Category: Brian

She wore black high heels with rainbow striped socks that went up to her knees. She had a plaid skirt that was almost fully covered by an oversized Marilyn Manson t-shirt. Also hidden under this shirt was a pretty damn good sized rack for an 8th grader. Her eye liner was black and her eye shadow was a blue-ish purple. She had a pale complexion that contrasted with her dark hair, which was tied back tightly in a pony tail. Her large nose hooked like an eagles and commanded most of the attention on her face.

By the age of 19 I had already acquired a long list of previous employers. There was McDonald’s, where I grilled burgers in the back with all the illegal immigrants. Management must have thought I was not presentable enough to work the front with all the other English speaking teenagers. There was the telecommunications center where I answered phones calls and placed catalog orders. This proved to be an embarrassing task for a 16-year-old whose voiced had yet to change. At the end of every phone call the customer would politely say, “Thanks Ma’am you’ve been very helpful.” After about the 6th or 7th time I stopped correcting them. There was Home Depot, where I stole enough lumber to build a quarter pipe in my friend Peters backyard. There was Hollywood Video where my co-worker set up a fake account using the name of Smokey McPot, under which we rented many a dvd with no intention of returning. There was the frame shop that fired me for being too slow. There was the hair salon that fired me for not being friendly enough. And then, finally, there was Vincenzo’s.

It was 12 p.m. and I regrettably commented to Luke, “Man I wish we could’ve gone snowboarding today.” He raised an eyebrow and responded “Who says we can’t?” Our mutual friend Dustin called us earlier, raving about the freshly fallen snow, saying it was one of the best boarding days of the season. Real snow at Mountain High, the local resort that normally pumped the fake stuff, was a big deal. It was one of those gloomy winter days that made it hard to distinguish when the sun was up or down. “Freshly fallen snow” was a nice way of stating it’s a fucking blizzard up on the mountain. Not acknowledging this, we grabbed our boards and headed east on the 118 freeway to Pearblossom Highway.

Seriously. If you are heading east on Interstate 70 you’ll cross the Missouri River in Boonville. If you make a left at Slaton Blvd just past the forest, then a left on Rodgers and a quick right you will end up at 3571 Lakeview Dr. It’s a beautiful two story house laid in brick and surrounded by grass. This is the residence of Margret Pratt, my grandmother. She’s lived by herself in this Missouri home for the past 40 years. The first thing you will notice when you pull into the driveway is a mailbox with the name Glen Pratt on it (my grandfather). He died about 10 years before I was born. We were there for the funeral of his son Steven Pratt (my uncle), who shared the same fate as his father; a lifetime of smoking kept them both from seeing their 60th birthday.

“Are you prude?”

This immature, awkward, and offensive question was unfortunately the line I gave before I got my first kiss. Coming from a 7th grade boy who had never heard the word prude until about an hour ago, and didn’t really know what it meant, this might have seemed cute. My girlfriend who stood about an inch or two taller than me leaned over and planted one right on my lips. It was in the B quad of Valley View Jr High School during our 5-minute break between classes. I turned around and strutted to my next class while the Bee Gees hit song Stayin Alive played in my head. ” We’ll you can tell by the way I use my walk I’m a woman’s man no time to talk . . .”

Last Thursday I attended the Downtown Los Angeles Artwalk. Every month the galleries in the neighborhood open their doors late at night for pedestrians to come in and enjoy the new art exhibits. The streets and sidewalks are packed with an eclectic mix of people. There are punk rockers, suites, bums, cops, hot chics, old chics, chics that are really dudes. There’s live music and tiny food vendors selling things like home made cookies with names such as ‘Your Mother’. So one might try a sample and then look to their friend and say, ” Mmmmm your mother is goood!”

Out of the 26 years I’ve spent on this earth, year 15 was the worst. You’re old enough to drive, but not without an adult in the car. You can’t do anything fun because you don’t have any money. You can’t get any money because you can’t get a job. You’re too old to build little ramps for your bike and skateboard. You’re too old to have sleepovers and make little forts where no parents are allowed. Thus, you’re left with very few things to do.

One summer, between 9th and 10th grade, I found something particularly unusual to occupy my time. For two weeks, I volunteered at a wheelchair sports camp. It was run by my church and my parents strongly encouraged me to do it. “It will help you get work next year when you’re looking for a job, and it will look great on your college application” they explained. Which as it turns out couldn’t have been more right, McDonalds and Moorpark Community College were very impressed with my resume.

Unlike the vast majority of my friends, I’ve never gotten a DUI. This is not to say I’m not a heavy drinker. I contribute this anomaly to my willingness to pass out anywhere and everywhere. A couch, a love seat, recliner, hardwood floor, truck bed. These are not only satisfactory places to lay my head when I’m drunk, but lofty promises that will surely close a deal if I’m on the fence about attending a local house party. In very rare occasions I have slept in such situations as: a neighbors front lawn, a rooftop, a stairway, and a restaurant booth.

I recently got into an argument with a friend trying to defend one of my new favorite shows. LOST. While explaining to him that it’s basically the reason I started a netflix account, he gave me a look. It was a I haven’t seen 2 minutes of the show but I’m going to formulate some kind of opinion on it look.

“LOST is just Gilligan’s Island on acid”, he condescendingly explained to me.

It’s a week before my senior show. If my roommate comes back from Vegas early he will have a heart attack from seeing the shape our apartment is in. Dirty dishes in the living room, tubes of paint and brushes scattered around the kitchen cabinets. It would not be unusual to see something like a dirty shirt, a half eaten bowl of top ramen and a stack of notebooks and papers all lying together. I like to think of it as controlled chaos. It may look like a mess to an outsider, but I know where everything is.
After 48 straight hours of painting I decide that my brain needs a rest. Being in art school is kind of like being in Vegas. You have no set schedule and no real concept of time. I look over at the clock to see what number it has. 1:00. I look outside my window and given that it’s dark I assume it is 1 a.m. I call my friend Vivian to see if she wants to see a movie with me. It takes a little convincing but she decides to come by after I promise her that popcorn will be involved. This turned out to be a grave mistake.