“Can I help you, sir?”

I was unaware that Verizon Wireless stores had hosts, and thought for a moment that I might have been required to make a reservation in advance. On second glance however the man standing before me was clad in what looked like a uniform, a black suit and tie with a nametag that identified him as Anthony, Security.

“Yeah, thanks. I got an email saying I was eligible for a free upgrade and wanted to get a new phone.”

“I doubt it’s a free upgrade.”

“Right, sorry. I mean that my two-year contract is up.”

“Yeah, well you have to sign in on that computer over there first.”

“Can’t I just wait over there at the counter? Look, that woman is leaving. I’ll just go over…”

“Sir, you have to sign in first.”

His hand moved to his belt. Did they carry guns?

I decided not to test the authoritative reach of a Verizon security guard and instead moved over to the touch screen computer in front of me and typed in my first name. When I pushed the Enter key though, nothing happened.

“It’s broken,” I said, and started to move towards the counter. Anthony blocked my way.

“You have to enter in your last name, too,” he said, this time with a little more contempt in his voice. His hand was still on his belt and I thought I saw the butt of a revolver.

“That’s stupid. I’m not entering my last name.”

“You have to.”

“Why? This is ridiculous. Why does it matter what my name is? I’m just going over to the counter.”

I moved past him and approached a woman at the desk.

“Hi, I got an email saying that I was eligible for a…”

“Sir, did you sign into the computer?”

“Jesus Christ. I’m not doing that. I just went over this with Anthony… who by the way, might be armed, and I was explaining that…”

“Sir, we need your full name to look up your account information.”

“Oh. Um. Okay, that actually does make sense.”

I avoided Anthony’s smug look of satisfaction as I typed in my full name and telephone number. He moved back to his post by the door and a few seconds later my name was called.

A new woman emerged from a back room and was wearing a khaki pantsuit so tight that a very noticeable fat bulge had crested just below her waistline. She seemed immediately annoyed at my existence, and smacked her gum to signal that I should begin speaking.

“Hi, I was looking to get a new Blackberry.”

“Hah! A what?”

“Um, a Blackberry. It’s a type of phone.”

“Yes, honey, I know it’s a type of phone. I work in a phone store.”

“Bah hah!”

I turned at the laugh and saw that Anthony was standing a few feet away listening in.

“What I mean is,” the saleswoman continued after rolling her eyes at Anthony as if to apologize for my behavior. “Ain’t nobody want a Blackberry no more. Let me show you the new Droid Razr. They right over here.”

“But I don’t…”

She had already walked over to the opposite display and randomly selected the most expensive model to show me. After going through all of the bits and gigs and megapixels and g’s the phone possessed, she asked what type of case I’d like for it.

“It sounds great,” I said. “And I’m sure it’s definitely worth the $500, but I really don’t want it. I can’t ever seem to use the touch screen key pad correctly. And I don’t use apps or anything. I really just need it for email and talking. Can you show me the Blackberrys? Please?”

“You don’t want a Blackberry.”

“No, see, that’s the thing. I do.”

“Nah, here, just get an iPhone.”

She picked one up and handed it to me as if I were a sick patient at her pharmacy.

“These still have the touch screen. I can’t use them. I’m a scrollie ball guy.”

“A scrollie what? Just try it. Here. See? Look at me.”

“I’m aware of how to touch the screen, and understand that touching the letters makes them appear, but I don’t like it and always make mistakes.”

“My two-year-old niece can use it,” said a customer who was now standing beside us. “It’s the cutest thing. She sends me emails all the time.”

The customer laughed along with the saleswoman and I began to get angry.

“Here,” the saleswoman said. “Just try to do it.”

“Yeah, it’s easy,” chimed in the customer.

I took the phone from them and typed the words, “This is stupid and embarrassing.” I made 7 mistakes and they all laughed again, only this time we were joined by the customer’s wife, who was quickly brought up to speed on the group mocking.

“Okay, okay,” said the saleswoman. “I’ll show you the…Blackberrys.”

She paused before saying Blackberry as if waiting for the booing and hissing to come from the studio audience. While walking over to the display, she again tried to persuade me on the iPhone, saying that I’d eventually have to get used to “modern technology,” as if I still commuted to work each morning on a horse.

She stopped at the Blackberry display case and pretended to sweep dust off of the phones, evoking another laugh from Anthony, who had walked over. I picked up the cheapest model phone and ran my thumb over the keypad, comforted by the familiarity. But when I tried to type in a website for practice, the browser was taking a long time to load. Suddenly, an iPhone was shoved in front of my face.

“See?” Anthony said. “I’m already there. Look how fast it is. That’s 4G, man. Look, yours is still trying to load. That phone is a piece of shit. I think it still uses dial-up to connect.”

The chuckles resumed, and I noticed that out of the ten or twelve people in the store, seven were laughing at me. Another customer came over to offer insight.

“I used to have a Blackberry,” he began, as if at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. “Took forever to load and the video quality sucked. Couldn’t even watch TV on it.”

“I have a television for television,” I said, my pulse thumping in my ears.

“You have kids?” the man continued. “Get an iPhone. They are great for taking videos of your kids. How old are yours? Mine are six and eight. They’re a handful, I’ll tell ya!  Jenny, our six-year-old, she’s so smart though. Just the other day…”

“What? What are you talking about? I don’t have kids.”

“Oh…sorry.”

He patted me on the shoulder and walked away, convinced my lack of iPhone was the reason for my lack of children.

“What’s going on here?” I said, raising my voice and pulling out my current phone. “I just want this. Can someone please just get me this exact phone.”

“Not unless you got a time machine,” Anthony quipped, ignoring my plea. “Shit, I had that model like ten years ago. Just get the iPhone, dog. For real.”

“He’s right,” the saleswoman said. “It’s a much better phone.”

“It’s also about $300 more than this one right here,” I said. “But that’s not why you’re recommending it, right? Do you own Apple stock or something? Can you just see if you have any of these left? I’m begging you. Help me give you $100 for this phone. Seriously. Help me give you money for a product you’re selling. I know it’s a bizarre concept, but let’s try it out.”

The saleswoman sneered at me and went to the back to look for the phones.

“Dude, you gotta calm down,” Anthony said, his hand back on his belt. “Don’t make the same mistake I did. Get the iPhone. You’ll love it.”

“You’re a security guard, okay Anthony?”

I don’t know why I felt the need to point that out at this juncture, and it took Anthony by surprise as well.

“So, what? So, I’m a security guard I can’t have an opinion?”

“Yes, that’s right. You are a security guard so you can’t have an opinion. You’re a security guard and I’m a customer. And I don’t appreciate being openly MOCKED for trying to buy a phone in a store that sells phones. Why do you even have a Blackberry display if it’s so awful? Huh? What kind of sense does that make?”

“Dog, I didn’t design the store. Calm down.”

“Yeah, but if you did, I’m sure it would be filled to the ceiling with shiny new Apple products, right? ‘Oh, look at me! I’m Anthony! I LOVE my iPhone! Weee! I’m so HIP! I’m the hippest fucking security guard who ever lived! I’m a slave to whatever Apple designs! I just buy anything with a freakin ‘i’ in front of it! I’m SOOO fucking COOL!”

“Did you just call me a slave?”

I stopped yelling at noticed the entire store was staring at me, the tall white man who had just finished called the black security guard a slave.

“Um, yeah,” I stuttered. “To Apple products. You’re a slave to Apple products. Not a slaaaaave slave… a slave to their merchandize.”

I glanced around to see if that was understood, but people still glared. Their assumptions were confirmed – if you didn’t own an iPhone, you were a racist.

“Okay,” I said, moving briskly to the door. “I have to go. You just lost a sale, my friend.”

“I’m a security guard.”

“Whatever.”

I burst through the doors and walked down the street. A few blocks later, still furious at what had happened, I considered that some music might calm me down. And I reached into my pocket to get my iPod.

Priests are thugs in God’s gang – the enforcers, the money collectors, the drug pushers. They get their orders from the top, and make sure everyone in the neighborhood falls in line. Do this, don’t do that, say this, repeat after me, eat this, drink that, sit, stand, kneel, pray…beg for forgiveness and mercy. You don’t wanna see what happens if you don’t.

But mainly I don’t like priests because a lot of them just phone it in. If I have a presentation at work, I make damn sure to prepare ahead of time, practicing my speech until it’s just right. However most priests ramble like bus station drunks, armed with the advantage of having one-sided presentations where there is no possibility of questions being lobbed out from the crowd.

“Wait, wait, wait…how did Mary get knocked up?”

“Hold up there, Twilight…what do you mean eat his flesh and drink his blood?”

Others in church appear not to notice the priest’s shortcomings, and instead are busy pretending to absorb grace, when in truth they are doing the same thing I’m doing – judging others. Sideways stares, guilty half-glances and hushed hearsay about illegitimate children, lost jobs, divorces, foreclosures – all families who become known as “sad situations” who we will all “pray for.”

But mainly we pray it doesn’t happen to us.

This was the scene I found myself in during Christmas, and I sat in a pew with my family listening to our priest babble on nonsensically while I traded angry glares with an old man in front of me who seemed irked I wasn’t joining in the singing. As much as I tried to tune the priest out, I was drawn back into his sermon when he said,

“…and it is this time of year when we’re reminded about the importance of love. And not just having love, but making love. You need to make love as much as possible. When you get out of bed in the morning and it’s still dark, stop for a minute, and think about Jesus. And then think about making love.”

I looked around to see if anyone else had heard this, and at any moment I expected the organist to play “bow-chicka-wow-wow” and the lights to dim. But I had to block out the porno priest, because there was a reason I was in church. And I had a reason to pray.

* * *

Earlier that morning I stood on a crowded platform at Market East train station, jockeying for position among other present-laden commuters traveling home for the holidays. I was carrying a box with a Cuisinart juicer for my parents in one hand, and balancing an empty rolling red suitcase in the other, which I hoped to fill with food after I used the juicer as a distraction.

I had been in a pessimistic mood all week, dreading the shopping, good tiding and forced merriment that accompanies the holiday season. But as it was Christmas Eve (and the end was in sight), I decided to get into the festive spirit more and ignore…

…the goateed gentleman with a neck tattoo of a skull slowly approaching from my right…

…the mother smacking her child while simultaneously gnawing on her Subway sandwich…

…and the Asian man wearing a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt who was gesturing for me to remove my iPod.

While the recently released felon and the mother-of-the-year were easier to ignore, the Asian man seemed intent on speaking with me. I had a choice. I could either sneer at the man (as I’d been trained to do in Manhattan), or in the spirit of the holidays, see if he needed help.

Against my better judgment, I removed my headphones and jutted out my chin to signal my willingness to hear his story.

“No English. No English.”

“That’s okay. What do you need?”

“R5. Here. Here.”

He was pointing a stubby finger at a crumpled train schedule that had the 1:10 PM R5 train to Landsdale/Doylestown highlighted. I was waiting for the same train, and smiled at the man to reassure him.

“It’s okay. I…me…getting on same train. Here…wait here. Wait…me…you…choo choo.”

I don’t know why, but when speaking to foreign people I sound like Tarzan the babysitter.

It seemed to work though, and the man flashed a broad grin. He then pointed back to the bench and I saw he was traveling with another elderly woman and two small children. I waved, and gestured for them to join me. They soon shuffled over, bowing and thanking me for my help.

And why shouldn’t they? After all, not everyone was this kind. My charity, my compassion, my gregarious, yet humble, sense of social responsibility was second to none. I dipped my head regally and gazed upon the others waiting for the train. My admirers. I accepted their nods and smiles of approval with a dignified poise, and raised a hand as if to say, “Please, it’s not about me. It’s about the holiday season.”

The train arrived a few moments later, and I ushered my adopted family on board ahead of me. The man seemed hesitant for some reason, but I calmed him with a kind smile and a shove in the back. Sometimes charity needs a firm hand.

The train was crowded and my additional luggage meant that we all couldn’t sit together. I bade them farewell, and took my seat near the window. The woman behind me was on the phone, and I couldn’t help but overhear her conversation.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, fuck Sesame Street. I want to help out my friends and all, but this time he’s staying in jail.”

Who was this woman? And why did she have the power to release her friend from prison? And moreover, was Elmo in jail? I debated saying something. Did she not see my display of kindness back on the train platform?

Two stops later and the engineer came sauntering back to collect everyone’s tickets. I could see the Asian family in front of me, crammed into one seat together, and when the engineer asked for their ticket, the man began flapping his arms. He seemed anxious and was pointing at me, and then his train schedule, and then back at his family.

The engineer turned and walked over to my seat.

“Apparently they don’t have a ticket, and that guy keeps pointing back here. Are they traveling with you, sir?”

I looked at the engineer, then at the Asian family, and then at the other passengers. My admirers. Some of them were donning Santa hats, and presents were everywhere – on laps, in the aisle, on luggage racks above the seats. It was Christmas time, and I had a wallet full of cash.

* * *

Kneeling in the church pew, I heard the priest explaining that there were Gluten-free communion hosts available for those with a wheat allergy.

“…I encourage people to form a line here, where I’ll be waiting to satisfy all of your needs and desires…”

Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

But I didn’t snicker. Instead I was bowing my head, thinking about that poor Asian family who was kicked off the train into the cold. Such a sad situation. Then I began to pray that the lottery tickets I’d purchased were winners. I mean, just think about how much good I could do if they were.

I was in The Gallery, a “mall” in Center City Philadelphia that more closely resembles a prison gift shop. Roving gangs of armed teenagers, scratching addicts slumped on urine-soaked walls, flashy pimps strutting beside four-toothed whores, wild-eyed bearded men glaring from hooded sweatshirts in dark corners – at any moment I expected an alarm to sound and guards to emerge with cattle prods, ushering inmates back to their cells.  

Lined with discount stores and fast food restaurants, The Gallery is attached to Market East Station, and I was there killing time before my train, browsing in a Modell’s and being approached by a woman who looked like she’d just crawled from her home in one of the tunnels.

“$20 for a shirt! Jesus Mary! I ain’t payin that! Blaghaboog!”

She was picking up and putting down merchandize as she shuffled towards me. A discerning shopper out for a bargain? Or a strung-out psycho with other intentions? And what was a, “Blaghaboog?”

I made a move towards the exit and a pain shot through my lower back, dropping me to one knee. Had I been stabbed?

“Blaghaboog!”

Bourbon and dirty hair. She was close.

* * *

I broke my bed about a month ago. It was a platform bed, the kind with the wooden slats supporting the mattress instead of the normal steel bed frame. The lower half of those wooden slats, the portion from my hips down, snapped off, and now I sleep like a bobsled racer.

How did I break my bed? I had a date, and afterwards she came back to my apartment. One thing led to another and you can imagine what happened next among consenting adults. I saw a spider on the ceiling above my bed and jumped up to squash it, thus snapping the wooden slats and sending me flailing towards the window, which thankfully wasn’t open.

(That’s what you were imagining, right?)  

As I composed myself afterwards, tangled sheets mixed with bruised kneecaps, my main concern wasn’t the bed or my pride, it was the location of that spider. So, to avoid a vindictive centimeter-sized insect, I dragged the mattress into the living room and slept on my floor. My bedroom was then closed and used as large dressing room/walk-in-closet for a period of two weeks.

Each morning when I woke up, I’d drag the mattress back into my bedroom and heave it onto the pile of kindling that had originally cost me $400. Then I’d put the sheets on and make the bed, propping up the lower half with empty wine cases underneath so it appeared “normal.”

Each night when I’d be ready for sleep, I’d drag the mattress back into the living room and lay five inches off the ground, distracted and annoyed at the light from the hallway for encroaching underneath my front door. Can’t a guy sleep on his floor in peace?

The charade was necessary because if I was somehow killed or captured during the day, I didn’t want my parents to be let into my apartment and see a mattress on the floor. I didn’t want people to think I was crazy.

One night I had a dream that three mice scampered into my apartment and stood near my head. The lead mouse tapped me on the nose and said,

“What are you doing on the floor? This is where we hang out.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, “but my bed is broken and I need to sleep here.”

The mouse and his friends laughed at me, and I remember feeling embarrassed. When you dream of heckling rodents, it’s time to get off the floor.

I called Sleepy’s the next morning and was connected to their customer service department.

“Tankoo fa cawlin Seepee’s, how ca I ‘sist you?”

“Yes, hi. I recently purchased the Riva Platform Bed and the wooden slats weren’t installed properly. They broke and I was wondering if I could get some replacement slats sent out.”

“(silence)”

“Hello?”

“Tankoo fa cawlin Seepee’s, how ca I ‘sist you?”

“Yes, I was just saying that my bed wasn’t assembled correctly.”

“(silence)”

“Hello?!”

“Tankoo fa cawlin Seepee’s, how ca I ‘sist you?”

“Jesus Christ! I broke my freakin’ bed, okay? Broken. Bed broken. Need new one. Need new bed!”

“Ugh. Hole peas.”

I was placed on hold and treated to an assortment of Nickleback’s greatest hits until someone else picked up.

“Tankoo fa cawlin Seepee’s, how ca…”

“My bed is broken. I need you to fix it.”

“Okay, how you break it, sir?”

“A spid…I mean, it wasn’t assembled properly.”

“’Dis a warranty thing…hole peas.”

“Wait, no! No more hole peas!”

More Nickleback.

“Thank you for calling Sleepy’s warranty department, how may I assist you?”

“Oh, thank god. My bed wasn’t put together correctly, and the wooden slats broke.”

“You must have the Riva Platform Bed, happens all the time. We’ll be able to send someone out in a few weeks to inspect it.”

“Inspect it?”

“Yes, our warranty investigator.”

I pictured a man sitting in a cluttered office, a flickering neon bar sign outside the window providing the only light streaming in through half-closed blinds. His feet were propped up on his desk and a rusty fan creaked beside a half-empty bottle of Jameson and a glass smudged with week-old lipstick. His phone rang.

“This is Johnson,” he answered in a voice husky from too many cigarettes.

“Inspector Johnson,” the female on the other line said. “We have a case for you. It’s the platform bed. It’s happened again.”

“I’m getting too old for this shit.”

I was unaware that Sleepy’s had bed detectives, and became alarmed at what would happen if he found evidence that the wooden slats had broken due to my actions, not their installation. I’d be charged with “Bed Fraud,” found incompetent to stand trial, and remanded to an ironically padded room. Newspapers would cover the story, and headlines would read, “Mattress Moron Sentenced to Bed Time.”

I was told however that if I rolled the dice and the bed detective found a reasonable claim for the warranty, replacement slats would be ordered. These slats would come from China and would be shipped in a period of just over three weeks, apparently by rowboat. And I’d be charged $90. So the best-case-scenario, factoring in the time until the bed detective solved his other cases and could take mine on, would be five total weeks, and I’d be out almost a hundred bucks.

“No thanks,” I told the customer service rep. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Whatever,” was the reply.

I went back to my room and examined the situation again, trying to recall any latent carpentry experience from my childhood. I was going to pry up one of the slats to lock it back into place, but was then afraid I might snap off a piece of wood and impale myself, thus leading to the medical examiner thinking I was killed by a vampire hunter.

After trying a few more solutions, including one involving stacked piles of sweaters underneath the bed, I gave up. I am now resigned to sleeping as if on a seesaw in a park, my spine slowly slipping into a semi-circle shape.

* * *

“Blaghaboog!”

Bourbon and dirty hair.

“Hey man, whatchoo doin here? You got $20? I make you feel good for $20.”

I paused, grabbing my lower back and rising off my knee.

“Depends,” I said. ”What kind of bed do you have?”

History has always favored good storytellers. Do you think if Jesus came over to a bunch of fishermen and started talking about his cat’s upcoming surgery he would’ve gotten anywhere? Hell no. He rapped about rising people from the dead, turning water into wine, and some guy who lived in the sky – the dude was a 1st Century Conan.

Yet we haven’t learned from that, and in every office or family dining room across the country, there exists some idiot who is completely incapable of relating something that has happened to them recently in a concise, interesting fashion. They always start off with inane facts that have nothing to do with the plot. People I like to call, “The Rambler.”

“Hey Kate, what did you get up to this weekend?”

“Well, it’s a funny story. A friend of mine from college, well not really a friend, but more of an acquaintance, you know? Because we were on the same dorm room floor…ugh, dorm rooms! Ramen Noodles, am I right? Yuck! Anyway, she had this Blink 182 poster and I was all like, ‘Oh my God, I love that band,’ but it turns out it was her roommate’s poster and we shared a laugh over that, but then her dad died Sophomore Year. Sad, right? I love my dad. He is the wings beneath my wind. Do I have that backwards? Who sang that? Oh, so she took a few months off and we kind of lost touch and then she was all like, ‘Where have you been?’ and I was all like, ‘Where have YOU been?’ and then we had dinner one night, I think I had the meatballs. Don’t you just love meatballs? So yeah, anyway, she came over on Saturday.”

And the entire time they are speaking, you’re thinking of any place you’d rather be than in that exact moment, like in a foxhole in Afghanistan, because at least there you’d have a weapon.

Every head nod with “The Rambler” is dangerous, an invitation for the person to either continue talking or to explore one of their many tangents further. The proper move is to stare at them with a stoic expression that says, “I understand words are coming from your mouth right now, and I will wait here until those sounds have ceased.” No more, no less. Then, you run away.

I wish it just ended with “The Ramblers” of the world, but it doesn’t. There are many different categories of catastrophic conversationalists, and each one seemed to have converged at a recent dinner party I attended at a friend’s loft.

Normally this situation wouldn’t be a problem for me, because the only thing more infrequent than the dinner parties I attend are the dinner parties I’m invited to. Worse yet, this dinner seemed to be comprised largely of Republicans, and though I’m anti-social whenever possible, most guests considered my politics quite socialist, and I was limited in the topics I broached, including abortion and gay rights, which coincidentally are my favorite dinner party conversations.

This was fine, as it limited my interactions, but when dinner began we were seated around a large oval table and forced to make the kind of idle chit-chat that brought to light several other species of storytellers. The first? “The Couple.”

More dangerous than one bad storyteller? Two…especially in the form of “The Couple.” Because when presented with “The Couple,” a nauseating pair of nitwits that look like they just fell out of a Rob Reiner movie, you can be guaranteed someone will soon ask the dreaded question, “Where did you two meet?” And that will soon be answered by a series of rapid-fire factoids, quick corrections, sentence enders, passive-aggressive swipes and not-too-subtle innuendos.

Susan: “How did we meet? Oh, it’s such a cute story. I was working as a Starbucks barista, putting myself through school…”

John: (mumbles) “Which she never finished.”

Susan: “…which I haven’t finished YET.” (slaps John) “And in comes this guy who I think is so cute…and then behind him was John. Hahahahaha!” (crazy-eyed laughter continues for much too long)

John: (takes large gulp of wine) “And I thought to myself, ‘Gee, what’s a pretty girl like her doing working in a dump like this?’”

Table: “Awwww…”

John: (visibly drunk) “…And that’s the last time she ever gave me anything hot.”

Susan: “Haha, oh you. Well, I’m certainly not handling ‘Grande’ sizes anymore.”

John: “Oh…oh…is that a penis joke? Really? Okay, fine. Want to go there? ‘Miss Venti Vagina?’ Yeah…yeah…let’s go THERE, honey. God knows everyone else has.”

I was very happy at this point, and was about to inquire as to how she got her nickname, when I felt a tug on my sleeve and was introduced to another storyteller. “The Dramatist.”

Everything is sensational to “The Dramatist,” and they’re armed only with the most salacious bits of gossip, none of which they claim ownership of, and none of which seems to make complete sense.

“Did you hear about Frank’s surgery? No? Well, you didn’t get this from me, but… let’s just say it was reversed. Thanks a lot, Obamacare.”

“Oh, it’s such a shame about Betsy. I bet that squirrel will never be the same though.”

“I heard they’re getting a divorce, something about woodchips, and…well, they DO drive a Subaru after all.”

Once I was sufficiently confused, I was presented with the final variety of bad conversationalist for the evening, “The Pauser.” After a few minutes with “The Pauser” (which felt like decades), I begged to be included in “The Couple’s” conversation again, because at least they were drunk and mean. “The Pauser” instead is overly thoughtful, searching for the right word or turn-of-phrase that will do true justice to a story no one really cares about. It’s like providing the Director’s Cut to “Gigli.”

“The Pauser” starts and re-starts their story at least five times, taking dramatic breaths and baring their teeth when something isn’t, “exactly quite right.” Because we need to get EVERY detail in their story, much like someone who is being raped wants to remember all of the rapist’s dirty talk.

“How do I know Dan? We first met (PAUSE)…no…no, I guess we FIRST met when I was around thirteen. No (PAUSE)…yes, thirteen. I believe (PAUSE)…well, to be fair, I guess the story begins when…(PAUSE)…Do you know Jeanine? (PAUSE) No, I guess you wouldn’t…she died….(PAUSE)…When did she die again? Let’s see, Regan was President in…(PAUSE)….no, was it Carter?”

And then I did something I thought I’d never do. I picked up an almost full glass of wine, looked directly into the eyes of “The Pauser,” and poured the entire thing onto my shirt.

“Oh, no! Look at that. I’ve poured wine all over my shirt.”

“Oh, my. And it’s…(PAUSE)….red wine and….(PAUSE)…a cabernet if I’m not mistaken and…”

“Yeah, so I’m going to go to the bathroom to clean it off, and maybe drown myself.”

I had purposefully ruined my shirt to avoid a conversation. It was a new low for me, and even though I ran into another type of conversationalist on my way to the bathroom (“The Toucher,” who feels the need to push, punch or slap you to accentuate certain parts of their story), it was worth it.

And thus ended my horrible dinner party.

In conclusion, don’t you just hate people who take too long to tell a story?

As much as we all think we’ve progressed from our elementary school days, we haven’t. And there is no better illustration of that fact than air travel; when adults are given assigned seats as if children in a classroom. In my mind, seat assignments are unfair. Why is there no value placed on punctuality anymore? Movie theaters understand the concept, and so does public transit. Show up on time and you’re rewarded. Sounds reasonable to me.

The problem (and this is where the classroom metaphor loses its similarity) is that when teachers assign a seat to a student, they usually do so for a reason. Troublemakers are put in the front along with those who have poor vision, attractive students are placed by the windows to help the school’s image, and ugly overweight students are towards the back so they’re out of sight. (That’s how it works, right teachers?) But airlines don’t put as much thought into it, and instead operate by random seat assignments.

And so, tension is an empty airplane seat, because you don’t choose who sits next to you and therefore just about anyone has the potential of sharing your armrest. This is why when you’re watching people board the plane, you look at each one with contempt and immediately begin deconstructing them.

Oh God, please not this guy. Why is he so sweaty? It’s January and he’s in a tank top. Also, why is he in a tank top?  I didn’t pay $300 to see his nipple. Phew, he passed. And look at this woman. Really? You really need to eat that meatball sandwich while walking down the aisle of an airplane? And nice decision on the meal in a pressurized cabin, I bet you fart under the covers also. And tell grandpa behind you to keep moving too. ‘Oh, I’m 900 years old and can’t walk anymore, but my gigantic suitcase weighs a ton and I selected a window seat even though I urinate every three minutes.’ Keep moving. And nice cough. You sound like a sea lion’s orgasm.

These same thoughts went through my head a few weeks ago when I was traveling from Philadelphia to Portland, Maine for a wedding, and the window seat next to me was vacant for a suspense-filled ten minutes before I felt a tap on my shoulder from behind.

“ ‘scuse me, sport, but looks like that’s my seat you’re in,” said a man whose crotch was dangerously close to my forehead. He was dressed in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, and his usage of the word ‘sport’ resulted in immediate hatred, as I detest anyone who says ‘sport’ and is not Jay Gatsby.

“It’s not your seat, check your ticket.”

“Well let’s just see here and…well I’ll be damned. You’re right! I’m on the window. Mind if I sit in the aisle anyway? I’m afraid of heights.”

“We’re in an airplane. These tend to go up pretty high, regardless of where you sit.”

“Shoot, I guess you got a point. The name’s Josh by the way.”

He held out his hand and I looked at it like a confused dog, my head tilted and mouth agape at what was happening. I had broken the main rule of air travel. Don’t speak, even when spoken to, ever. This idiot now assumed we were friends, as if we were in a cafeteria and I had chosen to sit next to him because I thought he’d be a good conversationalist or that we might become buddies.

After avoiding the handshake by letting him move past me to his seat, I immediately put on my earphones and closed my eyes. A few seconds later, there was another tap on my shoulder.

“Live in Portland?”

I didn’t respond, or open my eyes, and hoped there was a terrorist on board.

“Sport…you live in Portland? Or just visiting?”

“No.”

“No? Don’t live there, or ya aren’t visiting?”

“Dog fighting.”

“What?”

“Dog fighting. My friend is opening a dog fighting operation in Portland and I’m going to help out.”

I noticed the man was wearing a PETA t-shirt, and hoped this would shut him up.

“Dog…dog fighting? Are you serious?”

“No.”

“Thank God, because…”

“They’re technically still puppies.”

“So you ARE serious?”

“No.”

If he wanted to talk, I was going to confuse the hell out of him. But when speaking with dumb people, confusing them isn’t possible. It would be like screaming at a midget to grow.

“Oh boy, you really had me going about that dog fighting thing. So, live in Portland?”

“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really don’t want to talk.”

“Why?”

“You want me to talk about why I don’t want to talk?”

“Just being friendly.”

“Said the priest to the altar boy.”

“You religious?”

“I was making a joke…”

“I like jokes…tell another.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“We’re talking now.”

“Please, I just want to read.”

“Whatcha reading? I don’t like books.”

“Shocking. Listen, seriously, I’m not trying to be rude but I…”

“…just want to read. Okay, I get it. Loud and clear. Want to be left alone. No problemo. My kids are the same way. You have kids?”

“Really?”

“Oh man, never a break. Boy, I’ll tell ya. Real glad school is back. So, live in Portland?”

I think the plane may have still been ascending when I jumped up and began looking for another seat. At that point I was considering just riding the rest of the way in the bathroom. Mercifully, there was another open seat a few rows back and I went over and sat down while the moron next to me continued to ramble on. I don’t even think he noticed that I’d left.

This seat was next to a sleeping woman, who didn’t appear to be a snorer, and I plopped down and hid from the flight attendant so I wouldn’t get in trouble for switching locations. Then, a few seconds later, the seatbelt sign went off and the guy in front of me violently slammed his seatback down onto my knees.

I politely slapped the upper part of his arm to signal my discontent.

“Hey pal, what the hell? Do you really need to have the seat that far back?”

“The guy in front of me has his down, too. Domino theory. Deal with it.”

“You want me to, ‘deal with the domino theory’? C’mon man, I’ve got no leg room.”

“Not my problem.”

“It is, actually. In fact, you’re the cause of the problem. Can you just move it up a tiny bit?”

“I don’t like talking to people when I travel.”

“I get that, in fact I was just talking about that same thing with the guy up there. But this isn’t talking, I just need you to move your seat.”

“Can’t help ya.”

“What? You literally CAN help me. That’s why I’m asking!”

“That’s not even your assigned seat. I saw you move.”

“Oh c’mon, assigned seating is bullshit.”

The man then made a big display of putting on his headphones to drown me out.

I had a decision…would I continue to sit like a Chilean miner in my current location, or take my chances with the talker back in my original seat? The woman next to me started snoring and my choice was made easier. I squeezed out into the aisle and made sure to hit the headrest as I passed by.

But when I arrived back at my original seat, I noticed the talker was now sitting there with his eyes closed.

“Hey, you’re in my seat.”

“Huh? Oh…so now you want to talk?”

“Can you just move over?”

“Well, you left. Plus, like I said, I’m afraid of heights.”

“Dude, I don’t have to call dibs on my seat when I get up. Move.”

“Sorry sport, you went to sit back there. You can have the window seat though.”

“What? But this is MY seat. I have an aisle seat.”

“You HAD one, but you left.”

“Dude! We have numbers on our tickets that correspond to our seat. And this is mine! This is my assigned seat!!”

Tension is an empty airplane seat. Hypocrisy is a seat occupied by me.

One morning last week, I stepped outside on my deck in the warm still-rising sunshine and took in what would be the last breeze of an otherwise flat and humid day. As I turned to go back inside, I walked through a cobweb.

This is a mild annoyance for some, and most remedy the situation by merely brushing off the strands of the web and going about their day. I, however, dropped to the ground screaming and began clawing at my face.

Thinking the spider was now not only dethroned from his web, but also pissed-off, I rolled back and forth as if on fire, then jumped up and ran headfirst into the door. Then I went upstairs, re-showered, put my previous shirt into a plastic bag, cinched the bag tightly shut, re-dressed, and left for work.

Still rattled from the incident, I settled into my seat on the train and diverted my efforts to keeping my knee from touching the man next to me, who for some reason was eating a full chicken dinner at eight o’clock in the morning. At the next stop, an old woman entered our car, genuflected in the aisle, pulled out a set of rosary beads and began mumbling prayers to herself as she rocked in her seat.

I began to think that these events would signal the beginning to a strange day, and those suspicions were soon confirmed as I looked over the shoulder of the man seated in front of me, and noticed he was casually scrolling through porn on his iPhone. A woman with a baby sat next to him.

I arrived at the office craving more crazy. Being a successful writer is a lot like being a successful squirrel; you need to forage around for material like acorns, collecting vital supplies that will last you through the long cold winters of writer’s block. I was only at my desk for a few moments before I ventured back outside.

I walked into the Bellevue Hotel’s lobby and decided to stop off for some coffee at a Starbucks. Crazy people are usually well-caffeinated. The line was long, and the people waiting were mostly young professionals about to start their work day. While others distracted themselves with iPods and Blackberry’s, I observed. And I wasn’t disappointed.

“…and it’s a large iced tea, okay? I don’t know what you fucking call it, but large. All I know is it wasn’t large last time. And there was too much ice. Christ, how hard is it?”

“We’ll get right on that. Can I have your name, Miss?”

“It’s Mrs. See the ring? And the name is Christina…with a ‘C’. You spelled it wrong last time, too.”

The rest of the line waited, all of us hoping the barista would hop from behind the counter and perform some sort of Mortal Kombat finishing move to the head of this awful creature, who by the way was clad in pantyhose and cheap running sneakers like an extra from “Working Girl.” The barista’s vengeance would be completely justified, and we would’ve applauded, hoisted her in the air and carried her out into the street as our queen, kicking the head of her vanquished foe into a dusty corner.

But she said nothing, and shuffled away, bottling up her anger along with the iced tea she looked ready to spit in. I ordered next; a grande coffee, and loudly proclaimed that my name started with an S. But the creature had already slithered to the end of the counter.

As I stared hatefully at her and wished awful things on her likely ugly children, I noticed two very large women chattering away in the corner. I am not one to make fun of the overweight…but I absolutely LOVE making fun of obese people.

At what point did being fat equate to having a handicap? And as a society, why do we bend over backwards for those who can’t bend over forwards? “But Sean,” you say, “some of these people just can’t control themselves.” Really? Self- control is a part of everyday life. That’s why you don’t see people walking around peeing on everything. So why the double standard?

If a person leaves a restaurant and has too much to drink, a cop will stop and arrest them. Why don’t they pull over those who have had too much to eat?

“Sir, have you been gorging tonight?”

“I may have had some pasta or something like an hour ago, just one or two plates though. (burp) I’m fine.”

“Is that a chocolate sundae in the cup holder, sir?”

“That’s not mine, I swear.”

“Roll out of the car, please.”

Now, women readers, don’t get offended. These two women in front of me were not merely overweight, they were gigantic. I have no problem with overweight people, but these women were the kind of fat that is just short of giving them a little scooter to get around on. However they were not so fat that they were unemployable, and they were enjoying a little coffee break before wheezing their way back to whatever chocolate factory they worked in. And I was there to eavesdrop.

“Susan, oh my god. I absolutely LOVE that top.”

“Really? I have to tell you, so do I! And you’ll never guess where I found it. Ross! 40% off!”

“Shut up! They really do have good stuff there. And that pattern is so fun. Are those little hydrangeas?”

“They ARE! I know, I saw it and absolutely fell in love. And it hides stains so well, too.”

“Well I just adore it. You’re such a good shopper.”

Then they both paused and took giant slurps.

“And you know, it was the only thing that fit me.”

Hearing this, I laughed louder than I have ever laughed in my entire life. It was a resounding bellow, and it reverberated off the marble walls, bounced around the whole room, and shot right back at the huge women, who were now staring at me.

“The only thing that fit!” I whispered (rather loudly), and nudged the man next to me. “HA! Oh my god. Because she’s enormous. Get it? That is amazing.”

The man quickly disassociated himself with me and moved to the side of the room. Sometimes I forget that I’m in public, and upon realizing the faux pas I grabbed the coffee and ran out the door before the women had a chance to unhinge their jaws.

On the train ride home that night I expected more crazy, and it soon presented itself.

On SEPTA commuter trains they have things called “quiet cars,” where the usage of cell phones for extended periods is frowned upon. A gentleman on the car that day looked like he had been frowned upon his entire life, and he was ironically shouting into his phone over the voice of the conductor who was asking people not to use their phones.

“Two hundred. I said TWO HUNDRED! (pause) Damn girl, you didn’t have to cook all that shit up! (pause) Now what I’m gonna do? I can’t smoke that shit. (pause) Is you crazy? Yo, put shortie on the phone. Put (pause)…put shortie on the phone now, dog, for real. (pause) Cause I’m gonna cut her motherfuckin head off that’s why!”

He was obviously some sort of tax attorney.

While the other passengers cowered in fear, I was jotting down a transcript of his call as quick as possible, which was erratic, and slightly terrifying.

“Yo dog, for real, that’s my bad.  I got that high cholesterol and shit, you know? (pause) Yeah dog, for real. I be like eatin that glucose shit and…wait, what? Motherfucker, is you playin? Yo, this shit ain’t no game, son. (pause) Disneyworld? Is you ignorant? That’s Epcot, baby! Yeahhh, that’s some Thunder Mountain Railroad shit right there. (pause) Yeah, nah that was Wesley Snipes. Word? Yeah, long division be mad hard. (pause) Cocoa Puffs. (pause) Yeah…yeah okay. Yeah, I see you at church. Yeah, and yo, tell that bitch to quit playin though for real or I’m gonna cut her fuckin head off like I done before. Tell your mamma hello.”

Instead of inviting the man to dinner, I got off at my stop… and then ran a block or two.

By the time I reached my house, I was mentally exhausted, yet also electrified. It had been a busy day, and one filled with tremendous writing material. I opened my laptop and began typing as fast as I could, pausing to feel bad about the obese women part, and then laughing again.

I fell asleep at my desk writing and the next morning woke up with a stiff neck. After trundling downstairs, I stepped outside on my deck to stretch in the warm still-rising sunshine and take in what would be the last breeze of an otherwise flat and humid day. And as I turned to go back inside, I walked through another cobweb.

Sean: “Where is the last place you want to die?”

M: “Umm, hi?”

Sean: “Hi. Where is the last place you want to die? I mean, be found dead.”

M: “Oh. Um…probably under a floorboard. Half-eaten. Like some John Wayne Gacy shit.”

Sean: “Jesus, no hesitation there, huh? But no, not method. Location.”

M: “Right, I know. Like I said, under a floorboard. Or human centipede. I would not like to be part of a human centipede.”

The conversation progressed like this for some time and, though it illuminated certain aspects of my friend’s psyche I was unaware of, I was mainly just curious if I could get a consensus to the question, “Where is the last place you want to be found dead?”

I polled some others as well, and these were the answers:

“New Jersey.”

“At work.”

“Next to you.”

I thought the “Next to you” answer was a bit harsh, but was mainly surprised I hadn’t received what I thought would be the universal answer to, “Where is the last place you want to be found dead?”

On the toilet.

In my mind, there is no worse location to be discovered dead, and I’m constantly nervous about the possibility each time nature calls. It’s the same reason I don’t urinate during thunderstorms. It’s inevitable that we’re all going to die, but ideally I’d like to go out with some dignity… especially since I had none while living.

I recently admitted this to a woman on a date. (NOTE: Don’t discuss dying on the toilet during dates. There are few appetizing segues.)

“What do you care if you die on the toilet? You’ll be dead.”

“Right, but I don’t want that to be my legacy.”

“The ego on you. Your ‘legacy’? You’re really that concerned with what people think of you?”

“(mumbles) Obviously not, since I’m out with you.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

(I wonder why she hasn’t called…)

Anyway, you can imagine my alarm when I flushed the toilet the other day and immediately afterwards I heard men screaming.

This was a new sensation, as if there were miniature human beings that had been floating in the water below and were now spiraling towards a watery grave. I got to one knee and put my ear over the bowl.

“Hello?” I whispered. “Tiny men?”

Turning my head back to the bowl I imagined that the re-filling water would be littered with body parts, like the remnants of some shipwreck after the storm had passed. More shouts though, this time coming from downstairs, were followed by heavy footsteps ascending towards the bathroom.

Though the previous notion of drowning miniature toilet-dwelling men was distressing, a new, more palpable fear emerged – being attacked by marauding Vikings in my suburban Philadelphia home. The voices were closer now, shouting commands as doors flung open. I hugged the toilet bowl and closed my eyes, hoping it’d be over quick.

“What are you doing?”

I turned to see a burly construction worker, his voice sounding as if he had swallowed a frog with throat cancer. It’s difficult to explain your position when you’re sprawled on the bathroom floor with your pants around your ankles on the verge of tears… but I tried to remain casual.

“Who, me? Nothing. You?”

“I thought we told you not to use the plumbing? A pipe just burst downstairs.”

He grumbled as he left and I pulled up my pants. ( <– Never thought I’d write that sentence.) They were doing work on the kitchen downstairs and had indeed told me not to use the plumbing, but since my knowledge of plumbing was limited to Super Mario Brothers, I failed to consider that they’d meant the toilets as well. In retrospect, the second cup of coffee that morning had been a bad idea.

As I didn’t want to risk a beating from men who knew how to use socket wrenches, I retreated up to my bedroom to work out. While changing I happened to glance down at my torso and notice a raised bump. Assuming it was lint, I tried flicking it off but discovered that it was solid and dark brown. As a man of many freckles, I wasn’t too concerned and walked over to the mirror to investigate the possibility that one of them might have been trying to escape.

I flicked the bump again and it failed to fall off. Peering closer into the mirror I squeezed it and saw a faint trickle of blood come out. Then, to my utter horror, the bump moved.

Have you ever seen a movie when someone is lit on fire? Yeah, that would pretty much describe how I handled the situation.

I shrieked and began slapping myself, not just in the spot of the bump, but all over: my head, my legs, my neck. I wasn’t sure if the bug was still in place or crawling all over me. Just to be safe, I dropped to the floor and writhed around like a break-dancing quadriplegic.

The thought of something, ANYTHING, attached to my body and currently burrowing its head into my flesh was enough to make me almost faint. After smacking my head against my bedpost, I got back up and reassessed the situation. I looked down at my chest again and saw that the bump hadn’t moved. Considering it was so small, it could only be one thing…

A tick.

And then I started screaming again.

I ran downstairs, again in my underwear, squealing and flapping my arms the entire way as if trying to take flight. Like any good Generation-Y member, before heading to the bathroom I stopped off at my computer to Google “lime disease.” (And after reading about various fruit-borne illnesses, I re-Googled “lyme disease” and read all the symptoms, side-effects and mortality rates.)  

Sufficiently scared, I scurried over to the bathroom and rooted through the medicine cabinet until I found a pair of tweezers. Then, with the care of an alcoholic surgeon, my shaking hand guided towards the tiny pencil-point sized insect.

I thought about the movie 127 Hours, where the character played by James Franco has to hack off his arm with a pocket-knife, and assured myself I’d be able to get through this. I started by merely tapping the top of the tick, hoping that he’d just been napping like a homeless person and would move along at my insistence. No such luck. Then, like any sane individual, I began yelling at it.

“Get off! Go on, get! Shoo, tick! Bah! Get off!”

Nothing.

It was now or never. I would have to yank it out. I gritted my teeth and positioned the tweezers around the sides of the tick, being careful not to alert it of my intentions. Then…I stayed like that for about seven minutes, silently weeping.

But then…after whispering a brief, curse-ridden prayer…. I defiantly yanked the insect from my skin. And saw the blood.

It was if I’d been shot, and I would have gladly accepted that alternative. I grabbed some tissues and opened up a bottle of Bactine, pouring the remainder of the bottle onto the wound. Then, still clad in boxers, dove into my shower and turned it on full blast, hoping to burn out any disease the tick may have been carrying.

That’s when I heard more screams from downstairs.

And as I stood there scrubbing with the vigor of an off-duty prostitute, I ignored the pounding of the construction workers on the door. After all, if I was going to die in the bathroom, at least I wasn’t on the toilet.

I didn’t know much about aeronautics, but was certain there had been some advancement since the time it was legal to smoke on a plane. I imagined the in-flight entertainment would be a silent film starring Charlie Chaplin and poked my head back into the aisle to see where the segregated bathrooms were located. It was then that I was struck in the shoulder by a flight attendant pushing a cart. The smell from the cart could only mean one thing: a passenger had died and they were shuttling him up to the front.

I held my nose and tapped the flight attendant to inquire about what was going on.

“It’s the meal, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, it’s very delicious today. Hot curry.”

“I see. And about how high up are we at this point?”

“Oh, I’d say just under thirty thousand feet.”

“Excellent. If you’d be so kind to point out the closest door, I’ll be leaving.”

The man laughed and continued up the aisle as the other passengers basked in the warm stench like flies on a garbage truck. I leaned over to my friend next to me.

“I can’t believe we decided to take Air India, man. I think the guy next to me has a goat in his carry-on.”

“Take it easy, we’ll be in Paris in no time.”

“I don’t think I’ll make it. Can’t you smell that? Who serves curry in a pressurized cabin? And look at these seats. I think mine is just a folding chair bolted to the floor.”

“It’s not so bad. I’m kind of getting into this Bollywood music they have. It sounds like someone repeatedly running over a cab driver’s foot.”

It was November 2008 and I was en route from New York to Paris with my best friend for a four-day trip. He was going to attend a photo exhibition at the Louvre and I had decided to tag along to see what kind of trouble I could get into. We landed at Charles De Gaulle a few hours later and I angrily shoved my way off of the plane, whispering “Kali Ma!” to each passenger I passed.

After retrieving our bags and double-checking for monkey feces, we made our way to the Metro station only to find that the service had been suspended. There was a public transit strike, a common occurrence in Paris, and the only way into the city was via taxi. All we had to do was find a cab stand, and this is where my mood brightened.

I have very few joys in my life, but one of them is watching my friend attempt to speak a foreign language. His face contorts like a constipated Asian and he starts each sentence with a low, guttural growl as if revving a loquacious engine. Then he extends his hand and pinches his thumb against two of his fingers, tilting his head and leaning in like he might kiss the person he’s speaking to, who by that point is backing away with a look of horror.

Meanwhile, I stand behind him, imitating his every movement and hopping around to each singsong, silly word that is uttered. Like any good American, I don’t know any other languages and instead rely on the well-proven method of speaking loudly and using elaborate hand motions. In this case we actually do need to communicate with the startled French worker we’ve accosted and (in spite of my best efforts) we are soon given directions into town.

We arrived at our hostel about an hour later and retired to our rooms to change for dinner. The building was situated on a cobblestoned side street just off of Rue Oberkampf and adjoined an ancient Parisian bell tower that would gong every half-hour and scatter pigeons into my room. I decided against showering, as the guests were required to share a stall on each floor that reused the water from the floor above. Since there were three floors above me, the result would be like dipping a cup into a French man’s bath and pouring it over my head.

My friend and I made our way over to the Rive Gauche, or Left Bank, a more bohemian part of town where college-aged people usually hung out. We soon came upon a fondue restaurant and settled in for a hearty meal of melted cheese, French bread and red wine. There were virtually no other customers in the place and we struck up a conversation with the owner, who informed us that we had arrived at the perfect time – the beginning of “Beaujolais Nouveau Season.”

Beaujolais Nouveau Season, I’d later find, is just one of the many reasons Paris is so amazing. At one minute past midnight on the third Thursday each November, millions of cases of wine are cracked open at once and hastily consumed. It’s a race, of sorts, to see who can serve this first, cheap vintage the fastest while the better Beaujolais is still fermenting. In short, people just get really smashed on some really cheap swill.

The owner, excited that Americans were in attendance for such an event, presented us with a few bottles. And since we’re such good ambassadors, we drank them. When we stumbled into the street shortly after, we were greeted by a marching band. Literally.

Not a few yards from the restaurant we bumped into a five-piece brass band that was marching through the streets to celebrate the beginning of Beaujolais Nouveau Season. We danced alongside them for a few blocks before we were adopted and given our own tambourines, along with wine glasses to share in the cartload of Beaujolais they were rolling behind them.

We left the band at a bar called Violon Dingue (“The Crazy Violin”) and slunk into some stools. It was empty except for the two bartenders and we decided to take advantage of being in a foreign country by having an inappropriate discussion that would obviously not be understood.

“Who would you rather bang, Rod Stewart or Phil Collins?”

“Easy, Phil Collins. He’s a lyrical gangsta.”

“Yeah, but we’re just going on pure sexual attraction.”

“Oh, in that case, Huey Lewis.”

“He wasn’t an option. But okay, Huey Lewis or Michael Bolton?”

As we went on to discuss which 80’s era male pop-rock star we’d have intercourse with, we noticed a smirk forming on one of the bartenders’ faces.

“Hey, what the hell? Can you understand us?”

“Aye. Him too. We’re from Scotland, mate.”

We shared a laugh with our new friends and after a few more pints they locked the front door.

“On the house, gents. Nice to have some Americans in here.”

Forty minutes later and five darts games lost, there was a knock at the door. One of the Scots opened it and revealed a gorgeous girl who couldn’t have been older than twenty. She said something in French and was let in as we sat at the far side of the bar and whispered chivalrous things to each other.

“Don’t look now, but I’ve got the Eiffel Tower in my pants.”

“I’d invade her like it was the 1940’s.”

“I wonder if her name is Lisa, cause I’m gonna make her Moan-a.”

At that last comment, to our utter horror, she smiled.

“Oh, damnit. Can you understand us?”

“Yup. I’m American.”

“Where from?”

“Manhattan. I’m a senior at NYU studying abroad.”

It turned out she lived about twenty blocks from my apartment, and thankfully thought our remarks were funny instead of horribly offensive. We had a few more drinks with her before my friend fell off his bar stool and we decided to call it a night.

I made my way down the street with my friend slung over my shoulder, his feet dragging behind him. We soon came upon a cab stand near the Seine with about twenty people waiting in line. This would not do.

“Hey! Zer iz ze line, azzhole!”

“It’s okay, we’re from New York.”

“Fuck you, pal. We’re American too. You can’t just cut the line.”

“Oh yeah? Where you from?”

“Green Bay, Wisconsin.”

“Hahaha.”

I assumed the laughter would explain my position, but it must not have been clear enough and the burly man with the fanny pack started towards us. I pushed my friend inside an idling taxi and had just managed to close the door when our new lactose-loving friend stuck his head in the window.

“Don’t you dare take this cab you son-of-a-bitch!”

“Au revoir, douchebag!”

At that I expected the cab to drive away. It didn’t.

The man was now trying to open the door and I frantically began to shake my friend, who had passed out beside me.

“Dude! Wake up! Say something French! Get us out of here!”

“Ungghhhh.”

I looked at the cab driver to see if “Ungh” was a French word. It wasn’t.

“Say something else! Tell him to drive! What street are we going to? What Rue, dude? What Rue?!”

“Rue…rue…ruby dooby doo!”

“Damnit, focus!”

“Rue Obre…Rue Oberkampf.”

And the taxi took off down the street.

I leaned back in the seat and promised to never make fun of him again (…until that morning when he ordered coffee and sounded like the Sweedish Chef from the Muppets).

The next few days followed a similar pattern (i.e. that evening we mistakenly found ourselves in a gay bar) and overall the trip was a tremendous success. Four days later and we were back on Air India headed home, comfortably squeezed into the “Don’t Smoking Section” and enjoying a bowl full of hot curry.

After brewing a cup of black coffee, I walked to my bedroom where I had placed an oscillating fan above a clock radio that was set to folk music at a very low volume. After slipping on three sweatshirts, I downed the black coffee and popped all three sleeping tablets into my mouth. Then I positioned a full glass of water on my nightstand, did forty sit-ups, spun around in a chair five times and laid down, leaving all of the lights on and setting the alarm clock to 3:30 AM.

When the alarm clicked on a few hours later, it wasn’t sounded by a shrill blast. Instead, folk singers began to sing quite softly, and the breeze from the oscillating fan scattered their voices all over the room. So rather than waking up to an air-raid siren, I was roused by what I thought were several men and women humming from under my bed.

I couldn’t see because of the blinding light in my face and the breeze from the fan made me think I’d awoken outside. My arms were restricted from the sweatshirts and when I stretched them out I knocked over the glass of water, causing a crash that sent me rolling off the opposite side, face down onto a strategically positioned pile of dirty laundry.

I popped up and blinked several times to regain focus, only to notice the coat stand in the corner that I had draped in a robe and hat the night before to resemble a human. In my disoriented state, I cowered from the intruder and screamed while crawling under the bed, where I’d placed stuffed animals that had transformed into various soggy rodents, wet from the previously spilled water.

My brain is not well – this much is evident from my writing here on The Witty Gritty. However rather than just accept that fact, sometimes I decide to step it up a notch. I find it unacceptable that my brain requires six to eight hours of sleep to function correctly. It’s like my brain is part of some cerebral union and when asked to do a task it belches and points to a sign that reads, “On break.”

Also, it’s been said that we only use ten percent of our brain’s capabilities. Ten percent? What am I, Southern? Since when has ten percent of anything been acceptable?

“Here’s some birth control, guaranteed to work ten percent of the time.”

“Make sure to wear your bullet proof vest, it will stop ten percent of gunfire.”

“Okay boys, my name is Father Flynn, and ten percent of you won’t be molested this year.”

Not good enough.

So I mess with my brain from time to time, hoping that it will unlock some of its unused reserves from the remaining ninety percent. Thus far the plan hasn’t worked out exactly, and instead of compliance the ten percent has been rebelling like a menstruating Libyan.

My brain rebels in odd ways, usually in dream form but sometimes revealing its displeasure in real life. An example of this occurred last week, when I went on a hike in Valley Forge National Park.

Valley Forge, for those of you who went to public school, was where General George Washington camped with his troops during the winter of 1777 and over two thousand soldiers died due to the harsh conditions.

The problems began on the drive out, when I looked down at the dashboard and saw a little orange light in the shape of a gas pump pop on. Normally my brain would be able to handle such a problem, but in its drugged, pissed-off, sleep-deprived state, it performed rather sluggishly.

Gas. Need gas. Gas station. They probably sell gas. Which side of the car is my gas hole on? Gas hole? That can’t be right. Pump slot? Too sexual. Nozzle holster? Fuel socket?  What the hell is it called? No matter. What side is it on?

And that’s when I turned around. For those of you who find themselves driving on a highway, don’t try to turn around and see the outside of your car. Oh, and if you do? Don’t keep both hands firmly gripped on the wheel.

The car jerked left into the other lane and cut off a red Nissan. The woman driving was rather upset, though she did have a better vantage point to determine which side of my car held the…um, Propellant portal?

I arrived at Valley Forge ten minutes later, the needle below Empty on the fuel gauge. I had looked up my desired hiking trail online before leaving, but was unsure how to get to its starting point. So I walked into the Visitor’s Center. Behind the desk was a bearded man who was such a virgin he looked like he had to roofie his computer to watch online porn.

“Hello, sir. And welcome to Gettysb…Valley Forge National Park.”

“Just laid off from Gettysburg?”

“Can I help you with anything, sir? Or would you like to watch a movie with me?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“I mean…we show movies about the park every half hour.”

“Isn’t the park right there? Outside?”

“Um, I think it’s…allergy season is in full swing and…history? Um…bears?”

Since messing with him could last the rest of the day, I decided to just ask where the trail began. And, once he called for help to find the laminated map in front of him, I was on my way.

My brain was doing better in the open air and I soon focused in on the gorgeous view in front of me – a hot single mother in spandex pants who was out for a jog. And when she stopped to stretch I noticed the fields.

I was surrounded on all sides by lush rolling expanses of green buffeted by dense ancient trees that looked old enough to have borne witness to the frigid depravity of that fateful winter over two centuries beforehand. That day was quite pleasant though, and the gentle May breeze eased my decision to tackle the six mile trail that led around the outskirts of the park.

That’s when my brain decided to mess with me again.

Three hours later and I was in the middle of a forest. I’d lost the trail (which was paved, mind you) forty minutes beforehand when I ventured into the trees to snap a picture of a deer, which later turned out to be a log. I would like to say that my Boy Scout training took over, but I hadn’t made it past Tiger Cubs, a lesser form of the Troop reserved for myself and those with Down Syndrome.

Since I wasn’t a trained outdoorsman, I did what any other urbanite would do. I pulled out my phone. When I called the number for the front desk, which was thankfully stored from a previous call that morning, I recognized the voice on the other line immediately.

“Gettysburg National Valley Forge, how may I help you?”

“Shit.”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“Ugh, okay. I was just in there and now I’m lost. I’m in the woods about three miles into the Joseph Plumb Martin Trail. What’s the best way to get back on track?”

“Hmm. Well, whenever I’m lost I use the stars. But since it’s day out, maybeeee…okay. Sir, if you look up at the sun, does it seem to be more on your right, or your left?”

“Are you freakin kidding me?”

“Okay…wait! Find some moss. If it is growing on the back of the tree, then go the other way.”

“How do I know which side is the back of a cylindrical tree?!”

“Depends on which one you’re standing in front of.”

I hung up the phone and nearly threw it into a nearby stream. Instead I followed the stream and it eventually led me back to one of the many other trails running alongside it. My brain wasn’t done with me yet though, and I got lost once again an hour later when a fifty-fifty decision led to me backtracking down an older trail that looped an additional four miles off course.

When I emerged into the open, I found myself at the base of a Colonial home, and three workers were on the roof making repairs.

“Do you know where I am?”

“Pennsylvania,” said the youngest worker, and the rest of them laughed.

“Thanks. I meant that I was hiking and got lost.”

“You should probably bring a map next time,” said the oldest worker.

“Appreciate the help.”

And I kicked their truck. I don’t know why I did it, but was sure it was my brain’s idea. Even though I just kicked the tire, I had hit it hard enough that it made a sound and caused the three men on the roof to glare down at me. Then, like any tough guy would, I ran away into the forest.

Thirty minutes later and I spotted the parking lot. As I neared, I stopped to lean against a tree and heard a cough from above me. Looking up, I noticed a man was sitting in it.

“What the hell are you doing sitting in a tree?”

“Me?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m speaking to you. The man, who is in fact, sitting in a tree.”

“Oh. Well. What are you doing on the ground?”

At that point I gave up. I wasn’t even sure if there was a man, and there was a good chance I was so exhausted from the eleven mile hike that I was just speaking to a squirrel.

I made my way past the Visitor’s Center, flipped off the bearded virgin in the window, and found my car in the parking lot. Just as I was about to get in, I had the feeling I was forgetting something.

It wasn’t until I started the engine that the little orange light reminded me, and I had to get back out to check which side of the car the…um… tank vagina…was located.

Whatever. You win, brain.