Dustin was raised in the Knolls (as was I) and was brought up by viking parents who both stand 7 feet tall and not an inch less. He was invaluable as we were growing up since he worked at Play-it-again-Sports which supplied us with an arsenal of toys and activities. He drove around a lowered black ranger with airbags and no door handles and head lights that could blind Stevie Wonder from a thousand paces. He helped me transport a ratty old couch 250 miles on a single cylinder (out of four) because the tin foil was not sufficient to keep the other three in tact and was there to laugh as the cab filled with smoke when the final one blew and he didn’t mind when the cop yelled at us for sitting on the couch in the bed of the truck on the side of the freeway and because I did not realize that I had used the call box for mute people and had unintentionally offended the mute cop on the other end. Dustin let me duct-tape knives to the inside of my ankles so I could climb up his palm tree like a lumber jack and he was very reasonable when his Viking parents burned down the local village screaming for the neck of the one who damaged their palm tree.

Dustin has taken the very unofficial position, and the first position for that matter here at Our Thursday, as our music correspondent due to his absurd passion for collecting CDs, supporting music in all of its manifestations, and working at a Metal music label. But I will be disappointed if he does not tickle our pickles with some of the memories that have no relevance to music and can simply be described as ludicrous.

Welcome to the team Dustin!

He wasn’t taking the break up well and we were all suffering the consequences. “No Black!”  He shouted over everyone’s conversation at the table, referring to the beans in the burrito he had just ordered, obviously. My face turned bright red. If it wasn’t already colorful from the day of sun and drinking I had just had, the waiter might have noticed how embarrassed I was.  I quickly realized I wasn’t alone when I caught eyes with everyone sitting near me. Everyone but Scott, of course, who continued to casually look through the drink menu, oblivious to what had just happened. He flipped through the pages and muttered inaudible thoughts to himself.  “You might want to be a little more careful with your choice of words, especially around the only black waiter in the restaurant,” Chris whispered as soon as the man was out of sight. Scott turned another page in the drink menu and ignored his friend’s advice by using a defense only drunk people and children practice known as “selective hearing”. I made a mental note to tip our server extra.

I looked over across the table where Christina was sitting. Her dress wasn’t quite as form fitting as the bathing suit she had been wearing on the river earlier that day. Occasionally, she would lean over to laugh and I could see the line between winter and summer on her chest. She had tan, healthy looking skin, the kind you would see in a Noxzema commercial . She had long brown hair that bounced and shined and did all those things that are promised to you on the label of your shampoo bottle. Occasionally, she would flip it back and suddenly a Barry White song would play in my head.

I could see why Scott drank himself stupid, she would be a hard one for anybody to get over. I adverted my eyes to someone else at the table, scared she might catch me staring at her. Everyone else was too drunk and engaged in conversation to notice me watching them. I looked over at Scott again, whose attention was now drawn to the extra set of silverware in front of him. He unrolled the napkin like it contained the lost treasure of Atlantis. The five o’clock shadow he had the last time I saw him was now a three week beard. His hair covered most of his face and I hadn’t seen him look up and make eye contact with anyone for a good five minutes. I couldn’t tell if he was in deep thought about Christina or if he was just trying to look like he was in deep thought about Christina. I wondered what he would do if he knew what I was thinking about.

The trouble started earlier that morning. We were pre-partying before we went to the river, which was before dinner, which was before going out to the bars, so technically you could say we were pre-pre-pre-partying. “You know what we should do?” I asked Christina enthusiastically. She leaned in and whispered “What?” I held up my index finger like I was about to reveal a genius idea. “We should drink this champagne straight from the bottle! Real O.G. style!” I then put it to my lips and lifted it over my head, not  taking into account the fact that it was  completely full and chugging out of it from a vertical position might be a problem. The force of the sparkling liquid was too much and I quickly spit it all out in a kind of spray mist form. Half of it came out of my mouth, half out of my nose, and all of it covered the kitchen counter. My eyes teared up and I wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt. We both looked at each and burst into laughter. A little more came out of my nose.

“I’m back!” Scott announced as he swung open the door and clumsily walked inside. Christina and I were the only two up, everyone else was still sleeping. Back from 7-11? Back from McDonald’s? Back from spending the night in the dumpster? “Diiidjggyoou know that the bars open at 7 a.m. this weekend?” He said out loud to no one in particular. Christina grabbed my wrist and gave me a look that seemed to say “It’s gonna be a long day isn’t it?” I then lifted my glass of champagne and gave her a cheers. As I did this, she moved her hand onto my leg and whispered in my ear “We should make out,” then set her glass down and walked up the stairs. I watched Scott smoke his cigarette outside and tried my best to hide the shock from my face.

He had the appearance of someone who had just been dumped. It was like something out of a bad movie: the beard, the long hair, the drunken slurs, the shabby unwashed shirt. It all seemed a little theatrical. “You can not hook up with Christina, you can not hook up with Christina, you can NOT hook up with Christina.” I repeated over and over again in my head. So far I had a perfect record. Not once had I ever fooled around with a friend’s girlfriend or ex-girlfriend, although, not once had I ever really had an offer.

I could hear the pounding of footsteps descending from the second floor. I looked up to see her bare legs making their way down the staircase. She was hot. Much hotter than me. It would be hard to describe her hotness without adding at least one more adjective like say “Smokin Hot”.  She came down in a two-piece bathing suit and asked me if I could put lotion on her back. I felt like I was in a scene from “American Pie 7: The gang goes to Chico, California.”  I tried to rub it in as quickly and dutifully as possible, as if I were executing some common household chore like wiping down the kitchen counter. A small panic attack came over me when I realized she was going to be seeing me with my shirt off very soon.

We bought three 30 packs of bud light for 12 people, equaling about eight beers a person. They were gone by the time we left the river. We were constantly swatting away mosquitoes while we walked back to the cars in our muddy sandals and wet bathing suits. It was the middle of May and we all had that first day of summer sunburn. Everyone called out their order in the shower line as we drove home. “I got first shower!” Chris exclaimed. “No! you’re after me! It’s my house I have first shower!”

“Ok, second!”

“Third!”

“Fourth!”

My number ended up being one of those high ones that meant there would be no hot water.

I had successfully avoided her all day. On the river, I made sure there was a minimum of at least 3 to 4 inner tubes separating us at all times. When we got back to the apartment, I showered downstairs where all the other guys did, and she showered 24 steps above me where all the other girls did.  At dinner we had 6 people, 6 chairs, 6 plates and 6 sets of silverware in between us. It had been almost 10 hours with nary a word spoken. This, however, was all before we got to the bar, where I knew the real challenge would be waiting for me.

First off, I had to dance with her. It’s not my fault the d.j. was playing the jams and none of the other girls wanted to break out of the little circular fortress they had created. She set down her fruity blue drink, bent over in front of me and started dancing like I was 50 Cent and she was auditioning for a spot in my next video. I then had to smack her ass a little bit. It’s not my fault she was shaking it in my crotch, it would have been rude not to. She started shouting the lyrics of the song with everyone else on the dance floor. “To the Windoooooooww  to the Wall!!! . . to the sweat drop down my balls!! . . to all the bitches crawl!!” I did a quick scan around the room and briefly caught eyes with Scott who was dancing with another girl and trying to pretend like he didn’t notice us. “I’m gonna get another beer,” I shouted in her ear. What I really wanted was to do was run into the bathroom and splash a bunch of cold water on my face like they do in the movies. Perhaps I’d give myself a little pep talk with generic motivational phrases like “Stay strong” or “You can do this.” Instead, I took a sip of my drink and said “”Ok” when Christina asked me if I would walk her to the bathroom. It’s not my fault we both needed to pee at the exact same time.

We walked to a corner of the bar that was partially secluded from everything else. When we got to a point where no one could see us anymore, she turned around and gave a smirk. “I don’t really have to go to the bathroom,” she admitted as she inched towards my face keeping her eyes locked with mine. “This is it” I thought to myself. “This is the moment.” Her lips were now dangerously close to mine. “THIS . . is the defying moment in your life, Brian, when you find out what you are made of. THIS . . is the moment your character is put to the test revealing what kind of man you are. THIS . . . . . . is what it feels like to have Christina’s tongue down your throat!”

Before I could make the right decision, we were in a full on make out session. Hands on her waist? Maybe one in her hair? She buried her fingers in my hair and I grabbed her waist and started to do one of those “baby go, no stay, get off me, don’t leave” kind of dances. “Well you’re already making out with her, so you might as well just keep making out with her,” I thought to myself as I changed the position of my face and went in for some more. It’s not my fault she smelled like roses and tasted like sugar plums.

It ended as quickly as it started and before I knew it, I was following her back to the other side of the bar through a crowded dance floor. I tried to collect my thoughts. I knew I should feel guilty, or ashamed, or at least something other than an excitement I hadn’t experienced since Christmas morning when I was 8 years old and Santa brought me the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Sewer Army Tube Assault Craft.

We arrived back to the table where our group was sitting and I sat down with a big grin on my face. “Hey Jenny!” I said cheerfully to one of Christina’s friends. She shot me a chilling look that seemed to go right through the windows of my eyes and  into my soul. “ I saw what you two did and it’s nothing to smile about” she snapped at me, then sat back in her seat and did one of those swiveling head things that black girls do, expecting an explanation. I wanted to come up with an excuse. “You must have me mistaken with the other white guy with the huge Afro and bright turquoise shirt.” Or “ You mean the suckface shot? Where one person takes a shot and then has to make out with the first person they see? It’s not big deal, people do it all the time, here you wanna try it?” Or “ I don’t know what you’re talking about, I can’t really remember where I just was, last thing I seem to remember was Christina slipping something into my drink . . . matter of fact, I’m feeling kinda sleepy now.” Any of these would have sufficed but unfortunately I was not quick enough. Instead all that I could come up with was  “ . . .oh.”

News Corporation owns the who’s-who of right wing media, television, newspapers, and tabloids; The Weekly Standard, Star, The Sun, The New York Post, and of course, Fox News, not to mention endless lesser names in media. The Australian’s empire spans media outlets from Asia, Australia, North America, to Europe. Murdoch takes a personal interest in his business. Directives on political positions come straight from the top (see The Man Who Owns The News by Michael Wolff). Whether it is good for his profit margin to fiercely advocate extreme rightist policies, or whether it is his personal crusade, or both, the end result is a mockery of news.

Television news isn’t the most in-depth source of information, regardless of which corporation owns the channel. However, Fox News takes irresponsibility to a whole new level – creating a machine of television personalities spewing constant chatter filled with outrageous claims and accusations, accepted as truth by many not because they are supported by any sort of evidence or logical accompaniment, but because they are relentless and self-righteous. Cass R. Sunstein, in his book On Rumors, describes the process by which baseless rumors become widely accepted facts. He illuminates the motivations of different types of rumor-propagators, how information legitimizes when it transferred from person to person, and how our human instincts to trust the wisdom of the group trumps our own intelligence. Fox News is a collective propagator of malicious information. How many people believe President Barack Obama is a Muslim? Or that he was born in Kenya? Or that he hates white people? Or that he ‘pals around’ with terrorists?

This is the danger of Murdoch’s bussiness. His News Corporation masquerades as a news corporation, claiming to be ‘Fair and Balanced’ (Fox News’ slogan). Newspeople have been a source of authority in the United States, a source of trust. His appendages have abused this trust by packaging propaganda as information, with a complete disregard for truth and impartiality. The fourth branch of our Republic’s checks and balances has been disabled by the trends News Corporation has created, which other news agencies have replicated in many regards.

So when I learned MySpace was owned by News Corporation, I decided to close my account. Once I found the link to close my account, and confirmed several times after reading their reasons I shouldn’t close my account, it redirected me to check my email to finish the process. Fine, it would be worth it. So after continuing the process through my email is asked my to check again after 48 hours to ensure the account was closed. Complete bullshit. Just like department stores that make you walk through the entire store to exit. I will close my MySpace account.

-Charles P. Pearson

I like documenting my days and doings with pictures. I’ve never been committed enough to keep a journal, and I’m not a fan of useless souvenirs – so photos will serve me throughout my life to recall the people and places I’ve been fortunate enough to know. I consider photography a useful tool in reflection and appreciation for all I’ve been able to do. The albums I collect, reminders. During a recent trip I got into an argument about different photo taking philosophies. The depth and intensity of our discussion made me realize how defined my ideas are about amateur photography.

Quality versus Quantity

Thanks to the advent of the digital photograph machine it is now possible to click away at one subject without worrying about the costs of developing film. This is what I do, I take small variations of the same photograph. However, I only do this so when I get home I can erase all pictures save one – the best. I like to have only one picture of one thing. The idea is that when you keep multiple pictures viewing your five hundred pictures can be boring as hell. I am firmly in the anti-quantity camp.

No flash-square? or flash-panoramic?

Subjects: Unknown People, Landscapes, Friends, Myself

In that order. There is just no way to capture the essence of a place or an experience better than to take pictures of the local people, but I often don’t have the balls to snap the photos I want. On one hand I don’t want to be offensive, but on the other is taking someone’s picture offensive? I guess it depends. I find that offering a nice smile after taking it helps everybody feel better about it. The bulk of my pictures, however, are landscapes and cityscapes – mountains, trees, rivers, buildings, statues, bridges, etcetera. Even in art galleries I usually like aesthetically pleasing landscape paintings. I may be boring in this way, but nothing tickles me like a nice view and amazing buildings! Recently, I read an article in the Guardian Weekly saying that scientists have discovered that our love for the Golden Ratio (basically a rectangle in regard to paintings and photographs) is derived from an evolutionary emphasis on scanning the horizon. So I love panoramics because my ancestors developed acute horizontal sight because predators usually came from latitudes, and less frequently from above or below. Friends, I take for granted. I usually don’t have the wisdom to take lots of pictures of friends until we are parting ways. Various farewell parties in the past are the only known documentation or the elusive Musa Harb or exotic Brent Pantell. As for myself, I know what I look like. Despite being a master of the arm-length self portrait, pictures of me take up a miniscule percentage of pictures I take. However, I do it because I am convinced that when I am old I will want to see young me. Also, sending mom a picture occasionally makes her happy.

Capturing Reality versus Creating a Memory

Most people will delete a picture right away if someone’s eyes are closed, or if they are making a stupid face – especially the ladies. Taking a picture of a group of girls will probably take 3 or 4 attempts, because someone always looks ‘bad’. But I digress. I also will erase pictures that offend my sensibilities. However, my criteria for a bad picture has more to do with how I want to remember a place or an event. For example; at a crowded tourist attraction (let’s say an ancient colosseum) I will do my best to snap photos without people, even if it means neglecting the main attraction. So when flipping through my album you wouldn’t automatically think of large herds of tourists, even though that was the experience. A friend of mine once disagreed with me about this, saying that accurately portraying the day is more important than creating a pleasant impression. Since I enjoy the beauty of the places in my pictures, and think of perusing my albums as a pastime, I am for creating a positive memory with my pictures. I am happy to crop out a car at the bottom of a photograph of a castle.

However, there are limits. I will crop, but I will not change the color or image quality. That’s just cheating. Unless you are doing so with the intent to create art, you are truly perverting the experience. For my purposes (to create keepsakes of my days) it’s a no go. I also really don’t like to pose for pictures as if I am not posing for them, that really bothers me. Fake candid pictures are lame. However, I don’t mind posing for a picture with Jesus Christ (see below).

So, in an effort to conquer your human instinct of accumulating possessions – try photography! It’s an endless resource.

-Charles P. Pearson

Peace and Love

It has to be sweet and sincere. Something that says “I like you” but not in a creepy, looked-up-your-address-on-the-teacher’s-class-roll-list-and-stalk-you-on-the-weekends, kind of way. Trying to sum up your feelings over the past 3 years on a tiny candy heart is not an easy task. I grabbed another handful and laid them out on the table, attempting to find the best ones to put in K.H.’s card. “BE MINE” seemed like a good start, but then again, she might perceive it as bossy and demanding. I wanted her to be mine, but not because she was forced to.  I put that one in the “Maybe” pile. “CALL ME” was interesting, but would that mean that I would have to write my phone number in the card? Or did it imply that she should ask me for it? “LOVE HER” didn’t make any sense… why would I want to tell her that I love someone else? It seemed kind of rude, like giving your Mom a Mothers Day card that says “I have the best Dad in the world”.  ”CUTIE PIE” and “SWEETIE” were a given; I put them in the “Yes” pile without hesitation. They were fairly neutral and vague, which allowed me to put in some of the more serious ones like “TRUE LOVE” or “MY GIRL”. These proclamations by themselves might be too forward, but mixed with a generic yet still heart warming, can’t-help-but-smile compliment like “Hey, I think you are a cutie pie” provided the perfect balance. It even allowed me to toy with the idea of putting in some of the more racy expressions like “LETS KISS”, which I cowardly removed at the last minute before sealing the envelope.

I had a total of 30 Valentines, all with illustrations of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on them. Ryan would soon know that I thought he was “mondo to the max”. Jen would soon know that I wanted her to “have a pizza my heart”. John would soon know that I hoped his Valentines Day was “totally radical”. This left one more Valentine to give, but this one was a real card. Lying to my friends, I told them I had homework I needed to catch up on. I rode my bike down to the supermarket and searched through the overwhelmingly large selection of Valentines Day cards there were to choose from. This proved to be even more difficult than picking which candy hearts to put inside.

My selection grew narrower as I started eliminating the options. “Love” was out. If the feeling wasn’t mutual, the results could be disastrous.  I needed to find a milder substitute for the word. Cards with pictures of flowers, especially red roses, seemed too cheesy, even for a nine-year-old, and were immediately dismissed. I considered myself to be a funny person, but there was a time and a place for laughs and this was not one of them. Humorous – gone. Cards with cartoon people usually depicted adults, which would have been weird and confusing: ”Dear Kelly, Happy Valentines Day from some old guy that is supposed to represent me”. Cartoon people – gone. Cards with more than two sentences usually got too deep and mushy. Cards with more than two sentences that are too deep and mushy -gone. All that remained were cards with a bunch of cute, furry mammals holding hearts and saying some kind of pun related to the name of their species. K.H. would soon know that I thought she was “Beary special”.

I walked to school with a handful of small Valentines placed in plain white envelopes, and K.H’s card. It was twice the size of the others and had a heavy pink envelope around it that was bulging from the carefully selected mint candies I had stuffed in it.  In elementary school, everyone had to be included. “There are 31 people in the class so make sure you get enough,” our teacher had warned us. This meant that even Andrew “Douche” Dynam, who talks to himself, eats glue, doesn’t cut his fingernails, and wears the same turquoise windbreaker and grey sweatpants to school everyday, would still get a Valentine. 31 to be exact . Most people just passed out generic cards without even bothering to write the recipients name inside. The girls would place a pink or yellow or red envelope in front of me and mumble “Happy Valentines Day” under their breath, before walking up to the next desk and repeating the process. I carefully slipped K.H’s card underneath the pile that was growing on her desk when she wasn’t looking.

My best friend Nate and I took out our cards after school and read them all while we shoved heart-shaped chocolates into our mouths. “She gave you yours in a yellow envelope, a color she also used for Andrew Dynam,” I told Nate. “Yes but she gave you yours in a PINK envelope, the very same color she used for her best friend Lauren. Perhaps pink means that she sees you as just a friend,” Nate keenly observed. “Besides, she looked me right in the eye when she handed me my card and told me to have a Happy Valentines Day. She didn’t say anything to you” he boasted. I thought about this for a second. “Well, maybe she has a hard time talking to me because she likes me and is too shy or embarrassed to say anything,” I rationalized.  We both optimistically opened our envelopes hoping to find some kind of clue that would reveal her secret crush on us. Mine had a picture of a frog holding a red heart. She had gone with a mammal card too! Well, technically a frog is an amphibian: frogs lay eggs, go through metamorphosis and are cold blooded… but still, close enough!  I knew this couldn’t possibly be a coincidence; she must have had the very same thoughts I did. “I’m jumping for joy that you are my . . . friend.” My heart sank when i saw that last word. It appeared Nate’s theory was correct. But then, I noticed, just underneath that, written in blue pen, was “Love, Kelly Hensler”. My eyes fixated on her bubbly signature. I clapped it shut when Nate tried to peek over, then quickly opened it back up and looked inside to check and make sure it was still there, as if her romantic sentiment was a one-time gift that would disappear if I ever closed the card or stopped staring at it. I turned it around, indicating to Nate that he could look but not touch. My finger was pointing to the big L word on the bottom and his eyes widened when he saw it. “Does this mean you guys are gonna be like boyfriend and girlfriend now?” he asked. I looked back down at the card and answered “Yea. . . I think so.”

]]> http://www.ourthursday.com/2010/02/12/my-4th-grade-valentine/feed/ 0 http://www.ourthursday.com/2010/02/04/valentines-day-in-the-southern-hemisphere/ http://www.ourthursday.com/2010/02/04/valentines-day-in-the-southern-hemisphere/#comments Thu, 04 Feb 2010 19:55:01 +0000 luke http://www.ourthursday.com/?p=742 Here at Our Thursday we have decided to do monthly themes in addition to our usual writing. This months theme of course is Valentine’s Day. Here is my submission…

It was February 14th, Valentine’s Day, and the plane just touched down on the runway. The scorching southern hemisphere summer was immediately apparent with the sweat stains of even the most ‘cool’ passengers. I plodded through customs with the same dejected look that I had been wearing for the last week. After picking up my very large backpack and very large suitcase, I waited in front of a shifty looking elevator which is supposed to deliver my even larger bicycle box. I stared vacantly through the closed elevator door, through the terminal behind it, over the Andes on the horizon, and into the past ten months that had defined my life in a more profound way than anyone could have ever asked for.

We met in a cigarette smoke filled club in a picturesque beach town. In an effort to prove to my American friends that I understood how a south American dance club works, I opened the front door, walked immediately towards the dance floor, and never turned my head. As the sea of dancers moved out of my way, I was introduced to a shining star that glowed brightly from ear to ear and had the face of someone who could read your mind, and I think she did.

“Ensename Salsa” I blurted out in an obscene version of Spanish. We danced, I forgot about my friends, we taught each other about worlds neither of us had known, we rubbed noses, shared our sweat, and dominated the dance floor as our vibrations rattled the nerves of all those around us.

The next day we shared a four person bicycle and crashed into a coffee shop. She joined my traveling companions and I for a day of adventure in the trees as we swung from giant tree to giant tree. We shared a spooky hotel with blood stains on the ground. I shared my already bad jokes in a language that I barely know. Two days later, we parted ways, sharing contact info and giving ’small hugs’ to say “It would be great to see you again, but I know I have to say that, understanding that we live on other sides of the world and likely it wont happen.”

One month later she visited me at my apartment in Argentina and we had annulled those bull-shit ’small hugs’. I learned about a person that defied all my preconceived notions regarding the opposite sex. We spent a week together in close proximity and life had never been so good. We talked for hours and would miss entire days of sunlight as we philosophized in our new language of love that we were developing and danced the night away. But again, she had to leave, and we parted ways yet again but this time we shared a more meaningful hug that was to say “I am so glad this happened, but again I know what our future holds and unfortunately it will be tough for us to share those futures.”

One month later, a friend and I spanned the width of South America to show up on her doorstep with no plans other than for me to stare into those eyes that had taken over my mind and given me the chance to love as I have never loved before. At 25, I was a child again in her arms and in her presence. We scampered up and down the beaches, the dance floors, and the karaoke dens, demonstrating to the world that together we were unbeatable, and we were. We went to the stars and looked down on the world that we controlled. The night before I left this final time, we embraced for hours, not talking, just sharing our inaudible thoughts. The future was more clear than ever now as my departure to the northern hemisphere loomed over my head. After three monumental and memorable meetings with the girl of my dreams, I had to runaway as I have done so much in the past. But this time I did not want to runaway, and it pained me to think that my life could not allow this thing that brought me so much pleasure, to materialize as we both envisioned.

Over the course of the rest of the year this long distance relationship slowly burgeoned into an actual relationship. Despite our recent failures with distance in our relationships, we persisted. We shared more and more about ourselves and our actions. We talked for hours and hours most days. I could not get this girl out of my head. On the first day of snow in england, I ran out in my underwear and made a snow angel for her. I cut a huge L and K into my lawn. I gave her a personal Elvis karaoke session. I took two spanish classes. I did a report on her countries national dance. I told her everything about me and whatever she asked, I told her. I wanted nothing to be hidden.

I struggled to not think about what this girl did every night that she danced in her sultry and seductive way with those big dark eyes staring at someone else other than me. I learned to not care because with a distance relationship, you need to take certain things for granted. If I deciphered all the innuendo that I read on her facebook page, I would assume the worst. What I cared about were the moments where it was just us interacting together and not through some proxy like facebook or videos. So whatever she would be doing on her countless nights on the dance floor that she loved to brag about and which she never showed me any pictures from, it was not important to me since I believed that the strong connection we felt now, would be obliterated once we were in front of each other and a whole new world would be revealed to ourselves.

Then, a week ago, she saw what appears to be a very incriminating video of myself. Although the video may appear to suggest the worst, the worst never happened, not n the slightest. I have never cared about someone so much as this girl in south America, and after such a long and arduous and mutual effort, I cannot even think about destroying what we have built so carefully. But in a relationship that requires you to feel and live through electronic images to stay current on the other, false evidence like this can be more than damning. How can I ask for trust and confidence with that staring her in the face? I know I would freak out as well if I saw the same thing with her, but ultimately I would have to believe whatever she said since that is all that I know. If she lied, I would know. If I am lying about this video, she would know. People who know me, know that I cannot lie.

With a week to go, our plans to circumnavigate south America and seize the day and night and each other at carnival in Rio, have been rinsed away. My half year vision that I had worked so hard for and committed so much to and changed so many things for, had evaporated in front of my eyes. Since the video incident, she has not talked to me and has ignored my pleas for compassion and resolution.

I snapped out of my blank stare as the elevator opened and out came my obscenely large bike box. I walked with a very heavy backpack on my back, a small backpack around my front for counter-balance, my left hand pulling a large roller suitcase, and my right hand pulling an awkward bike box that keeps dragging on the ground as I go over little bumps in the ground. The sweat was overwhelming and I was glad that I was surrounded in backpacks to hide the sweat stains that they were creating.

I got settled in my new apartment, pieced my bicycle together, then went for a ride where I intended to get lost for many an hour so as to get to know my new city in life and figure out what to do next. I did not have the thing that I knew would give me the strength and will to dominate this city and this continent. I chuckled to myself as I pondered the future, thinking back to this moment in time, the Valentines Day I would never forget. I chuckled at the fact that I had learned to feel true love through the intangible ether that linked our vast divide, and ultimately, it was that divide that destroyed our love with pre-conceived notions, erroneous conclusions, and self-inflicted broken hopes. And the best (worst) part about it, is that we never saw each other again to try and understand each other in real life and not in the virtual one.

As a result I decided I should start walking around school in mocassins with a tight little poof encircling the ankle. Very comfortable. Rain or shine, the moccasins were worn. “Luke! It’s pouring out here, think the moccasins will hold.” I would look down, squish my toes so we both could see the little bubbles coming out of the top, “Definitely.”

This was the year I wore a deer skin backpack. Likely harvested from a back woods garage sale by my mother, it had a great solid rectangle shape just right for 1.5 books. The moment I walked into my first class with the backpack, the guy behind me jumps out of his seat, snorting and bellowing like the sea winds, “What the fuck is that smell?” Deer skin does not age without odor.

To cap it off, this year I thought I was too cool for school so I went on Senior Spring Break Trip. When the dust settled our team had been assembled.

• Giant Tick – A larger than life individual both in mind and spirit who has moved to Japan to make himself look even larger. He was planning on ‘banging’ 58 girls that week in Puerto Vallarta and he came prepared.
• Fire Crotch – Tall red head with pale skin who walks around 86% of the time like he just doesn’t have a clue. Very effective with ladies and men it seemed.
• Hairy Chest – Can attract ladies to him from several stone throws away. Uses his very hairy chest to keep them around. Knew a little spanish.
• Myself – Just started drinking shortly before this trip. School nerd.

I have highlighted the Tick in the list above because he turns out to be the protagonist in this story. Puerto Vallarta Spring Break was amazing and deserves a blog in itself but I do need to highlight the two things I can remember mostly about the Tick from that weekend.

1. He arrives, parading around his giant box of condoms screaming out “I am going to judge the amount of fun I have this week by the number of these I use.” After 4 days the Tick had visibly failed in his efforts and likely failed in his life as well but that remained to be seen. When he was napping one day, I opened up many of his condoms and laid them chaotically on the floor, and laid a few on his face and body. I woke him up violently and yelled at him while pointing to the condoms “Are we having fun yet?” He was not impressed.
2. The two of us arrived back to the hotel and followed a group of people back to their room for some drinks. The girl I was attached to seemed to be enjoying herself until we got into the room and sat down on the bed with everyone around. In a state of tiredness and drunkenness, I started to kiss and suck this girls back. But with my eyes closed I started to wander to far off lands and forget myself there in that hotel room. From the way the Tick described it to me, I started to forcibly french kiss her back, slightly jarring her and making conversation awkward. I started to rub my nose druel all over her in an effort to dig my tongue far down the small of her back. The Tick had to smack me and say “What the fuck are you doing?” To which I could only reply “Some good salt back here.”

So the Giant Tick finished Puerto Vallarta in generally a blah mood. We all went to our respective houses when we got home and that was that. The Tick had more on his plate, however, from the moment he entered his house. He was welcomed with a letter informing him that he was going to court for statutory rape with his girlfriend who was still 17 and the Tick was recently 18. The details are not important, it was the way in which the Tick reacted.

The night I got back I received a call from the Tick. In a very monotone and hushed voice, he requested my presence at the IHOP on Sycamore. He would explain the details when I got there but I had to be “Ready for something big” and I had to wear black. I was intrigued and scampered to the IHOP after finding a half black shirt.

“Gentleman, I am glad you have decided to join me on this mission tonight.” says the Tick with his head bowed down close to the table implying we should do the same.

“I have asked you here so we can agree on what we are going to do when we execute operation Dark Terror. Dark Terror is a collective effort to bring justice and retribution to myself, my family, and my friends,” he contined. I looked at the other guys around to see if they felt the same way i did that I did not feel like I personally needed retribution or justice.

After drawing some wiggly lines on the back of a place mat we headed to the back of Tick’s faded brown oldsmobile, the kind with a giant trunk. He pops open the huge trunk door and reveals the following.

• 144 eggs in cartons
• a goat head
• a few packs of chicken hearts
• a few packs of chicken feet
• a giant bucket of bleach
• More ghoulish goods from the chinese market

We had decided that I would be in charge of the chicken hearts and goat head since I was the only one that would touch them. The plan was to sneak up to his girlfriends parents house and unleash all the contents of his trunk in a sneaky and clever way. The tick was in charge of the bucket of bleach since he was the only one who could carry it around. Someone took control of the chicken feet and I had my items.

We parked two houses down in a rather well lit neighborhood. We got out and snuck our way to the house. I began plopping chicken hearts on the walk way leading up to the door. When I got to the door I looked behind me and I could see a classic image that will never leave my brain. Imagine a Giant Tick walking on a freshly cut lawn with a soft yellow light around him as he saunters around the lawn whistling to himself as he sprinkles bleach over the lawn as if he was feeding the pigeons.

I turned back to the job at hand which was to rest the goat head on the door handle so when they opened the door, it would fall into their house, and hopefully touch a fancy white dog or something. Just when I placed the skull, the lights turned on and the door opened. I looked up, made eye to eye contact with someone I had never seen before and they would have had no way to know who I was, and then I began running and kicking off my sandals so I could run faster barefoot. I sprinted a street down and then hid in some trash cans.

I waited maybe 10 minutes, then sprinted to our rendezvous point which is where I was collected but then in a fantastic demonstration of bad idea making, we circled back around, drove right up to the house, got out of the car, and started throwing 144 eggs. Now 3 people throwing 144 eggs is difficult, time consuming, and to be accurate, you really need to concentrate. It might have taken 30 seconds to unload all of them. For about 10 seconds of that a man was running directly at us, bald head pointing down to give us a splendid target. He regretted his choice to sprint across the road immediately.

I always wonder how long the guy was looking at me through the keyhole trying to figure out what I was doing.

“Is that… Are those… chicken hearts?” while squinting through the peep hole. “Wait. No. It can’t be. Is that… Nooo. Really? A goat head?” As he jumps up to shoo me away.

The first difference to be noticed is in street salesmanship. Although the US has some corner-solicitors (Green Peace, UNICEF, etc.) it does not come close to the in-your-face angling that happens on every Turkish market street. Buyrun! Buyrun efendim! – Come in! Come in Sir!, they say. As I walk down the street I have merchants yelling at me to enter and listing what food or wares they have available that day. Its particularly funny when I am the only person walking by and they all start singing their salesman-siren songs in chorus to (at) me, only to here them slowly quiet down as leave the vicinity. It took my a while to get used to, and it doesn’t bother me much anymore. However, one thing that I will never become accustomed to is a merchant stepping in my walking path to try to get me in his store. It angers me more than it should, and I am determined not to change course and force the intrusive peddler to get our of my way – so far, no mid-sidewalk collisions. Why are they so aggressive? My ideas; First, its a bargaining culture where salesmanship is important. Second, money – people need it, so they need to sell. And third, their stands and stores are packed with countless items that overflow onto the sidewalk – they must take forever to set up every morning. The more they sell the less they have to haul back in at night. Perhaps, if I were in their place I’d be a fiendishly aggressive merchant as well.

The Jungle

If I submit, the next step in the transaction is the initial pricing and bargaining. There are sometimes no labeled prices and interacting with the vender at every stage of the buying-experience is a must (unlike the US system where you often will not see someone until you pay, and even then perhaps not). The prices, upon hearing my accent, are often too high. I do not usually pay this price. At this point we are at a stalemate, the ball is in the vendor’s court. More often than not they ask about me and offer me a seat and drink a tea. Getting to know your customer is a widely practiced salesman tradition here, even by a man (they are mostly men) selling soap or backgammon boards. At this time the interaction can go two ways; EITHER, they become increasingly bent on making a sale, perhaps excited by the prospect of making a 200% profit off an ignorant foreigner. Now that I am familiar with how much things should run, or at least where I can get them cheaper, I fall for this less than before. Mostly they resign themselves and start yelling to other potential customers, but often I perceive genuine anger that they cannot extort me and will never come down to even a reasonable price. But this is a fraction of the time.

OR, more commonly, there is a positive reaction to my bargaining prowess – and this part, I think, is truly indicative to Turkish cultural hospitality and one of the many reasons I love it here. We start to talk, mostly about me; where I am from, why I am in Turkey, whether or not I like Turkey, why I am learning Turkish, etcetera. They almost always compliment me on my Turkish and say how good it is. They then often tell me of a family member living abroad, usually in the US or Canada, but sometimes they’ll tell me about relatives living in the Czech Republic or Japan as if ‘abroad’ is one place and their nephew living in Germany has any significance for me. But, it’s well-intentioned conversation and I politely ask follow-up questions. I do enjoy these friendly vendors a lot. When we finally get back to talking shop the price will have reduced dramatically. Indeed, there is a direct correlation to how long I talk to the person and how low the price is. Sometimes, I am convinced they are selling to me at a loss.

After the deal is struck the friendly vendors will often throw in extra shit that I usually don’t want (stickers, extra onions, a lighter), but would be impolite to refuse. The other day I bought flowers for my girlfriend at a sidewalk cart, and after talking a while, after paying, when I was ready to leave he abruptly handed me a second bouquet and told me to have a nice day. I gave my girlfriend two bouquets of flowers that day.

So, compared to the well-organized but sterile department store culture of America, the Turkish consumer system, despite is Americanization (malls), remains frustrating, warm, flexible, and exciting.

-Charles P. Pearson

Her name was Kelly Hensler, but we called her K.H. My progress over the years with her could be described as dismal at best. In first grade, I threw powdered chalk in her best friend’s eyes. K.H. turned to me and shouted “What did you do that for!?” then followed her friend into the bathroom. In second grade, I asked her if she wanted to see me make my face turn red. I breathed heavily for a minute, then let out all the air in my lungs. I put my arms around my neck and strained all the muscles in my body as hard as I could. I think this made me pass out because when I got up from the floor, she was in a casual conversation with a friend and it seemed like a considerable amount of time had passed. In 3rd grade, I stood right behind her in the ragtag choir our class had assembled for the annual school play. In rehearsal I thought it was funny to sing not just the boys part, but also the girls, with a much higher pitch voice. She turned around and glared at me when I did this.

Each year she got a circle around her yearbook picture, accompanied by two or three hearts. I would draw lines connecting her picture to the hearts as if they were radiating off of her. When looking through some of my other friends’ yearbooks, I would see multiple girls circled. I considered this tacky. While they would tentatively place circles around multiple girls with a pencil, so the mistake could easily be erased, I confidently drew a heavy circle around K.H. with a ball point pen. I paid no regard for any other classmates’ pictures I might be destroying in the process (sorry Keith Hayes and Jessica Hill).

Nate Lufkin, my best friend at the time, felt the same way about her. His success with her had been equal, if not worse, than mine. We decided to combine forces and collect as much information on her that we could, basically anything that might give us a better chance. We had plenty of practice observing our parents, neighbors and older brothers. We developed code words like “K.H.” to disguise our conversations, and we had safety spots where we would meet up before and after a mission. After my parents bought me a junior spy kit for my 9th birthday, equipped with 2 walkie talkies, binoculars, and morse code charts, I considered myself an expert.  Perched in the tree out front of my parents house for about 20 minutes, I would hear a “KSCCCHH 5 minutes till SB over!” . . ” Copy that N.L. meet me in the L.R.. . .over and out.” We would then take a 30 minute break from our espionage to watch Saved by the Bell in my parents living room.

We knew that B.D., or more commonly know to outsiders as Brian’s Dad, would arrive home between 5:00 and 5:30 p.m. We knew that B.D. would park his white 1991 Toyota Corolla on the sidewalk out front and then walk to the front door with his brief case in hand. We also knew that if one dropped a rotten orange on him while making this walk to the front door, he would get extremely upset.

We knew that N.B., a.k.a Nate’s brother, would return from Junior High at about 3:30, sometimes alone but more often than not, accompanied by 2 or more friends. We knew that they would shut the door to his room and listen to Nirvana and Pearl Jam albums for hours at a time. We knew that if one were caught peaking through the blinds of the window or crouched by the door, one would have to go through intense interrogation and ridicule. The door would quickly swing open as I was hunched down trying to hear their conversation. “Hey John! . . I was just umm . . just you know, securing the purmataters,” I’d say as he towered over me. “I uhhh really like that song you dudes were listening to about smelly teens!” I’d plead in a diplomatic voice. “It’s parameters, you fuckin dipshit, and the song is called “Smells Like Teen Spirit!” he’d say as he quickly slammed the door in my face. I’d scratch down in my notebook “per-am-a-ters . . Smells Like Teen Spirit . .  don’t disturb while in room.”

One day, we decided we were finally ready to put our finely tuned skills to the test. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, was one of grave importance. It would be the mission to end all missions. We were going to spy on K.H.

Time: 1300 hours

Destination : Indian Hills

Mission: Espionage

Objective: Acquire all possible information on the subject known as K.H.

I rifled through my closet looking for my binoculars.  I hastily shoved them in my backpack, along with my shoes (for hiking), my walkie talkie (for communication), my water bottle (for hydration and possibly catching tadpoles as a side project), and my bag of teddy grahams (for nutrition). After a small debate, we decided to put on our black hooded sweatshirts. Just in case we were caught, they would be the perfect camouflage for hiding in the dirt hills of Simi Valley during broad daylight. We laced up our rollerblades and headed out.

There were practice runs before this mission. I would tell my dad we forgot something at a friends house in Indian Hills. He’d drive us around the neighborhood as we scoped things out and took shrewd mental notes of the landscape and terrain. After weeks of detective work, in and out of the classroom, we had compiled 15 numbers.

581 2756: telephone number

9: age

1476: address

7: times we thought she looked at us during recess

11: times we thought she looked at us during lunch

We had driven by her house only a couple times. Each time we did, Nate and I would sink down so low in our seats that it looked like the driver of the vehicle was alone. I would look up at the blue sky and tree branches covered with leaves as they spun by in a chaotic manner. I would always wait an extra 5 seconds longer than I needed to before finally lifting my head up past the door where it would be visible to outsiders. “Did you see anything?” one of us would ask excitedly afterwards. “Yea I think so, what about you?” . . “Yea I think so.

We took off our rollerblades where the gravel met the dirt and started hiking through the hills that separated our neighborhood from the Indian Hills neighborhood. We passed by the creek where we would normally look for tadpoles. When we got to the top of Bald Hill, we could see the cul-de-sac where K.H. lived. From here on out, it was whispers and hand gestures. We set our backpacks down behind some tall bushes that separated the mountains from suburbia. We started making our way to the target destination, jumping behind parked cars, trees, and bushes every time we heard a car drive by. When we got close enough to the house, we assessed the situation from a side yard nearby.

“I think we can get a clear shot of the front door from behind those trees across the street. What do you think?” Nate asked. “Too risky.” I replied. “I say we hide behind those bushes in the neighbors lawn. We won’t be able to see the front door but its got a clear shot of the mailbox. Someone has to go out and get the mail right?” He looked around further to see if there were any better options. “Ok,” he whispered.

We were wedged between a row of trees and bushes, concealed from all angles. We sat impatiently, watching and constantly shooshing each other every time we heard a twig snap. “Do you think K.H gets the mai. . ” My question was interrupted by the loud obtrusive sound of a garage door being opened. I looked to my right and Nate was in a full sprint down the sidewalk, already 2 houses down. I dropped the binoculars in my hand and started chasing after him. We ran back to the spot where we left our backpacks. “Did . . . you . . see . . .anything?” I asked, in between taking big gulps of air. “I . . think. . so, ” he replied. “Did . . you?” . . “I . . think . . so.”

We caught our breath and then discussed in full detail what had just happened. What we heard, what we saw, what we were thinking. “I have to go back!” I exclaimed, realizing I left a pair of binoculars in the neighbors yard with the initials B.P. on them and my parents’ home telephone number. “She finds those and calls my number and we’re dead!”

Time: 1500 hours

Destination: K.H.’s neighbors’ bushes

Mission: Retrieval

Objective: Safely return binoculars without being caught

“You stay back here and be on the lookout, in case we get ambushed. If you see or hear anything just yell PEA SOUP.” I started to walk out when I heard a car driving by. “Pea soup!” Nate said in a screaming kind of whisper. I jumped back behind the cover of the bushes. Whew, that was close!

I walked down the sidewalk, back towards the house, crouched down like I was ducking behind some sort of invisible wall. I jumped behind the side of the house where we had met up earlier and looked around to see if there was anyone out. I darted across the street and into the bushes where we were hiding before. “Yesssss” I said in a Napoleon Dynamite kind of way as I picked up my binoculars. Just as I did this, I heard the front door of the neighbors’ house open. I ran back to our spot with my hood over my head and my binoculars in my hand. “PEA SOUP!” I shouted. “PEA SOUP!” Nate timidly peeked his head out of the bushes to see me frantically running. I waved my arms at the direction of the hills, indicating for him to “Run! Save yourself! It’s too late for me!” I jumped behind the bushes and grabbed my backpack. We both started running down the dirt hill.

“What happened?” Nate finally asked when we got far enough into the hills where we couldn’t see civilization anymore. “The front door started to open when I grabbed my binoculars. I ran as soon as I heard the noise.” He stopped and thought about this for a second. “Was it K.H.?” he asked in a very excited tone. “Yea . . . I think so”

“Do you want anything to eat?” my dad asked as I walked into the kitchen at 7:30 a.m., still half asleep. “No thanks,” I answered as I took off my Dodgers hat. I decided not to wear it since it might be a conversation starter. “No Man Left Behind” was the name of the mens Christian conference I had agreed to go to with my dad. He had shown me the flyer a few weeks before and asked me if I wanted to go with him. “I would really appreciate it if you could come,” he said in a way that sounded like it had been rehearsed a few times. I thought about it for a week and then said yes.

Ronald Reagan Library 8:00 a.m.

It was a cool summer morning and a thick layer of fog sat on the top of the hill. We stepped out of the car and the sound of the doors being shut echoed. A black sign with white magnet letters reading ”VALIANT MEN” and an arrow pointing to the left stood at the front of the building. The sign was accompanied by a man in a white polo shirt with a name tag that said “Greg.” He greeted us both with an awkward half hug and pointed us in the same direction. We walked through a series of rooms until we finally got to the last sign that lead us down a staircase. As we got closer, I could hear the sound of a choir getting louder and louder. I quickly thought about giving my Dad the “Hey whats that!” routine, then bolting up the stairs and out the door.

“Do you want anything to eat?” my dad asked as he pointed to the long table against the wall. It had croissants, danishes, fruit, and pitchers of juice. “No thanks,” I answered. We walked to a table to the left that had a bunch of laminated name tags on it. There was one that said “No Man Left Behind”, and underneath it read “Brian Pratt”. My dad handed me the tag before he grabbed his own and I pinned it to my shirt. I then sat down at a table between my dad and Mickey Jones. Mickey Jones is a celebrity that lives in Simi and can sometimes be seen in local commercials promoting small business. He was Bob Dylan’s drummer in the 60’s but you would better recognize him from his work as one of Tim the Tool Man’s grunts on the popular show, Home Improvement.

“Do you want anything to eat?” my Dad asked as he started to get up from his seat. “No thanks,” I answered. He headed towards the table of refreshments while the choir started to disassemble. A man came up to the microphone about the time my dad came back to our table with a plastic plate full of food and a small glass of orange juice. I can’t remember his name but I referred to him as “Prop Guy”. He liked to bring out objects on stage that worked as metaphors for his lectures. He wasn’t really the speaker, more like the guy who hosts an open mic and gives a few jokes before the headliners come on. He had a flashlight in his hand. He pointed to the batteries and compared our faith to the light shone by the flashlight, and then compared the batteries to our practice in the faith. “Sometimes we get distracted by the sins of the world and our light grows dimmer and dimmer until. . . ” there was a pause as he took out the batteries, extinguishing the light, “. .our light goes out.” He held up the batteries and said, in the kind of commanding voice you would expect to hear from a general about to lead his troops into battle: ”Today gentlemen, we need to recharge our batteries!” There were several Amens that followed this and one “That was good!” that came from a guy who I called the “That was good! Guy”.

He asked us all to join him in prayer.  This must have reminded my dad that he needed to turn off his phone. He took off his glasses and stared at the gadget in his hand that rings about 8 times a year. He pressed a few buttons and a loud goodbye chiming sound went off for a long 5 seconds just as we had all bowed our heads and closed our eyes. As Prop Guy was praying, Mickey started to get up and walk toward the door. I thought this to be an odd time to leave the conference, especially when you are kind of a celebrity. Just then Prop Guy announced that Mickey would also be giving a small prayer.

“You may remember me from the popular television show, Home Improvement,” he modestly started. I would like to lead every man in here with a good Tool Time grunt before I start this prayer. Several followed him with this; I was not one of them. We then bowed our heads again and he explained how he hoped that the words spoken today would pierce the hearts of everyone in the room and that we would one day restore the U.S.A. to a Christian nation again. AMEN.

A bald-headed younger man in his mid-thirties with a goatee and button-up plaid shirt took the stage. This was the main speaker, an edgy, unorthodox Hollywood minister who specialized in converting the young non-believers of today’s society. I think this was why my dad asked me to come. He gave a kind of small intro as to who he is and what he does, then he started the sermon. His voice immediately changed to a much louder and commanding tone. He spoke in that distinct way that only ministers seem to. It has a format of:  Shout a problem, rephrase and shout the problem again, then whisper the solution. It goes something like this, and I’ll use caps to indicate the shouting because he was in fact, screaming into the microphone: ”PEOPLE THINK BECAUSE I’M A GOOD PERSON I WILL GO TO HEAVEN!!. .OR BECAUSE I’VE DONE GOOD THINGS I WILL GO TO HEAVEN!!  . . . . but we know that Jesus is the only way. . . . Amen.”

The conference was called “No Man Left Behind” and it had a battleground theme. After his first lecture they showed a video on the projector with heroic images of soldiers in battle accompanied by music that might possibly have been the soundtrack to the movie Glory. Inspiring phrases like ” Don’t talk it, live it” popped up on the screen. Then the “This is my rifle. . ” speech from Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket played while the image of a bible was locked on the screen. When it ended, the lights slowly turned on, revealing Prop Guy standing behind the podium holding a bible in his hand. “To protect your family. . and yourself . . THIS! (he held up the bible in his tightly clinched hand) is your number one weapon!” “AMEN.” “amen.” “Amen” . . . “That was good!”

Lecture 2 started. Losing interest, I stopped taking notes and went back to my old methods of passing time in church. I doodled and sketched on the handouts that were passed out. I filled in the open spaces in letters like O or D with a black ballpoint pen. I counted the number of shirts that had bible verses on the back (5). I counted the number of socks/sandals combinations (7). I counted the number of bald men (26! lose hair, find Jesus?). I gave an award for worst shirt in the place. I didn’t read the front but the back said “Got Integrity?”

“Do you want any dessert?” my Dad asked, pointing to the piece of cheesecake he had on his plate. ” No thanks,” I answered. We had just finished lunch and the third installment of this lecture was about to begin. But not before a group of middle aged black men with peppered hair took the stage. They were dressed in army green camouflaged shirts accompanied by cargo pants and black leather boots. They called themselves the Salvation Soldiers. They took traditional hymns and sang them in a soulful R&B kind of style. This 10 minute concert was by far the best part of the day. For the first time in 4 hours, I wasn’t taking notes, drawing pictures,  or re-writing the names of all the U.S. presidents in an attempt to memorize them all. I just sat back in my seat and watched. Their humorous appearance and silly name was forgotten once they began to sing into their microphones. They swayed left and right to the rhythm like they were doing back up vocals for Diana Ross in the 60’s. Their heads were tilted back facing the sky and their arms were raised. At one point, the song had a break down in which the biggest, deepest voiced man started speaking to the lord with the harmonious humming of the rest of the group set as the background. It was kind of like a Boyz ll Men song but replace the word “baby” with “Jesus”. After he begged Jesus for forgiveness and asked Jesus to come back into his life, the remaining 4 burst out into chorus again. It all ended in a climactic, passion-fueled a cappella performance that was quickly followed by an uproar of applause and several amens. “That was good!” I said to my Dad.

Prop Guy took the microphone and then introduced a member of the congregation that wanted to share a few words with everyone. I referred to him as “Douche Bag Guy”. He was in his late 40’s and had one of those body types that looked like 75% percent of his weight was from the waist up. His story was one I believe to be very similar to most Christians: I was young and I used to go out and drink and party all the time, but now I don’t. I go to church instead. If you follow me, you too can experience the joy and fulfillment one gets from not partying, drinking, or having pre-marital sex. I tried to imagine the inner monologue going through the pastors head when Douche Bag Guy asked to speak at this conference. “Your voice should never be amplified in a room full of attentive ears” is what he might have thought, but instead what came out was “Thats a great idea”.

He told a story about a friend of his in the Christian community. The man was currently going through a rough divorce, and being that he had been through one himself, he was able to offer advice. The man’s wife was leaving him because he had an alleged addiction to porn. I attempted to hide my disbelief as best I could when he said this. I tried to imagine a scenario in which beating off was grounds for divorce. Was it barely legal porn? Was he hiding some creepy blow up doll? Was it girl on girl? Girl on machine? Guy on girl? Horse on girl? Did they have any kids together? Like maybe a 15 year old son? Would she disown him if she found a Playboy magazine in his closet? I started to daydream about this man calling up his long lost friends from high school, briefing them on the story, then being dragged to a strip club against his will. I made a silent prayer that he would have at least one friend that would do this for him. Amen.

Douche Bag Guy related this to his own struggles with addiction. “After my divorce, I found myself sitting there at night, staring at a bible and a bottle of whiskey. . . the bottle would always win” he regrettably admitted. For the first time in my life, I desperately wanted to shout out “Git’er Done!” Instead, I scratched on the tiny piece of paper I was taking notes on: “D bag – bible – whiskey”.

Finally the main speaker came back on. It was a relief to see him back up, kind of like in American Idol when you get sick of watching all the bad auditions and they finally bring in someone that can sing. After the closing prayer he invited anyone who wanted to re-dedicate their lives to Jesus to stay behind. Sort of like a pseudo baptism. Look for a volunteer with the words “Stephen Ministry” on the name tag and they will give you the guidance you need to get your life back on track. “Ready to go?” I asked my Dad. We left and I thanked him for taking me as we drove home, listening to oldies on the radio. Later that week, I rented Bill Maher’s documentary Religulous. After rehearsing it a few times, I put the DVD case in front of my dad and said “I would really appreciate it if you could watch this.”