the problem with paul

Two days after our last hang out, Paul had called eight times, an average of one call every six hours. As soon as his name popped up on my caller ID, I screened the call. It wasnt so much that I didnt want to talk to him, as it was that I had so much math homework and so little time. I knew what Paul had to say wasnt really important, because the messages he left me were about five minute long and about nothing in particular. Just random ramblings of nothingness.

Tuesday came, and foolishly, I answered the phone to a neurotic Paul, who, for the next two hours, told me how his Ex had called, asking to reconcile with him. It was a relationship problem that Paul knew the answer to. Hell, he even had relationship stories that supported and proved his theory that getting back together with his Ex was just no good.

The problem with Paul's ex, was sex. The problem wasnt a lackthereof, but rather, too much. Paul's ex, treated sex, the same way a smoker treats a ciggerate. It was a substance he abused and a substance he craved daily. He wasnt a sex offender per se, but he was pretty darn close. And it made me wonder...if Paul already knew the answer, why was he still working the problem out in his head? As Paul kept blabbing on, he left me no room to excuse myself, so naturally, I pulled the cord out of the wall. I figured I would just blame it on a bad connection, cuz those excuses work, right?

On Wednesday, I was shopping with my friend Rose, who had recently formed a theory that she could save money on clothes, by dressing her old clothes with accessories. I didn't have the heart to tell her that her theory of style relativity had already been discovered, so I went along for style support.

We strolled around the mall and ended up in Aldo Shoes, where Rose admired sequined wedges and I admired this really cool rosary necklace. I was trying it on for size, when who should walk, or rather, jump into the store, but Paul, estatic to see me.

PAUL: David! Hey!
ME: Oh, hey Paul.
PAUL: What are you doing here?!
ME: I'm just browsing. You?
PAUL: I was gonna buy some shoes...what's that on your neck?
ME: Huh? Oh. Yeah, isnt it cool?
PAUL: David are you Catholic?
ME: Why?
PAUL: I cant be friends with people who are Catholic!
ME: Well, first of all, I'm not Catholic.
PAUL: Then why are you wearing a rosemary necklace?!
ME: Uh, it's called a rosary. And I'm wearing it because I think it looks cool.
PAUL: Do you know that piece of jewelery goes against everything that I believe in?!
ME: What? Fashion?
PAUL: Fuck you...
ME: What?
PAUL: You heard me.
ME: You know what? Shut up, leave me alone. Rose, I'm leaving!

As I walked out the door, Rose asked me who Paul was. I told her I didnt know, which was the truth. The guy in the shoe store wasnt the same guy I knew from the past weekend. The guy in the shoe store was someone completely different. Paul heard me answer Rose and in a loud voice, he bellowed inside the mall:

PAUL: OH! YOU DONT KNOW ME?! MUTHAFUCKA WE WENT OUT TWO TIMES! FUCKIN' COCK TEASE!

Yup. I didnt know that guy at all.

Paul's outrageous accusations confused me. Why was he ready to judge me by wearing a rosary? And why did he think that Me + rosary = Catholic fanatic? Even if I was, didnt my social experiment of going out with him, twice nonetheless, hold some kinda ground that I didnt care about what he believed in? I wondered about this last night as I was telling my friend Maria about Paul, when all of a sudden, my doorbell rang. It was Paul. Crying and begging for forgiveness.

PAUL: Fuck you, you bitch! I love you! And you dont love me!

Well Paul, I'm not sure if you know this, but I'm not gay. I was scared. Paul was banging my front door, and my friend Maria had a low, almost dead, battery, which meant, I was all alone. So I did the next best thing and called my friend Madelaine.

MADELAINE: Hello?
ME: Madelaine! Dude! Guess who's at my front door?!
MADELAINE: Who?
ME: Paul!
MADELAINE: Shut up! You're lying!
ME: No! Watch, listen!
MADELAINE: Is that the doorbell?
ME: Yes!
MADELAINE: Dude! Shut up! What is he saying?
PAUL: You're a fuckin' cock tease! You go out with me and you dont call?!
ME: Did you hear him?
MADELAINE: No! Just the doorbell!

I turned all the lights off, hoping and praying that Paul would think I wasnt at home.

PAUL: You make me crazy!

Then what was your excuse before? It wasnt that I was afraid of Paul, it's that I worried he might do something that would bring harm to himself.

PAUL: I love you! I'm sorry, but I love you!

I stood by my window, peeking through the blinds, shaking my head, as Paul ran into the middle of the street, drunk and professing his love for me. How did a drunken gay guy expect his sober straight friend to fall in love with him, after he referred to him as a "cock tease."

Paul left a half hour later, leaving both a broken bottle of Smirnoff in the middle of the street and the answer to a problem. I guess guys and girls can be friends. I guess straights and gays can be friends. The only unstable variable that wont make the equation work out is sex. Sex is the thing that complicates everything. Who knew, after all these years, that my mother, my pastor, and my nude model counselor was right. After all, wasn't it sex that complicated my relationship with my lesbian liasion, April? Wasn't the possibility of having to do sex the thing that kept me from going to San Diego with Bryan? And wasnt sex the final step in the problem that Paul needed from me to be with me? Too bad that's one equation that will never work out. And too bad I'll never find out if I truely am a cock tease.

a cinder-fella story

Once upon a time, in a fairytale storybook, all the tales were one-sided. It was the princess that got all the best perks. Think about it. Custom designed clothes and shoes, lovers with money and vast amounts of real estate, and the ability to sleep for years without aging a day. But what did the prince's get? They got wives who were lazy, wives with obsessive complusive cleaning disorders, and wives who had a history of sleeping with little men. Undoubtedly unfair. So it came as no surprise, that I was chosen to break such a tradition.

Friday night, I was contemplating on who to go out with: Corrie or Gay Guy? With Corrie, I could almost predict what kind of night we would have. With my Gay Guy, I wasn’t as sure, since I really didn’t know anything about him. Not even his name. The only thing I knew was that he was going to pick me up at seven, in front of my house.

At that moment my phone rang. It was Gay Guy, who turned out to be a guy named Paul. He was already on the road and said he’d be in my area in half an hour. Contemplating whether to go out with a guy or a girl took more time than I thought. So with a half hour to go and no fairy godmother in sight to help me out, I donned my faded DKNY jeans and my square-toed, Italian chocolate, patent leather shoes. Sure, they weren’t glass slippers, but like the hot sales girl said, they did shine.

At 7:03, in lieu of arriving via golden pumpkin and white horses, Paul arrived in a 2001 BMW E46 M3. That combination of letters and numbers said two things to me: 1) the guy obviously had good taste in cars and 2) hello, new friend!

PAUL: Hi! I'm Paul!
ME: I'm David.
PAUL: Well, David, let me just break the ice and be frank.
ME: Uh, OK...
PAUL: You have really nice eyes.
ME: Oh. Uh, thanks.
PAUL: And your shoes? I'm jealous!
ME: Oh, um...
PAUL: Am I making you nervous?
ME: No! No...it's just, well, I've never really done this before.
PAUL: Oh. Well, here. Take this.
ME: What is it?
PAUL: It's a diet supplementary with calcium. It'll calm you down.

We werent even 30 seconds into our gay date, and already Paul was judging me from head to toe. Literally. And despite offering me a diet pill, I had to admire and smile at Paul for being so honest. You had to give him props for being comfortable enough to be himself.

An hour later later we arrived at Anthony's In The Catalinas, a restaurant that boasted both a beautiful view of the Catalina Mountains and the number one place to be proposed to. Only seriously involved people dined there, so it was a little surprising that Paul chose this as a first dinner date.

Two appetizer's and a stuffed quail dinner later, I started to think of how nice it was that I was being treated out to a high-end restaurant and how good it felt that I didn’t actually have to pay for anything. But I couldn’t enjoy myself. I kept thinking that I would run into somebody I knew and I wondered what I would do or say if someone I knew approached me. Would I introduce Paul as a friend? Or as Social Experiment No. 69?

I mean, I barely knew the guy myself. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I wasnt as comfortable going out with a gay guy as I thought I was. I mean, sure, I've hung out with gay friends, but everytime I did, there was always a girl in the mix, you know? And I dont know if it was a girl's pressence that made me feel more at ease or if it was just the fact I didnt know Paul and this was all just "first-time-gay-date jitters", but something on my face let Paul something was up.

As it turns out, Paul was actually facing the same concerns. He had never hung out with a straight guy, one-on-one, and was intimidated to do anything I might deem as "queer." We laughed, and wondered if it was society's approval or our friends approval that kept us from being ourselves.

PAUL: Well, you know, Tucson really isnt a gay spot. Phoenix is.
ME: Well, that makes more sense. It's more urbanized.
PAUL: Meaning?
ME: Meaning that Tucson isnt really a hip-happenin' place. And to me, I've always thought the majority of you gay guys were hip-happenin kinda guys, so Phoenix would make a better place than here, you know?
PAUL: True.
ME: Plus, if it really is a gay spot, it would probably make this dinner go a lot smoother.
PAUL: What are you doing tomorrow?

Saturday afternoon, I found myself roaming down the isles of the IKEA store in Tempe with Paul. He had convinced me that because the greater Phoenix area was more open-minded than Tucson, and the fact we were less likely to run into somebody we knew, it would be a great way to start fresh.

So there we were, in a giant warehouse, in search for the perfect desk chair. But all Paul found was disappointment. Too hard. Too red. Too square. Too tall. To Paul, none of the chairs would suffice at all. So instead we ended our quest to find the perfect chair, and proceeded to find Paul the perfect boyfriend. It was weird scoping out possible lovers for my new gay friend on gay date number two, but when you put sexual orientation aside, wasnt Paul just another person looking for love? And when you put sexual orientation aside again, wasnt Paul was just a really cool guy?

In a city where nobody knew my name, away from the judgement of friends and family, it was easier to be myself. And as myself, I felt ashamed that it took me two outings and 200 hundred miles to realize I was an ass. Why was I so concerned about what my friends and family thought? Was I that shallow? Wasn't it their loss that they chose to be small minded and have few friends?

I was about to ask Paul if he was still weirded out about everything, when I started to wonder if it was possible for two people of the same sex, with different sexual orientation, to be friends? Or was it just as hard as a guy and a girl being friends? Was I still being small-minded like the evil, wicked step-people in fairy tales? You know, the ones that refused to let the heroes and heroines from living happily ever after...

my secret inhibition

Located in the heart of downtown, is a quaint little flower shop where my friend Madelaine works. It's a great place to pick a small bouquet for a friend or to just sit and talk with a friend. Which explained why I was there Wednesday morning.

As I helped my friend Madelaine cut and arrange Snap Dragons, she conveyed to me about her latest fixation, Michael. Madelaine had known Michael since high school, but after graduation, their contact faded. Until recently, when she ran into him at Hollywood video in the horror aisle. Which is a good aisle, because an aisle where you meet the potential love of your life is a good aisle.

Except, Madelaine wasnt sure if Michael was the potential love of her life. Their conversations were slow and short, but their make out sessions were long and heavy. And despite the fact, that Michael annoyed Madelaine greatly, something about him made her smile. And something about her made Michael smile, obviously, or else he wouldnt call her every night. But was it enough to be more than just friends?

Madelaine pondered about this, as Alice, the owner of the flower shop came in and gave her two cents.

ALICE: You should go for it. Be like, "Hey! So are we gonna do this?"
ME: Totally. Make the first move.
ALICE: Yeah. I mean you wanna pursue it, right?
MADELAINE: I think. I dont know. I just dont know if he likes me like I like him. I mean, he keeps saying, "You should take me out to dinner sometime," but I dont know if he's just joking or if he's serious.
ALICE: Well, the next time he says that, just be like, "When? Where?" Don't be so inhibited.
MADELAINE: What do you mean?
ALICE: I mean, there's probably a side to you, you're not showing. Dont be afraid to show it. When you find that right person, all your inhibitions are released.

I wondered if Alice was right. Did we all have some sort of secret inhibition, waiting to be released by that special someone? And if so, what was my secret inhibition? Was it a good inhibition or a bad one? And where was that person that was supposed to let it out?

I wondered about this the next day as I went to my morning journalism class. Ms Tyler blah-ed on about how to check our writings, while I sat at my computer, checking my blog friend Lisa's comedic re-telling of "The Frog Prince," The classic fairy tale story of a frog who had a secret inhibition that was discovered once the princess kissed him. As I laughed at Lisa's modern twist, Ms. Tyler saw me and craned her neck to see what I was looking at. Unfortunately, Ms. Tyler crane-d too far back and began to fall.

She pushed her upper body foward to balance out and made a grab for me to catch herself. I saw her yellow chalk-stained hands reach out to my baby blue jacket, and I freaked at the possibilty of having to go the rest of the day with a dusty green jacket, so I leaned foward, and put myself out of Ms. Tyler's reach. Ms. Tyler lost her balance, began to lean backward, grabbed for an empty chair, and fell ass-flat on the ground. The class fell silent. Ms. Tyler sat in silence. And I was anything but silent, as I tried to cover my snicker with a cough. I realized I couldnt laugh because the class would think of me as an asshole...the asshole who let his teacher fall and then laughed. So for 20 minutes, I sat there biting my lip and coughing, waiting for class to let out.

The moment it did, I burst out laughing, and was soon greeted by my fellow classmate, Corrie, the-not-so-hot-post-it girl. She laughed with me, in disbelief that I had actually let my teacher fall. Apparently, Corrie and I both had a sick and twisted sense of humor. And then it hit me. Was my sick and twisted sense of humor my inhibiton? It surely was something I had to hide, since it wasnt really accepted by most. Like the time I was at camp and my friend got shot in the leg with a beebee gun. He cried, while I laughed for hours at his pain. It wasnt something I was particularly proud of, but I had it. And was Corrie the special someone who let it out?

As Corrie and I laughed to my next class, she suggested we hang out on Friday, and do something. Which leads me to wonder...should I pursue the person who let out my sick and twisted secret inhibition? And if so, how would my gay date take it if I canceled for tonight? I mean, it wasnt an inhibition I had, so why am I still going through with it?

a funny feeling

When you go to a small college like I do, the odds of bumping into someone that blew you off, twice, are incredibly high. The odds of bumping into her when she's with her girlfriend, well, it's not so high, as it is just plain odd.

Yesterday, I ran into my good friend Chloe. We swapped tales of our wild weekends, and it was determined, hands down, that I had suffered the most, which meant a giant double chocolate cookie was in order.

As we walked to the cafeteria, I got a funny feeling in my stomach. It was the kind of feeling you get when you know something's gonna happen, but you're not exactly sure what. And sure enough, something did happen. There was April, laughing with what I thought was a fellow female classmate. I hadnt really contemplated as to what I would do if I saw her again, much less run into her, so I turned and suggested to Chloe we go somewhere else. Of course, Chloe wanted to see the infamous April and wouldnt leave until she got a good long view of the girl. And that's when she recognized her. It was her lesbian friend Kiki, as she was affectionately known. And the fellow female classmate? Well, it wasnt just a random classmate. It was her girlfriend, as she was affectionately known.

Chloe then began to inform me that April and her girlfriend Melinda had been thinking of going steady for some time. April had considered herself to be bisexual but had never actually done anything with a guy, which explained the reason why I was a one-time thing (which, she should have said something, you know?). Chloe laughed when she realized I was April's mystery date and then asked if we really did have sex. Apparently my lesbian liaison stretched the truth, which at first made me smile, but then frown when I realized she went back to being a lesbian.

Chloe and I made our way back to the quad, as I told her my side of the date story. As Chloe laughed at my tale of woe, our friend Starr came up and Chloe wasted no time filling her in. Starr symathized with me as she shared her bad weekend dating experience.

STARR: Why cant guys and girls be friends? I talk to a guy, and automatically they think I'm interested in them and I wanna date them.
ME: Well, you are pretty.
STARR: Oh, well, thanks. But I'm serious. I cant talk to a guy without them thinking I'm looking for just more than friendship. I'm telling you...the only good guy, is a gay guy.
ME: That's not true.
STARR: Yes. It is. Think about it. You dont have to worry about whether or not your pretty because they totally boost your self esteem. All a gay guy expects is for you to be your fabulous self.
ME: That's like saying, the only good girl is a gay girl, cuz then guys dont have to impress them. They just have to be their fabulous self.
STARR: Have you ever been on a date with a lesbian?
ME: Uh, hello?!
STARR: Ok, well have you ever been on a date with a gay guy?
ME: No! Have you?
STARR: Well, you should. It's fun!

It was at that moment in time, Starr created a social experiement. Were gays better at dating than straight people? Was dating someone of the same sex easier or harder? I dont know. But what I do know is I have a date with a gay guy this Friday and Starr has a date with a gay girl, something she was only too happy to do. And I have a funny feeling that it's something she's wanted to do for a while now...

the little ignored voice

On Friday, I went shopping for my homeless. It was a tough project, I'll admit, since I wasn’t exactly sure what the homeless were wearing these days. But I figured, after reading a few of your comments, that several pairs of jeans, t-shirts, and a jacket, would suffice. And I figured, if Junie was homeless since the 70's, he probably hadn’t worn anything new in close to over 30 years, which meant no Goodwill or thrift store.

Instead, we went to Marshall's, home of the Abercrombie & Fitch jeans (minus the outside label), for $20. I decided that if I was going to shop for Junie, I was going to give him style. But as it turns out, Junie, knew better than I did as to what he really needed. For a man living on the streets, it was weird Junie knew how to color coordinate, but I guess being surrounded by nature for so many years it was a trait that he picked up.

One shopping cart later, Junie and I made our way to the register when we saw her. April, buying Express jeans. Apparently my notebook stalker also had style. Junie knew all about April and I silently prayed to God, she wouldn’t turn around and talk to me. But no. April turned and opened her big fat trout mouth and I had no choice but to act surprised to see her and introduce her to Junie.

ME: And this is my cousin Junie.
APRIL: Hi.
JUNIE: April, huh? Yeah, David’s talked about you.
APRIL: Really?
ME: No! I..shut up dude. Dont lie.
JUNIE: David, ask her out.
ME: Junie, do you need socks?
APRIL: Well, I'm not doing anything tonight.
JUNIE: See, man! Ask her!
ME: Yeah, no, I think I’m just gonna get you sandals.

I tried to ignore Junie’s subtle pressuring, but it was unavoidable. Just like April and the inevitable question if whether or not I read her letter in my notebook. And so, right there under the fluorescent store lights, April and I made plans. She called it a date, but to me it was nothing more than dinner plans. Never in a million years, did I think I would be set up by a homeless guy.

Later that night, I met April at Claim Jumper, where we shared both a plate of French fries and life stories. And I gotta admit…it was kinda fun. We talked throughout the entire dinner, and not once did we run out of conversation. For a brief moment in time, it seemed as if the entire city had magically been reduced to just us. It was one of those dates, you only read or hear about, but never really get to experience, and here I was, experiencing it. After dinner we talked and walked to Target and then to the movies, where we took a short 2 hour break, and then picked up right again, as if the break was nothing but a long deep breath. Einstein’s relativity of time had no meaning.

I was driving April home, when she asked me to pull over into the Albertson’s parking lot. I didn’t know what she was thinking, but I figured the small detour was just an excuse for more conversation. Turns out, April wanted more than conversation, and before I knew it, she had one hand on my zipper and the other on my belt. Part of me was screaming, “YES! YES! OH! GOD! YES!” while another part of me screamed, “HELLO?! YOU’RE IN A PARKING LOT!” And it was right there, under the fluorescent street lights of the Albertson’s parking lot, April went down on me. The girl, obviously, just couldn’t keep her big fat trout mouth shut.

After the deed had been done, April picked her head up, looked at the time, and saw that it was now 2 in the morning. I took April home and she suggested we go out for lunch, the next day. April left, promising to call the next day, leaving me to wonder if what had just happened, had actually happened.

The next day came, but April’s call didn’t. Noon had passed, and I started to wonder if something was wrong. I called April’s cell about 3 times in that first hour alone, and then once every hour after that. And each time, I got her voice mail. Was I being stood up? And if so, was April at home, relishing at the thought of me waiting for her to call as the minutes ticked by, while my self-esteem curdled?

I called my friend Maria to ask what she thought of the whole thing, when she informed me, that she too had been stood up. The guy, Lenny, was a co-worker Maria had considered nothing more, but a friend. Everyone, knew Lenny had the biggest infatuation with Maria, including me, and I didn’t even work with Maria, but to Maria, Lenny’s crush was oblivious. And since she had sworn off guys earlier that week, Maria figured what better way to spend a Saturday night than with friends? Obviously, Lenny didnt relish that idea.

MARIA: I think he’s mad that I told him everything about Ray.
ME: Well, duh, Maria! He likes you. He doesn’t wanna hear about Ray or any other guy.
MARIA: Lenny doesn’t like me. He just thinks he likes me.
ME: Well, whatever. The point is, if you were in love with someone, would you wanna hear about their sexual conquest?
MARIA: Yeah, I guess, so. You know what really bothers me?
ME: What?
MARIA: It’s the fact that Ray made me feel like a slut.
ME: How?
MARIA: Well, when we were…you know…naked, I wasn’t planning on having sex all the way. I just wanted to…do stuff, you know?
ME: Yeah. Stuff is good.
MARIA: Exactly. And like during the entire time, I kept hearing this voice in my head telling me to stop, stop, stop, you know? But I didn’t listen to it. I just kept going. But Ray heard his little voice and he stopped. And when he said, “Maybe we’re going to fast,” he made me feel like a slut, because…he made it seem like I’m the one that wanted to go on. Like I couldnt control myself.
ME: Well, you did want to go on, didn’t you?
MARIA: Yeah, but I also wanted to stop too. I should have just listened to that voice in my head, and just stopped it. But when you're in that moment, you just lose all thought, you know?

I did know. If Maria was able to conclude that by ignoring the little voice in her head made her a slut, did that make me one too? Are guys even called 'sluts'? If I had listened and stopped April from doing what she was doing, would she have called the next day? Or was it just a one night thing? And if so, then why’d we waste all that time talking? And why was I the one worrying about all this? Was I now the psycho stalker?

home-less is where the heart is

On Wednesday, I had lunch with my friend Maria. She had broken up with her boyfriend Ray the day before and I knew nothing would cheer her up better than an appetizer fest at Applebees. Because when you think about it...who doesnt smile at a basket of orignal-flavored boneless buffalo wings?

Many boneless buffalo wings and mozzerella sticks later, Maria decided to lay off boys for a while. She figured that with all the time she spent canoodling with Ray, she could have been helping humanity find a cure for AIDS, a way to stop world hunger, or at the very least, develop a nail polish remover that didnt stink. And it was with this newfound perspective on life that Maria went out forth into the world. While I just headed back home.

Along the way, I started to think up some ways Maria could spread kindness throughout the world, when I remembered something I saw something on MTV. It was their annual Alternative Spring Break in which teens could skip on the beach and booze and help their fellow man. I was already mentally picturing Maria planting a rose garden in Cambodia, when I entered my house and saw it. Him, actually. Right there in my queen-sized seligh bed, with the jersey-knit sheets and goose feather down-comforter, was a homeless man.

I screamed and ran into my parent's room, locking the door, and praying to God my bed-ridden mother kept a hatchet by her bed.

MOTHER: David! Dont scream! Your dad's cousin is asleep!
ME: Mom! There's someone in my bed!
MOTHER: Yeah, I know.
ME: You know?!
MOTHER: David, calm down. It's your dad's cousin. Junie.
ME: Oh! Ok! I guess that makes it all right, that he can sleep on my bed!
MOTHER: Well, he cant sleep on Daniel's bed because Daniel has all that clothes.
ME: And Caleb?
MOTHER: He's asleep on his bed.
ME: Well, what about yours?!
MOTHER: David, I am a married woman. I cant have another man in my bed!

So it turns out the homeless man in my bed was actually my...I guess...second cousin? I later learned that Junie was a war activist in the late 70's and distanced himself fromt the family after my dad and uncles enlisted in the military and were stationed in the Philippines. Junie, still protesting wars (apparently through hunger strikes) was wandering around a McDonalds on Valencia, when my dad saw him and insisted he come over and stay for dinner.

But why did he have to stay on my bed?! My nice clean bed, with the jersey-knit sheets and the goose feather down-comforter...I mean, sure it was soft and warm, but wasnt this man used to sleeping on cold, hard surfaces? Wouldnt the living room carpet be just as nice?

Dinner came, and I was already mentally burning my sheets and bed when Junie broke down. We were just slicing into our pork sirloin with the ginger and lime glaze, courtesy of one of my mother's student's mom, when Junie began to thank us with tears in his eyes.

JUNIE: It's just so...so...(sob)...I'm...(sob)...you've touched my heart.
MOTHER: Oh, thats nice. You've very welcome.
JUNIE: No one likes to...(sob)...they dont like...(sob)...
MOTHER: Well, we like to.
JUNIE: I cant even...(sob)...I dont remember the last time I was so welcomed into a home.
DAD: Junie. Your family. That's all that matters.
MOTHER: And as family, we like to use our napkins.

Even in a gut-wrenching, heart-felt moment, my disabled mother still expected manners. But my dad was right. Junie was family. No matter what had happened in the past Junie was still and would always be my dad's cousin. I felt horrible that I screamed at him and felt even worse when I noticed that my brothers werent even at the dinner table. They were appalled by Junie's smell, which was understandable since he smelled like B.O. and wet dog, but still. It was sad that they couldnt even spend 5 minutes in the same room as Junie. And that's when I came up with my brilliant plan. If Maria could help her fellow man, why couldnt I?

Junie was in dire need of some new threads and I just got my check from the IRS...so...are you thinking what I'm thinking? (I dont know... are you thinking what Oprah would look like in a pool of pudding?) How cool would it be if I went shopping for clothes for Junie?! I've always wanted to be a personal shopper and this would be the perfect experience! But I'm not sure what a homeless man would like. So, I need your help. I need some ideas of how to dress Junie. So keep those ideas comin' folks!

when a stranger asks

Two weeks ago, during my math class, as I was taking notes, a note was handed to me by the girl sitting behind me.

It was a strange request I'll admit, since our teacher expected us to hand in our notebooks weekly for points. What was she doing all this time? I figured maybe she was just updating a new notebook, so I gave her all my notes, and told her to give them back to me, the following Tuesday.

Tuesday came, but my notes didnt. Being that we had a test the upcoming Thursday and the fact that I didnt know her name, I freaked and told my teacher, Professor Caldwell my situation. She had no idea who I was talking about, but then remembered that the girl who sat behind me was named April, and last Thursday was her first public appearance in class. No wonder she needed my notes. Professor Caldwell promised to send a stern e-mail to April, and told me I could take the test after I got my notes back.

Thursday came, and thankfully so did my notes. It was during the middle of class, when April stood outside the classroom door, waving at me. Apparently, one public appearance was enough. As I sat back down in my seat and opened my notebook, I saw that April had made comments on every little doodle I drew, praising and LOL-ing me for my artistic talents. On the page where I had last left off, April left me a letter thanking me for my kindness and told me how much she appreicated reading my notes. And just from reading my notes and doodles, she concluded that she liked me. Really liked me.

The weekend rolled around, and I forgot all about April and her weird letter. That is, until last Sunday, when I was shopping at the Tucson Mall. I was just coming out of Buckle, when I heard someone call my name. It was April, ecstatic to see me, asking what I thought about my notebook. I lied and said I hadnt opened it, because of the test. I could tell she was disappointed that I hadnt seen her comments, but I was still unsure what to say to the person who liked me, really liked me, for just my doodles.

Later on that day, I got a phone call from Mr. Freed's son. Mr. Freed was the guy I gave a heart attack to in the hospital parking lot, a few weeks back, and when I went to go visit him, his son Bryan was the only one there. Bryan was more interested in asking about my life, then giving me an update on his father, which I thought was sad, but then again, who was I to judge?

BRYAN: And this weekend, I'm going to San Diego to visit some friends.
ME: Oh, thats nice.
BRYAN: And I want you to come along.
ME: Me? Why?
BRYAN: Well, I remember you telling me something about pursuing a journalism career.
ME: Yeah.
BRYAN: Well, sometimes journalists find that they dont like writing articles as much as they thought they did. So, sometimes, some journalists make a career in public relations.
ME: Ok...
BRYAN: My friend is a junior vice-president for one of San Diego's largest PR firms, and I think it would be wise if you met him and made some connections. Hell, you might even get yourself an internship there this summer.
ME: Well, the thing is, I dont have any money right now to just fly off and take a trip...
BRYAN: Dont worry about money. I'll pay for everything. Airplane, hotel, lunch, dinner, everything. All you have to do is just say yes.

I had to admit, the offer was tempting. Scoring a summer internship at a large PR firm in California did have a certain appeal. The thing that nagged me was that Bryan had only met me once, and barely knew a thing about me but was already offering a spring break trip at no cost. And was it just me, or is there something odd about an unmarried bachelor asking a guy to accompany him on vacation? I mean, I was still waiting for my Slate internship response (which I'll receive next week), but isnt having more than one option the wisest choice?

I decided to ask my friend Madelaine what she thought of my two strange requests, only to find out she herself was recieving strange requests. Early Monday morning, while at work, a strange guy, named Scott called her to ask if she had paged him. She didnt and suggested that maybe someone had punched in the wrong number. As it turns out she was right. Scott called back an hour later to confirm that someone had punched in the wrong number and proceeded to tell Madelaine why finding out who called him was crucial. He was a male-stripper and his pager was his business line.

SCOTT: Yeah, she was just a little scared because it was her first time. That's all.
MADELAINE: Oh, ok.
SCOTT: Yeah. She thought I would be the perfect entertainment for her Mary Kay party.
MADELAINE: Mary Kay party?
SCOTT: Oh, yeah! On top of my strip show, I also give nude pedicures.
MADELAINE: Really?
SCOTT: Yup! All for the low, low price of $25 an hour! Great deal, huh?
MADELAINE: Yeah, I guess.
SCOTT: So if you're ever in need of some great entertainment...

Scott gave Madelaine his number and wished her a happy day, leaving Madelaine wondering why he called to tell her his happy news. Even after Madelaine got off of work, Scott kept calling, asking for the girl with the beautiful voice. Which made me and Madelaine wonder what kind of person uses a simple phone conversation as a basis for a friendship?

Later on that day, Madelaine and I went to El Con Theater and saw an advanced screening of V for Vendetta. Though, the movie was supposed to make you think of your own government, it made me think of something else. Evey, fell in love with a masked man named V, despite knowing nothing of his past or his future. She took a chance in helping V and her life changed forever. So I wonder if it's possible to like someone, really like someone, without really knowing who they are? And should you take a chance to get to know them, even though all signs point to no?

better the second day

Four hours after I wrote my last post, Ms. Pelba, my neighbor, came over with a giant pot of what she called, "Good ol' fashion jambalaya."

ME: Oh. Wow. What's in it?
MS. PELBA: Mmmm, honey child! Es got some shrimp, some rice, some tah-mate-oh's...es got everythang!
ME: So it's a soup?
MS. PELBA: No! Es jambalaya! You aint eva had some jambalaya?!
ME: No...
MS. PELBA: Well, you go on and po yo-self a bowl right now sweet thang! And then you save it.
ME: Why?
MS. PELBA: Because. Ur-vree-one know es betta the second day!

Everyone but me, of course. I didnt know what Ms. Pelba meant by "it's better the second day" but after my second bowl, I didnt care. I later learned that jambalaya was a dish that originated in southern Louisiana by the Cajuns around the bayou where food was scarce. Which explained the numerous ingredients in it. But it still didnt explain what exactly made it better the second day.

The next day at school, as I was reading and responding to your comments, I started thinking of possible ways to apologize to my friend Patricia. True, it wasnt very friend-like to ask a friend to do something they didnt want to do, but then again, running away from the situation wasnt exactly friend-like either. That's when my friend Ivan showed up and we started talking.

As I was telling him about Patricia, my friend, his ex-neighbor, Ivan's friend Starr, who so happened to be Patricia's neighbor, came up to us. She was dumbstruck to meet "the friend that ran away" and proceeded to tell me that Patricia was feeling just as awful as I was. And in some weird way, it felt good to know my friend felt bad too. So I asked Starr for her advice the best way to approach the situation.

STARR: Well, what's your love?
ME: My love?
STARR: Yeah. Your love. There are five types of love and everyone has at least one. Touch, like when you reach out and physically touch people. There's a...giving your time, giving gifts...words of affirmation.
ME: Words of affirmation? What's that?
STARR: Affirmation love is like words of encouragement. Like, "I love your shoes," or "That's a really nice green sweater." Like that.
ME: Ok, so touch, time, gifts, affirmation...you said there's five right?
STARR: Yeah. The last one is acts of service. Like if you have a sick neighbor, you go over and offer help.

Or if you have a broken-ankled mother at home. Starr's pearls of wisdom made sense. My neighbor's and mother's friends werent making us dinner, just for the hell of it or because they had to. Making dinner was one of the ways the expressed their love. And here I was, complaining about it.

I started to think about the ways of how I expressed love, when I remembered Patricia's 17th birthday. Patricia had never had cheesecake before and I thought it would be a total travesty to graduate from high school without ever tasting God's greatest gift to earth. So during Ms. Ingman's fourth period American History class, me and a few of Patricia's closet friends, pulled her out of a class with a fake note and celebrated her birthday with a cheesecake right there in the middle of the school mall. The cheesecake was a big hit and it was the perfect gift. It was also the perfect apology.

Wednesday afternoon, I was in my kitchen trying to create the perfect cheesecake. Instead, I created the perfect mess. Put me in a room with mixing bowls, flour and and eggs, and it's like the first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan. Eventually, I made my first cheesecake, and put it in the oven to bake at a comfortable 425 degrees.

That's when my phone rang. It was Starr. With bad news. Patricia was just dropping off Nicholas Scott Johnson at her mother's house, when she lost her balance and fell down a flight of stairs, fracturing her wrist. It was the end of an era. My friend was dying in a hospital bed, and I had not yet had the chance to apologize for running away. Ok, so maybe it wasnt that the dramatic, but the feelings were the same. Immeadiately I sprung into action, and got ready to go to the hospital. After a shower and trying to find the perfect apologetic outfit, I smelled something burning. The cheesecake! I had forgotten about my perfect apologetic gift, and was left with a kitchen filled with smoke and a weird burnt cheesecake-y smell.

My gift was ruined beyond belief. And I wondered if maybe it's was God's weird way of telling me that maybe my friendship was ruined with Patricia. Was the cheesecake a metaphor for my friendship? Either way, I ignored the signs, because I was determined to make good and grabbed the next best thing. The jambalaya.

When I got to the hospital, Starr began to inform me, that on top of a fractured wrist, Patricia was also suffering from a concussion as well. As soon as I walked into the hospital room, Patricia began to apologize profusely. She realized how horrible she had acted, and asked if we could write off and forget the whole incident. Vows of friendship renewed, we began to eat the jambalaya.

PATRICIA: What is it?
ME: It's jambalaya.
PATRICIA: Really? I've heard bout it.
ME: Yeah, it's really good.
PATRICIA: Yeah...they say it's better the second day.

I didnt know if Patricia was talking about the jambalaya or our friendship, but I knew it was all gonna be ok.

abandon friend-ship

After a much needed break from my bed-ridden mother, who, overnight, went from Donna Reed to Don-na Corleone, I went out the other night with my friend Patricia, who was also in need of a break. I hadnt seen much of Patricia since she had her baby, which was understandable, since motherhood and college mixer's dont exactly fit on the same schedule. But I decided that just because my wild child turned soccer mom friend had a kid, it didnt mean she wasnt the same ol' person I used to ditch and smoke pot with behind the bleachers during high school.

PATRICIA: You dont think I'm a bad mom, do you? Leaving Nicholas Scott Johnson with his grandma?
ME: No. Your a good mom. Really. You are.

PATRICIA: Yeah. I hope so.

ME: But do you really need to say his full name all the time? What about just Baby Nicky?
PATRICIA: Because Baby Nicky doesnt sound nowhere near as good as Nicholas Scott Johnson.
ME: Whatever. The point is, yes, your a good mom. And your gonna be an even greater mom as you go along.

The truth was that Patricia was actually a better begginer mom than most mothers I knew. In her second trimester, she already had a year supply of baby clothes and diapers, which according to Carrie Donovan, would have made them so passé, but still. Raising a kid is tough, but when you're a single working mom, doing it all by yourself with no help, it's a little bit more tougher. And it was stuff like that, that let me know, she was going to be a great mother. It was also stuff like that, that let me know she had come a long way since her wild party high school days.

ME: Just make sure you love him, take care of him and support him, no matter what he does. Oh and make sure he doesnt grow up to be like his dad, DJ.
PATRICIA: Oh hell, no. Did I tell you he's dating some new slut?

And just like that, Patricia went from motherhood to high school student. As Patrcia talked about DJ and his new girlfriend, I could see that she wasnt totally over him, as she had once led me to believe. I could see that she was still heartbroken over the fact that he had left her and Nicholas Scott Johnson for somebody else. As Patricia continued to talk, she began to formulate a plan. A plan that she had obviously given prior thought to.

ME: Where are we?
PATRICIA: This is where his new girlfriend lives.
ME: And? We're stopping for tea and cookies, or what?
PATRICIA: I just wanna see if she's home.
ME: Why?
PATRICIA: Because.
ME: Because why?
PATRICIA: Because, because.
ME: Because, because, why?
PATRICIA: Because, because, beca...
ME: Never mind, Dorothy.

Patricia had driven us to a gated apartment complex, where she was planning a full on rock attack to her baby daddy's girlfriend's car. And, being the good friend that I was, I was expected to fully support her plan.

ME: Patricia, I cant do that!
PATRICIA: Why?
ME: Because it's wrong! Why are you gonna trash her car? What did she do to you?
PATRICIA: Uh, she's with him!
ME: And? You're taking it out on the wrong person!
PATRICIA: Dont you get it?!
ME: No, Patricia, I dont.
PATRICIA: Never mind, you dont get it. Are you gonna help me?
ME: Are you kidding me?!
PATRICIA: No. I'm serious.
ME: Patricia, you should be warning her against him, not trashing her car! You're supposed to be mad at him, not her!

It was scary seeing my friend so motivated and focused on destroying an innocent piece of property. No matter what I said or how hard I tried to stop her, Patricia was intent on ruining this girl's car. I knew that deep down, she wasnt upset at DJ's new girlfriend. She was upset with DJ, but unfortunately, was taking her anger out on the wrong person. I also knew that if she didnt let go of that hate she had for DJ, she was preparing herself for a lifetime of misery. And if she let go of that rock, she was preparing herself for some trouble with the law.

As Patricia approached DJ's girlfriend's car, getting closer with each step, somewhere in the background, a police siren grew louder. The very idea that it was a cop on its way to arrest Patricia and me was laughable but the prospect of having to tell everyone that Patricia and I were arrested for destroying her baby daddy's girlfriend's car, made me jump. Right out of the car and down the street.

Six blocks later, in a dark and deserted unknown neighborhood, I was alone. I felt bad for leaving my friend, but I figured if she was going to go through with it, then I really didnt want to be a part of it. That's when Maria called and asked me what I was doing. I told her I was in Timbuktu, and was planning my next move to get home.

MARIA: I'll come get you.
ME: No. It's too far.
MARIA: Dont be stupid. I'll come get you.
ME: No...I'm ok.
MARIA: David. You're in trouble. That's why I'm here. To help.

And then I realized, that's why I was with Patricia. To help. Not to help destroy the car windows, but to help her deal with the fact that she wasnt as alone as maybe she thought she was. I felt horrible, because now, I was just another person who walked out on her. I wasnt there for her when she needed my help. I ran back to the gated apartment, but like the rear windshield window, Patricia was gone. And now, I dont know what to do...

the annoyingly good samaritan

Remember that story of The Good Samaritan, a man who stopped to help a fellow traveler, who was robbed, beaten and left to die on the side of the road? Although his actions were an inspiration to all, werent they kind of annoying? I mean, here's a dying man, waiting to meet his maker, and then this stranger comes along, slugs him over a donkey, bounces him along a rocky road, and pays an innkeeper, not a doctor, an innkeeper, to give him medical attention. Ugh, what an ass, right? Or am I just reading too much into it, and not looking at the bigger picture?

Saturday night, while I was celebrating the joy of actors bonding, my family was across town, celebrating my brother's friend's quinceanera. Also known as, a rich Mexican girl's self-affirmation that, yes, she is beautiful and popular. During the middle of the celebrating, my mother decided to get up and show off her booty-shakin' moves to the Black Eyed Peas, "Pump It." As my mother pumped it, she fell and broke her ankle. Since then, things have been hectic around here.

Everyone, from my mother's teaching aide to my next-door neighbor, from my grandma to the stranger my mother met at the quincenera, have all been calling my house non-stop, offering lunch, dinner, and even cleaning services.

Being surrounded with friends and family who care for us and love us, is something that should make me feel thankful. Thankful that my family and I are blessed with Good Samaritans in our life. But now it's starting to annoy me. When ya got four casseroles, three rotessire chickens, two lasagnas, and a pot of Spanish rice in your fridge, you have to wonder, can there too much of a Good Samaritan?

It also makes me wonder, what exactly has my mother been telling everyone these years? That as guys, me, my brothers, and dad, are incapable of providing for ourselves? That we would starve and become confused with the complexity of living, unable to survive without my mother's guidance? I mean, true, all I've been able to conjure up in the kitchen is small fires, but isnt that why they invented take-out? Isnt that why McDonald's developed the Dollar Menu?

Unsure of the proper way to say, "No" to good hospitality, the one person I'm having a real hard time dealing with is Ms. Deliccio. Despite her sweet and good hearted intentions, this woman comes to my house, always at the oddest times. And each time, she carries a glass dish of goulash. Like yesterday.

MRS. DELICCIO: Hello! Hello!
ME: Hi, Mrs. Deliccio.
MRS. DELICCIO: I just made a fabulous Mexican casserole with Frito-lay chips and chili! Thought you might like some! You're Mexican, right?

I dont know what was more disturbing. The fact that the casserole looked like Alpo and Frito's. Or that Mrs. Deliccio was a racist.

ME: Oh. Thanks.
MRS. DELICCIO: I made it for my niece's boyfriend's Sink-o day May-o party. He's Mexican too. The good kind. And everyone loved it!
ME: We dont need your damn food! It taste like shit anyways! I mean, what the hell is this?! Was Safeway having a sale on Alpo?!

I wish. Instead, it went more like this:

ME: Oh. Thanks.
MRS. DELICCIO: I made it for my niece's boyfriend's Sink-o day May-o party. He's Mexican too. The good kind. And everyone loved it!
ME: Oh.
MRS. DELICCIO: Oh, my! Why is there newspaper scattered all over the table? Is that mirror dirty? I'll be right back with my cleaning supplies!

How, please, how, do you tell people, without being rude, that help is no longer wanted, no longer needed, no longer appreciated? Or am I just complaining about something that's not worth complaining about?