, then I’d verge on near-hysteria.

This is why I had to quit drinking it: it was slowly turning me insane. Plus, I’m kind of curious to see what I am like off coffee. It’s been so long I’ve forgotten. 

So, I guess you could say that this is a mission to rescue a piece of my true self, which, in this case, is the caffeine-free self. And so far, what I’ve discovered is that I am a very sleepy individual.

Categories: Food, Life
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The other day, when I stuck my head out the door and called for Phoebe, our rabbit-size Chihuahua mix, she was gone. Worse than that: she’d escaped! 

Soon I discovered a wee gap of missing backyard fence accessible only from under the house. An emaciated squirrel could fit through it, tops. But, upon further inspection I noticed some give in the boards framing that tiny escape hatch. Maybe an animal Phoebe’s size could squeeze through, if she pushed hard and smoothed her ears back good enough.  

“She can’t get through that,” my neighbor said, after I revealed how I supposed Phoebe got out. ”What’s she look like?”

He squinted again at our fence. “Look on Craigslist.”

“What do you mean?” I said. 

A shadow passed over his face. “They’re stealing small dogs and putting them up for sale on Craigslist.”

And here, I’d believed she simply escaped! Man, I just saw Phoebe twenty minutes ago. Would they–whoever they are–have her up on Craigslist already? 

I imagined, for a moment, Phoebe’s mug shot on the website under the label “BABY DOG 4 SALE” and wondered how much she’d go for. I was torn between cursing these low-life dog-nappers and commending them on a job well done. An operation that could move dogs from owners’ backyards to virtual marketplace all in twenty minutes was somewhat impressive.

Before I could race inside to tell Jess to check the web, Jess, running shoes on, was a tiny speck way down the street. I decided to cover the other half of our neighborhood. Perhaps Phoebe was following the familiar scent of the walking path we take her on. I bolted down the sidewalk, praying the whole way that the Lord would find our dog and bring swift and terrible justice on those dog-nappers. How sad it’d be to live in a Phoebe-less world.

 My search had barely begun when around the corner a little cotton ball of a dog appeared. It was fleeing from a woman and a little girl who’d spotted the thing and was now calling it from the open doors of a recklessly parked station wagon. As the dog came toward me, I realized I knew that crooked gait anywhere. It was Phoebe!

“Phoebe! Come here!” I called.

Phoebe trotted closer. She then darted pass me like a tiny spooked horse. Finally, I worked up a sterner tone, and she rolled over as if dead. Instantly, I scooped her up and made for home to show Jess my find. But before I could take two steps, the woman and her granddaughter (?) pulled up in their army green station wagon.

“Jump in,” she said. “I’ll take you home. Your wife is worried. She told us about Phoebe.” Her grandkid, placed in the backseat like a sack of groceries, was mutely enjoying the excitement of the day. “I rescue dogs,” the woman announced on the way. 

You mean, as a profession? I wondered. Upon reaching my house, the woman bid me farewell, the kid waved weakly from the car window, and they sped off, probably hot on the trail of more dogs to save. And just like that, the answer to my prayers was gone. 

From the curb, I hoisted Phoebe up like Simba in Lion King, to show my neighbor the search was over. He killed his mower and came over smiling. But the celebration was short-lived. I was warned again of the dog-nappers.

So what if Phoebe escaped all by herself. I was just lucky; that’s all. Dog-nappers were still on the loose, lurking, plotting, documenting the times I let Phoebe out.

Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but be happy that we’d managed to keep Phoebe in our midst for at least one more day. In the meantime, I promise to work feverishly to teach Phoebe to never, ever take dog treats from strangers. Or from my neighbor, for that matter.

Categories: About a dog
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It took awhile, but I’m starting to feel perfectly at peace with stalking Easton Mall shoppers walking to their cars. Creeping out from behind a parking-lot lamp post or a strategically parked SUV, I’ll keep one eye locked on my golden ticket for a parking space, perhaps a mom and her pubescent son toting shopping bags. The other eye will be on the lookout for any predator cars lurking around that may be itching to get their greasy mitts on my space.  

 Hunched low over my steering wheel, I’ll hit my blinker so all other cars know to back off. When these shoppers leave, their spot is mine. I’ll mumble things under my breath at the unsuspecting shoppers: “That’s it, just a little closer now. O.K., it’s that nice Dodge Neon there. Get your keys. Good. Now put your Footlocker bags in the trunk. Gooood. Now go around to the driver’s side and—NO! What are you doing!  Get in your car! Don’t walk away! Come back! Noooooo…”

Eventually, after an hour or so without success, I’ll ditch the stealthy manner altogether for a more forward approach. I roll down my window. “Hey!” I yell at shoppers. “You going to your car? You leaving?” Then I throw on my blinker and follow at their heels, often nudging their shopping bags with my bumper, across the length of the parking lot.    

This is just how it is with Easton Mall parking. You got to be cutthroat. You can’t be afraid to use your horn. You got to slip it into “survival of the fittest” mentality, because trying to land a parking space there is like playing a nightmarish game of musical chairs without chairs and a state-lotto’s chance of winning.

Once, when I dropped my wife off at Easton with orders to wait while I found a parking space, I meant I’d meet up with her in roughly two minutes. A half hour and several “where are you?” text messages later, I and a line of angry drivers were stuck in the third level of a parking garage behind an oversized Escalade with its blinker flashing, giving me welder’s eye. The driver had placed himself in quite a predicament. He’d done good work at stalking his shoppers, but when it came time for them to back out of their parking space, the Escalade, overeager to swoop in for the kill, had mistakenly pulled up too far, leaving them no room to get out.

A lot of reverse lights were happening, and we cars were already piled up against the Escalade’s bumper like Christmastime Wii shoppers inside GameStop. Every time the Escalade tried to move backward an inch, I imagined its monstrous tires rolling right over my hood. So I panicked and kicked it into reverse. The driver behind me did the same, and on and on down the line it went, until a maddening series of honks erupted from cars in the back who couldn’t see the mess we were in.

Finally, after some surprising maneuvering and the discovery of a loophole in science, the shoppers got out. The Escalade, a poor judge in dimensions and spatial matters already, apparently estimated the space it had made us all pay so dearly for was too small for its bulky frame. Instead of taking its prized spot, as we’d all rightly expected, it zipped ahead into the shadows, leaving behind a mob of drivers ready for murder. I, hit with a jolt of claustrophobia and the need to break free from the honking, revving chain of cars I’d been glued to for the past several minutes, wanted nothing more to do with that cursed parking space. I floored it out of there.     

In the end, I think I finally found a parking space on the roof of the parking garage somewhere, near the blinking apex of a radio tower. When I finally found Jess, she was wandering aimlessly with a Planet Smoothie cup in hand. “Where were you?” she asked, more out of dutiful concern than seeking a real answer. I didn’t have to say. She knew: survival of the fittest.

As we walked about the area and fell obediently into our shopper roles, and as we passed a parking lot, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching us. Aaah, I was just being paranoid. But on the other hand, maybe, just maybe, we were being stalked.  

Categories: Shopping
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Our vacations are like living on The Shining movie set, especially the ones where we stay cooped up at home and leave our schedules wide open. 

Our initial little-kid-Christmas-morning jitters from not having to work last about an hour. It is a Utopian period of unmatched courtesy and deference toward one another. “What would you like to do?” I’ll say.

“I dunno. What do you want to do?” she’ll say. “We have so much time!”

After this, the first hints of insanity start seeping in to our otherwise peaceful home.

This year, I took my wife’s spring break off. (Jess is a preschool teacher.) It was just three days but was enough time to transform us into complete psychotic maniacs. Little things like the sound of my teeth grazing a metal fork during dinner, things that typically go by unnoticed, dropped the argument equivalent of an atomic bomb on our marriage. Jess should be happy I even have teeth.

New weird habits cropped up too. For example, halfway in to our vacation, Jess developed this chronic fake laugh. I’d say something funny, and Jess would cock her head back and let out a laugh so insane my first instincts were to Google straitjacket sales. It rivaled Willem Defoe’s Green Goblin laugh in Spiderman. After she’d finish, her eyes would roll back into position and look me dead in the face. Her own face would hold a mysterious, challenging calm.

The first time she fake laughed I was caught off guard. I felt slightly embarrassed that she had mocked my jokes. Nonetheless, I just kind of rolled with it.  But by the hundredth time, it became obvious the fake laugh had no OFF switch. WEB MD offered zero diagnosis. I wondered if I should rush her to the doctor, the ER.  Maybe if I scared her it would go away like hiccups. But this was no hiccup…

You couldn’t reason with the fake laugh. Jess didn’t like it either. It had taken complete control of her. Her body was simply a host for it. It grew and swelled as our vacation went on, and the more you begged it to stop the stronger and more persistent it became, like a cable company telemarketer. 

Near the end, Jess started fake laughing at everything in sight, even herself. One time she was brushing her hair, getting ready to go somewhere, when I heard her crazy cackle from the other room. It startled me. Our dog trembled, got up and stood at the door.

“Jess, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Oh, just laughing.” 

Then one day, poof, it was gone. The fake laugh had disappeared as abruptly and suddenly as it had arrived. Yes, our vacation was over. Strangely, I was glad to go back to work. 

Now, we both act as if the fake laugh never happened, for fear that the mere mention of it might bring it back. It is a fear we live with every day.

Categories: Life, Marriage, Mystery
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As recently as Thanksgiving, I was telling everyone, including myself, that I was 31. I’d be 32 in February. Not until I worked the math in my head and then re-confirmed it twice on the calculator did I realize–no, wait…carry the two–I’d be 33.

Initially, I felt robbed. A year of my life had been smuggled, and now I had to kick my list of life’s ambitions into overdrive. Why, I was supposed to have appeared on Jeopardy by now. I was supposed to be holding down a successful job, a job that meant something, one that I was thoroughly passionate about, like drawing cartoons for Mad Magazine. But these were the least of my worries.

I still felt early-20s inside, but when I looked in the mirror the other day, my mug resembled a well-worn catcher’s mitt. I saw harder angles, a more rigid brow. And in some areas, mainly around the jaw line, my skin had adopted the qualities of Silly Putty. There was more extra skin than I’d remembered. It was as though my skull had slightly shrunk; not enough to cause people to stop and stare, but just enough for me to notice and feel self-conscience the rest of the workday.

Furthermore, my heart nearly seized two weeks ago when my wife, Jess, riding passenger en route to our birthday party (Jess has a February birthday too), started plucking at what she said was a straight white hair jousting from my curly head.  When she finally presented the rogue hair to me, it had the exact stubborn spring of a toothbrush bristle. You couldn’t bend it without it snapping right back into place. 

I’ve spotted random gray hairs before, but never ones with all the pigment wrung out. I thought this kind of thing only happens after one witnesses a traumatic event, runs into a ghost, or gets struck by lightening. I was very distressed about it. 

 But then I warmed up to the idea. Anyone who has ever looked at me probably has guessed correctly, either subconsciously or otherwise, that I wished my hair was straight. So, if the sample white hair was a sneak preview of my whole hair’s final outcome, I predicted, by 50, the curl in my hair would be no more. In fact, it would be straight. A slow, pleasant takeover was at hand, a straight-haired revolution. How fantastic!   

I knew it wouldn’t be the cool, straight variety with the long flowing locks. I’d have a bristle head, like an albino porcupine. But still! I couldn’t get over the thought of my dream of owning straight hair actually coming true.

Once this dream comes to past, I have good reason to believe that the rest of my dreams will soon be fulfilled, because, no matter what people say, this is a straight-haired world. Whereas Mad Magazine may be reluctant to add a curly-headed me to their staff, a straight-haired me would no doubt land the job no problem. I doubt I’d even need to show them clips or a resume. Yes, I was well on-track with my future goals.

So, 33 isn’t a bad age, I guess. But 50? Now that’s a good age. If you need me, I’ll be in the mirror searching for white, STRAIGHT hairs.

Categories: Life
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From K through 5, my bus route to school was fairly uneventful. Oh, there was the usual rambunctiousness found among a bus-load of healthy elementary-school kids, packed with wild monkey energy. But there were never any harmful intentions toward anyone onboard. I always rode along, head against the window, watching the world roll peacefully by, feeling generally safe in my surroundings. 

On occasion, the chocolate milk we had for lunch would surge through our veins, turning us half-mad, and we had little choice but to act up. Otherwise, our little-kid bodies would burst. Sometimes the excitement we couldn’t contain en route to a field trip would get the best of us, and someone would mess up and spit out the window or wet his pants. (Not me, of course.)

But during these turbulent times, when the bus driver peered at us through that movie-screen-size rearview mirror of hers and yelled at us to straighten up or she’d march us right into the principal’s office, we’d snap to immediate attention. Deep down we longed to be subordinate. We felt bad when reprimanded. In fact, let it be known, we wanted our bus driver to like us.

Not so in middle school. The middle school building stood on the opposite side of town. Therefore, my bus route changed. Instead of the once happy neighborhoods, it now crept through those of kids who despised their bus driver. I’d expect better manners on prison buses. They’d yell obscenities at the bus driver and laugh at her empty threats. You mean she won’t really turn this bus around and take us back to school?  Even more appalling, they lived to destroy the lives of their classmates.

The worst thing about it was that several of the mean kids on my bus were legally old enough to join the Army. I was terrified of them, defenseless. I watched in stark horror at their antics as I tried to make myself invisible. I’d take a backseat, white-knuckling my Trapper Keeper, so no one could bully me from behind. Most the time this worked. The mean kids took little notice of me. They’d turn their wrath on each other or on a kid who stunk or looked funny. But sometimes the backseats were taken, and I’d find myself in the shark-infested middle of them. 

Over the years, I have mostly tried to black out my sixth-grade bus route. But once in a while, when watching a beautiful sunset or something, I’ll get whacked over the head with a sudden violent vision of the past.

There I am, in sixth grade, on the bus, with an acne cluster on my forehead, just trying to make it to school. Then snap! I hear the nauseous sound of a thick rubber band cutting the air. It came from behind. This is quickly followed by a burning sensation on my nape, which spreads like lightening to my toes. I can feel my pulse in the welt that is forming. On instinct, I turn to confront the source. When I meet the eyes of the 18-year-old hoodlum in the seat behind me, I immediately know I made a mistake. But it’s too late. I already turned around. 

“What are you looking at?” barks the kid. He looks crazy, like he’s itching to hurt me. ”You gotta problem?”

“Umm…” I say. “Well, umm, I thought you might have accidentally flipped me with a rubberband.”

“Nope.”

“OK. Sorry.”

Sometimes they wouldn’t even use rubber bands. Instead, they’d simply flatten their hands like paddles, lick the length of their flag-pole-length fingers, and smack the Dickens out of some poor, unsuspecting sap’s neck. I guess the wetness allowed for greater sting. I quickly learned to pop my shirt-collars to absorb some of the blow.

Then, one day, out of the blue, my bus route changed, just like that. I don’t know why. I didn’t even question it. I just figured God had heard my prayers. At first, suffering flashbacks, I’d scurry to the corner of my seat and tremble whenever anyone getting on or off the bus would accidentally brush against me. But in time, this all passed. I started wearing my shirt-collars down again. I even befriended some older kids–who were nice.

Nowadays, I sort of feel like I did when I was on the bad bus route. But substitute the bus route for the present-day bad economy. One day you’re just riding happily along, feeling safe, and then suddenly a major, century-old financial institution goes up in smoke. Car companies run out of gas. And, instead of your neck, it’s your 401K that’s getting smacked around. Or your job gets a wet-willy. (For those who don’t know, a wet willy is when someone jams a wet finger in your ear.)

Yes, throw in some Joe Biden gaffes, and you got some pretty scary times. But for the sake of Optimism, I reassure myself that things will one day bounce back. I have hope that my bus route will once again stretch through the peaceful neighborhoods of the bull market. In the meantime, however, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea to wear my collar up.

Categories: Life, Travel
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Maybe I’m getting old, but this New Year’s Eve I was in bed before the ball even dropped.

I hadn’t planned it this way. Jess and I started out with dinner and a movie, prepping ourselves for the proper ringing in of the new year. By ten o’clock we were back home, as planned, watching Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Ryan Seacrest 2009. (Is it me, or does this title get longer every year?) By 10:15, I wasn’t ready for the surprising discovery I’d made. To my astonishment, I realized I had Dick Clark on more out of duty than enjoyment. 

I knew not wanting to spend New Year’s Eve with Dick Clark was wrong, un-American and, perhaps in some households, immoral. I felt strong with guilt. On TV, dedicated New Year’s Eve enthusiasts shivered in Times Square streets, like homeless revelers, sacrificing their comfort so I could be entertained from the warmth of my own home. Alternative Rock Bands straight off the cover of Teen Magazine plucked guitar strings with frozen fingers for my New Year’s Eve benefit. And here I’d rather watch Seinfeld re-runs.

How ungrateful was I? I tried to fix things. I resolved to get into a chilly so-so performance by a sleeveless Taylor Swift. Next, the Jonas Brothers, and their Tom Hanks haircuts, brought all they had, too. I swayed to their garage-band sound.

It was no use. My soul was simply unfazed, no, worse, it was bored. Not even Ryan Seacrest with his puffy coat and ear muffs could cheer me up. What was wrong with me? What did 2008 do to me to make me so calloused? Was it the government bailouts? Too much Hillary Clinton? Brad Pitt’s new trash-stache? I didn’t even know myself anymore.

Before Will.I.Am could finish his bit, I had flipped to a station showing the movie Elf. Jess, who was half-asleep by now, hardly put up a fight. Now I had seen Elf probably a hundred times already this Christmas season, but I loved it exactly the same every time. As Buddy the Elf (Will Ferrell) was singing his Christmas gram to his estranged dad, I promised myself that I’d flip back to Dick Clark before midnight.

Sadly, this never happened. Jess and the dog were snoring on the couch by 11:30, and secretly (I’m just now admitting this to myself) I was happy to call it quits for the night. In bed by 11:45, I decided to ring in the new year by reading a book. Beside me, Jess and the dog were unconsciously paying their last respects to the dwindling 2008.

At exactly midnight, I heard fireworks outside, which according to next day’s news reports some were actually gunshots fired at the sky. Evidently, some locals had celebrated themselves into believing they were figures of the Old West. Though not much for public safety, these urban cowboys were impressively punctual. The ringing of gunshots hit midnight right on the nose. I suspect they’ll show up perfectly on time for their court dates. 

It was 12:01 when a dull sadness caught me off guard. I tried to pinpoint the source. I guessed first it was simply nostalgia for the old year. That’s perfectly normal. Maybe it was because I’d missed the ball drop, and the count down, and all the magical feelings that come with welcoming in the new year with a formal fuss. People were blowing horns, wearing party hats, and kissing their spouses in the living rooms of the houses of my imagination. Not to be left out, I kissed Jess’ sleeping head. She didn’t budge.

Then I guessed it. My serotonin levels had experienced the equivalent of a train wreck after taking in the depressing Will Smith movie, Seven Pounds, earlier that evening. I won’t give away the ending, but let’s just say I hope I don’t accidentally see it again. I was sort of hoping to ride into the new year on a lighter note. But this dream, as were several other 2008 dreams I had, such as getting to hang out with the Burger King, were blatantly squelched.

Anyway, once I solved the mystery of my low mood, I was able to move on to the more serious question of the evening. Why couldn’t I care less about making a big to-do over New Year’s Eve?

By 12:15 I found the slippery solution: I was happily content with what I had at home. I wasn’t missing out on all the people and parties out there. They were missing out on me and all that was with me, i.e, my wife, dog, and Buddy the Elf. Comparatively, everything else, Dick Clark included, had lost its luster.

Whew…all this psychoanalyzing had made me sleepy. I killed the lights at 12:20a.m., January 1, 2009. From there I slipped into my first dreams of the new year. I can’t remember what I’d dreamed that night exactly, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it had something to do with paling around with the Jonas Brothers, firing guns into the frosty air, and looking-forward to getting home early.

Categories: Life, Philosophy, Television
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Jess was a cat again, and I was a clown from the neck up.

Before the first flock of trick-or-treaters took to the streets, I entered the bathroom just as Jess, cat ears already intact, was drawing on the last of her whiskers. She had also done up her nose the color of a maraschino cherry.  

“Your turn,” she said.

I took a seat on the toilet lid, which made for a nice impromptu beauty station. Blue and red were Jess’ primary colors of choice, and before I could say the sort of clown I hoped to be, she said, “All done.”

Perhaps I was a clown from the Great Depression, back when circus budgets were tight and clown make-up had to last, because Jess had applied only the strict bare essentials. My cheeks had smudges of peacock blue, and my mouth at rest wore a thin lipstick smile. The rest of my face bore the color of my own ruddy complexion. But add the rainbow wig and sponge nose, and, technically, I guess, I passed for a clown. Although, I wondered if more serious clowns, like Ronald McDonald, might argue this point. Which brings me to a deeper, perhaps, more philosophical question: are all clowns equal?  

Take for instance Batman’s clownish arch-nemesis, the Joker, namely the one played by Heath Ledger in the latest Batman movie. This costume was the most popular one of the night, though some were better than others. In fact, I got a laugh-snort when I confided in a pair of Jokers who were at our door wanting candy that I was dressed as the Joker, too. Evidently, my clown costume failed to meet the criteria of the cool, deranged, PG-13 Joker. Even Jess seemed ashamed.

“No he’s not,” she reassured the Joker twins. “He’s not the Joker.” Then she dropped candy into each of their bags as if to smooth things over.

What was the big deal? The Joker’s a clown. I’m a clown. You’re a clown. We’re all clowns here, aren’t we? Or are we?

After the Joker twins left, I became insecure about my clownliness, or lack there of. But this soon wore off when I noticed that some of the smaller trick-or-treaters refused to take candy from me. Instead, they eyed me warily from behind their parents’ legs. Maybe I wasn’t the Joker, but there is something to be said about a grown man-clown who strikes fear in the souls of two-year-olds.  

“His dad never liked clowns either,” barked one’s grandma, laughing like a lunatic as she towed her mute grandson to the next house. Ironically, I was frightened of her. And that’s when it hit me: does the makeup make the clown? Because this woman wore only her God-given face. Not that she was ugly; she just had that wild, Halloween clown look about her that even the best Jokers of the night couldn’t capture.

I may never find the true answers to these clown questions. But now that I’ve been a clown, I like to think that I can better relate to their culture. They’re people, too. Just like you or I. 

Concerning cats, I don’t think Jess put that much thought into her costume. And our small dog, who dressed up as a ladybug, probably had no idea she even was a ladybug.

Categories: Culture, Fashion, Philosophy
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In the small town where I grew up, Daisy Dukes for men made a real splash (or at least they did in my case). For four misguided years I swaggered through the halls of my high school showing off more leg than a can-can dancer. I cannot remember if I tucked my T-shirts in nicely, or let them hang out and devour the length of my tiny frayed shorts. I do know, however, that my bottom half was never complete without my black suede leather high-top sneakers. And since ankle socks had not yet reached the country corners of the Midwest – or if they had it’s news to me – it was nothing to also catch me shin deep in a pair of sparkling white tube socks. 

I also had this I.O.U. sweatshirt the color of grape-flavored Bubble Yum. It had no hood but draw strings that passed through the bulk of an extended collar that stopped tantalizingly short of a turtleneck. All stops pulled, I strode right into my freshman year of college with it, along with the rest of my country apparel. Chest out, I felt cool and confident walking on campus, knowing that beneath the buckle of my braided belt was hidden the loudest pair of cheetah print underwear since Johnny Weissmuller played Tarzan.  

It wasn’t long before I made some dorm friends who were of the more metropolitan regions of Ohio. Whether it was because they pitied me or were just curious to see what I’d put on next, they remained silent on the subject of my clothes. Although, it seems possible they would discuss it wildly behind my back. Surely someone had to get the burning image of my pegged stone-washed jeans and boat shoes off his chest. I was oblivious to what my trendy peers were wearing: Timberlands with wool speckled socks, cargo shorts, all of 1994′s latest fashions. But one kid finally broke, and for the first time I was forced to question my plush Bugle Boy polo with the turned-apple-colored front and the checkered long sleeves. 

One day, through a series of networking and by the fortune of being in the right place at the right time, we won an invitation to participate in a co-ed football game on West Green somewhere. Co-ed – that meant chances were good that girls would be there. I dressed to impress. The night air was just crisp enough for bringing out the grape I.O.U. sweatshirt. Having gone through several washes, it was beginning to ride up on me a bit. Down the hall to grab my friend, I kept stretching the bottom of my sweatshirt past the waistline of my loud, little Umbros. When my friend opened the door, he erupted into surprised laughter, as if I’d punched him in the gut with a whoopee cushion. I stood there in my Bubble Yum sweatshirt, taking it. ”You look so cool,” was all he could get out. Then, knowing it was all out in the open, he laughed harder and more freely. I heard it all the way down the hall to my room.

Inside the safety of my room, I looked in the mirror that stood between my dresser and the harsh dorm light. It was as though I were seeing myself for the first time. I tried to pick out the abhorrent elements of my shirt that had turned my friend into a jerk. Could it possibly be because the draw strings had no hood? I couldn’t tell. I suddenly felt illiterate. The stubby turtleneck stared back at me like a foreign cuss word. I opened my drawer, freshly skeptical of the clothes that lay innocently there, waiting to make me look stupid. You mean my forest green windbreaker, too? And my outdated mountain boots I got for a good price? What a dreadful revelation this was! I couldn’t have been more shocked than if my parents had told me I was Chinese.      

For a year I was severely overwhelmed by my dearth of fashion sense. I couldn’t tell what went with what. I even developed a mysterious rash on my face, but that could have equally been from living in a cloud of my roommate’s secondhand smoke all year and never washing my pillow case. But, nonetheless, I set my mind on learning what others were wearing. As my eye grew keener, I started trading my jean shorts for khaki ones. But I’d always just miss the mark, returning from home with a shopping bag full of prim and proper dress shorts instead of the cool baggy Abercrombie ones guys were wearing. I’d never even heard of Ambercrombie.       

By winter quarter, I noticed that guys were cool who wore their hair in their faces. They’d sit with their dorm doors wide open, picking sour notes on their beat-up guitars, with nothing but a burning cigarette poking through their perfectly messy locks. I’d march right over to Saturday’s Family Hair Care on Court Street and explain to the exasperated hair stylist that I wanted my hair to look like Brad Pitt’s in Legends of the Fall. If she couldn’t do that then make it similar to the late Kurt Cobain’s. But my hair was fuzzy and thick and wouldn’t budge. Sweating and flushed, my hair stylist spun me around to face the mirror. I considered the broccoli sprout haircut I’d just been given. ”You’ll have to give it time to grow past that awkward stage,” she said. There was nothing I could do; my whole hair was an awkward stage, defying gravity, always growing up and out, never down and cool.  It would be a few years yet before Justin Timberlake invaded the Hollywood scene, bringing my strain of hair back in style. So I was stuck all alone with a head of hay that matched my ridiculous wardrobe. 

Whenever I’d complain about this back home, my mom would try to coax me into letting her style it. At first, I refused; especially when I found out a hairdryer would be involved. But finally I gave in. She used the mirror and dresser in my bedroom as her beauty station. Mom laid out her tools: my sisters’ hairdryer and the oversized, thick-bristled hairbrush Mom bought before I was born. I felt the hot breath of the hairdryer on my face and nape. Using long, ponderous strokes, she brushed my hair back nice and squirrelly, until it rose like a souffle. When Mom’s work was complete, my hair had the dry, bristly look of a beaver pelt. And it seemed I had more forehead than I remembered. “There,” my mom said, still touching up the sides. Staring back at me in the mirror was the spitting image of Ted Danson.  

Everything changed during winter break of my sophmore year when I discovered Mom’s bottle of Paul Mitchell hair conditioning gel on the bathroom sink. Something otherwordly prompted me just to try it. But it’s for girls, I argued with myself. Just try it. I was desperate and no one was home. So I squeezed a blue dab of it into my hand and ran it through my hair. It was amazing! My hair drank it up greedily. It was so thirsty; I had no idea. I felt like a bad parent. I threw a little more in. Working my fingers frantically like combs, I watched my hair transform into a magical new do. No longer did it behave like a crappy swimming cap. It pieced and clumped, and cool, curly tufts emerged. My hair obeyed my every whim, and it stuck wherever I told it. Catching my breath, I moved back to take a look at myself. My hair actually looked, well, cool.    

When I returned to school with my new hair and an endless supply of Paul Mitchell, friends showered me with compliments. “I can’t quite put my finger on it,” said one, “but you look different, cooler.” Girls laughed harder at my jokes. I received more co-ed football invitations. I was practically invincible, like a modern day Samson. Not even the damage of putting on a pair of guy Daisy Dukes could hinder me — though I dared not try it.

Shortly thereafter, the day came when I knew I had finally arrived. I was hanging out with a group of buddies, when I saw a highbrow acquaintance of mine from the suburbs of Cleveland coming toward us. He wore a navy button down with a thin red checkered pattern that looked oddly familiar to me.

“Hey,” I said to him, “Nice shirt…I have a pair of boxers that look just like it.” And, the truth is, I did.  

I let out a good hard, freeing laugh. My buddies laughed with me. I can’t remember what the guy with the shirt did. He probably just thought I was a jerk. And, at that moment, I was. But I could afford to be, because I was wearing a deadly combination of cargo pants and Birkenstocks.    

Categories: Culture, Fashion
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The first time I hit a pedestrian with my car, it was rather awkward for both of us. Not only was I new to it, but he seemed a novice as well. The man, who wandered into my blind spot as I was making a right on red, had the tall, lanky build of a fifty-year-old high-jumper. There’s a chance he wore a beret, too, but of this detail I cannot be sure. I pressed the gas, turned the wheel, and a flash of arm struck the rim of my peripheral. There was a dull thud, and I turned in time to see a man do something resembling a half-baked barrel roll over the hood of my car. With impressive agility, he landed on his feet, cat-like, beret still intact. Slightly shaken and, it seemed, a bit embarrassed, he continued on his way to the CVS across the street.  

At the time, I was unfamiliar with the protocol of running over a man. In fender benders, I knew enough that you avoid blurting out anything self-incriminating before undergoing the ritual of exchanging insurance information. But, being the pedestrian he was, the man was absent a car. And, as far as I knew, there was no such thing as pedestrian insurance—though I was thinking there ought to be. At a glance, he seemed to be in good condition, a slight limp, maybe, but I still felt obliged to find out for sure. I rolled down my window and said, “Hey! Sorry. Are you all right?” Here, an interesting thing occurred. The man, avoiding eye contact, nodded quickly, and picked up his rusty pace away from my car. It seemed he wanted nothing to do with me. My brain in a fog, I looked both ways several times before making the right turn I had set out to do earlier.

I got halfway to McDonalds before I snapped out of it and decided to turn back to check on the man once again. I found him inside CVS, his head floating down an aisle. As I homed in on him, he began moving faster toward the back of the store. I was getting out of breath when I tried to slow him down, “Hey!” I said. No response. We had both broken into a near full-blown sprint. “Hey!” I shouted. Heads in the greeting card aisle turned, but the man kept on target, his pace steady. I knew he’d heard me. Finally, there was nowhere left for him to run. I had the man trapped between myself and the pharmacy. The pharmacists, in their white coats, hovering over their half-filled prescriptions, eyed me nervously. Then, a funny thought came over me. Do I introduce myself as the man who hit him with his car? Or had these preliminaries sailed on the moment he rolled over my hood? “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. His face went flush and he averted his gaze. His beret was slightly ajar. The man seemed tortured not physically, but mentally by my dogging persistence. I decided not to push it any further. I said, “Okay,” offered another weak apology, and removed myself from the man’s sight as quickly as possible. It was rather awkward behavior on his part, I thought. I could not understand why the man was so bent out of shape. I left slightly offended.

Some years later, I clipped a college kid crossing the street. Once again I was turning right, but this time it was at the stop sign of a busy outdoor mall intersection. Amazingly, I got the same response from the kid as I did from the man in CVS. It just must be the standard, I concluded. As the poor kid hobbled toward the curb, I leaned out my window and asked cooly, “Are you all right?” Already having one hit pedestrian under my belt, I felt sure of myself this time around.

In the midst of a fast and slightly painful-looking getaway, he gave a curt response, “I’m fine.” I watched as he stiffly reached the door of the restaurant across the street. He was probably on his way to meet up with some friends. For a half-instant, I thought of going in after him to see if he really was okay. Instead, I checked for more pedestrians, stepped on the gas, and decided to do the kid a favor. I’d drive away and get out of his hair as soon as possible. And this time, I wouldn’t take it so personally.

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