the people we pick

Friday morning, during a heated soccer match between Angola and Mexico, I was on the phone with my friend Maria, trying to understand the point of a soccer game.

ME: Now, why am I interested in this again?
MARIA: Because! It's the world cup! The entire world stops to watch the game!
ME: You know...I think Green Acres in on right now...
MARIA: Whatever, David. You just dont understand. You didn't grow up in a country where soccer was everywhere and everything.
ME: Yeah, you're probably right. The only soccer I played was in seventh grade in PE. That was horrible.
MARIA: Why?
ME: That was when we had that really hot spring, remember? And all Mr. Cota-Robles kept screaming was, "Kick the ball! Kick the ball!" The only balls we wanted to kick, belonged to him.
MARIA: David, hold on, I'm getting another call.

Seven minutes later, with no goals being made or a chance of Maria ever coming back, I hung the phone up, only to pick it up again.

MARIA: David! You're not going to believe who that was!
ME: Who?
MARIA: Skye! And do you know what he just told me?!
ME: That he's gonna swallow another bottle of Advil?
MARIA: Brenda got married!

Brenda Lewis. You cant really describe her, you just had to know her. Brenda was a sweet and funny person, who held the best all-night house parties. Or as she used to call it, the weekend. Through training wheels and training bras, Maria and Brenda had been the best of friends. I was introduced to the BFF's in high school, through a mutual friend, and together they helped make my senior year one of the greatest years of my life.

Then, one night last year, after a series of unfortunate and too long to explain events, Maria and I had parted ways with Brenda vowing to never again speak to her for as long as we lived. Or at least until she called and apologized.

As Maria told me the surprising story, I realized it had been over a year that we hadnt talked to Brenda. Was our friendship really over? Did we all despise each other so much we were willing to deprive each other from sharing our delight? Or was Skye playing games with us? I mean, after all, Skye was the same person who told us he met Paris Hilton at his work, when she drove through town during the second season of The Simple Life. But Paris doesn't dine at Boston Market...does she?

The next night, boneless buffalo wings and potato skins from Applebees, were the perfect antidote to Skye's anecdote, as Maria and I sat in a parked car at the De Anza Drive-In. Unfortunately, before we could see The Breakup, we would have to sit through an hour and a half of pure agony. Or as I like to call it, The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Luckily, the dialouge was brief and predictable, giving Maria and I a chance to vent about the marriage of our old friend.

MARIA: I mean, we talked about getting married. Like what we were gonna wear, who was gonna get married first...all that stuff.
ME: Who was gonna get married first?
MARIA: Well, I was supposed to go before Brenda...so I guess that means...if Brenda was before me, I'm next.
ME: Wow, good job, Ray!
MARIA: Whatever...its just sad that this is how life is gonna be from now on, you know? I mean, I looked up to Brenda. She was like so awesome. And it's just sad that we cant even share our happiness with each other.
ME: Yeah, I know, it's sad. I miss being her friend too. But we dont need her approval to be happy. I mean, if she wants to hold grudges, that's her problem. The way I see it is good friends support each other after something bad has happened. Great friends act as if nothing happened.

As Maria pondered over my words, I turned to the giant screen to see if I could place Nathalie Kelley's accent. I couldnt. So instead, I mentally congratulated myself on being such a good friend. It was Brenda's loss if she wanted to continue harboring onto anger. Maria was a good person who totally didnt deserve to be sad. She was smart, funny, loyal, and she was picking her nose. From the corner of my eye, I saw Maria really going at it. It was gross. It was disgusting. It was weird. How could someone be that comfortable with themselves? Stuck in the car with my oddly confidant nose picking friend, I wondered...how could I pick a nose picker for a friend? How could I be friends with someone who had disgusting habits?

If I was a child, I would totally call Maria out on it, with maybe a finger point and fake gag. But being that I'm a mature and responsible adult, I took the grown-up approach...complete and utter denial. It's just...what do you do when the one person you look up to, lets you down? I know people arent perfect and I know there's that chance of being let down by those we put on a pedestal, but how do you cope?

matters of the head and heart

Once upon a time, an Events Coordinator from California took a trip to North Dakota. Heidi was attractive and bright and immeadiately fell in love with a local cowboy. It was all so wildly romantic, and like so many before her, Heidi's foolish heart took over. Unfortunately, theirs was a love that could not be, and Heidi returned back to her real life in California.

After reading of Heidi's adventures, from the postcard she sent me, I wondered if Heidi had missed her chance for true love. Sure, maybe falling in love and running away from home wasnt the smartest choice, but if you're following your heart, isnt it a chance worth taking?

Here's my reasoning: Not everyone can win the lottery. Not everyone can be super rich, or skinny. And not everyone can wear orange. Sure, most people want to be skinny, lottery-winners, who can wear orange without looking like an inmate from a state prison, but not everyone can be. But if there was a chance you could be one of those lucky people, wouldnt you take it? I used to think so, but maybe I was wrong.

Earlier this week, I got an email from my good friend Sean. Sean was a screenwriter from L.A., who frequently came to Tucson to house-sit his mother's house, whenever she left for a business trip. Sean was a funny guy who so happened to be unlucky in love. He could never find a person to understand him. In every relationship he ever had, Sean was attracted to the person. And all the people he'd ever been attracted to, happened to be guys. Until now.

David, I wish you were online so that I could talk to to you. Anyway I am thinking about going straight, and I have said before that I am bi, but to say the turth, I am just tired of looking for mr. right, you know? The reason for this???? I have met someone (a girl, obviously) who gets me and will be flying to Spain to get married at the end of the month. yes, i know its real soon and I'm probably not thinking straight (better change that one LOL!) but i dont care. up until the end of the month, I will be alone for some time in which I will be going straight, (as best I can LOL) and was wondering if you wanted to hang out and maybe fly out with me. I sure could use a friend at the alter. but anyway thought I would throw that out to you. If you don't wanna fly that's cool too, and so you know, I will always be there for you as a friend.

Flying away to a whole other country to get married? Changing his sexual orientation? Who was this brazen woman that my friend had fallen in love with and was it all worth it? Sean's life was here...well, L.A., but, still. Could he really be that much in love? Could he really just leave everything behind? And could I really go to Spain, not saying anything?

When it comes to falling in love, is it smarter to follow your heart or your head? How can you trust either? They're both so completely fallible, and no matter what choice you follow, you're destined to leave with thoughts of sorrow. Still, a choice must be made, and when the time comes, how do you know which path to follow?

the illusionists

Late Friday night/early Saturday morning, my friend Maria called me, after getting off the phone with her boyfriend Ray (aka The Bad Kisser). They had just finished having, yet, another one of their dramatic phone calls and Maria needed someone to help her vent. Ray was spending the summer back in his hometown of Philadelphia with his family and I think the distance between them was starting to get to Maria. Of course, being the strong, independent person that she is, Maria would never admit it. She would just complain about it.

I was already half-asleep when she called, and was only half-listening, until Maria said, that I was actually the source of a lot of their problems. In almost every argument they she and Ray had, I was always brought up. Ray couldnt see how I could be friends with Maria without wanting to have sex with her. He couldnt see how people of the opposite sex could remain nothing more than just friends, without there being any sexual tension. He couldnt understand that sometimes, people move past the point of dating, and just settle as friends. And the fact that I really didnt wanna hang out with both him and Maria together, only added to his suspicions that I was after his girlfriend (apparently, Ray also couldnt understand he was a horrible public kisser, which really was the real reason for my absense).

Unsure of what to do, I decided to ask my friend Madelaine. It was Saturday afternoon and we were driving up to Glendale, on our way to go see Madonna in concert. After getting our groove on to Robert Holmes' classic summer song, Escape, Madelaine suggested that we both pose as boyfriend and girlfriend to help our good friend Maria. But could the simple pressence of a person on your arm, give the illusion of a couple? I wasnt so sure, but according to Madelaine, it could. Maybe by showing Ray that I was already "taken," he would be less threatened of Maria's friendship with me. And maybe, by arriving at the concert with a girl on my arm, I wouldnt get hit on, at was to be undoubtably the hottest gay spot in Arizona.

Totally worked like a charm. Though the concert arena was filled with the hottest people Arizona had to offer, not a single one of them flirted, talked or even gave us a second look. Wait. That doesnt sound right, does it? Hmmmm. The concert was a total eye-opening, jaw-dropping experience! As expected, Madonna turned up the heat, both literally and figurativly. After raising the arena to a boiling temperature of 90 degrees, Madge, in all her equestrian glory, descended from a giant, disco ball covered with $2 million in crystals, onto the stage. And as expected, everyone was pumped and sweating outrageously, grinding their crotches on one another. It was kinda like the softcore porn they show on Showtime. If it werent for the hard, chisled, adonis-like male patrons, the whole thing would have actually been kinda hot.

The next afternoon, after a late-night-breakfast of In-N-Out cheeseburgers, I checked my answering machine, only to hear an unwanted familiar voice:

Hello? David? It's me. Paul? Yeah. Hi. Uh, I'm just calling to say that, I, uh, I get it. I get it, you know? I'm here at the Madonna concert and I just saw you right now with your girlfriend, and I get it. Yeah, so, anyways, I was just calling to let you know I wont be calling you anymore. Ok? Take care and...bye.

It was understanding at first sight. Maybe, there was some magic in Madelaine's illusion idea, after all. And if the presence of Madelaine on my arm could help make my ex-gay-non-boyfriend-stalker disappear, maybe it could help Ray get rid of his suspicions and understand that some relationships between people are more than just sex. Or is it wrong to help change people? After all if we can't accept who they are, how can we expect them to accept who we are?

the good lie

Monday afternoon, in a bundle of mail, one simple red and white postcard from Target stood out:

Hello, thanks for taking the time to apply with us.
While we're unable to off you a position at this
time, we do appreciate your interest in Target.

Collin didn’t get the job, and I, being the one with the mail would have to tell him. Damn. As I debated whether or not to show Collin the postcard, I was also toying with the idea of following through with my lunch with Zahqwandra. Did I still need to do it? I mean, I know I told my blog friend Buffy that I would, but saying that I would was just a meaningless expression, like "Let’s do lunch," or "I love you." But what if it was all a test? What if Zahqwandra was testing me to see if I was just using her to get my brother a job? I mean, in truth, I was trying to use what little connection I had, but I couldn’t let her know that.

The next day, I called Zahqwandra to confirm our lunch. Though I had mixed feeling about being seen with Zahqwandra in public, I told myself it would be all right, because I was doing this for my brother, for myself, for my blog friend Madame D, who got picked on for being a weird kid in school and for every kid that developed an eating disorder after being teased by me. Ok, that’s a lie. The truth was, I told myself that little white lie, so it wouldn’t seem as bad when Zahqwandra offered my brother a job and me a discount. And though they say that lying is never the answer, arent there some cases where a little white lie can help? They certainly help when you’re shopping with a female friend who asks, "Does this make me look fat?"

It was the day after 06/06/06, and I figured, if I could survive a day that was deemed unholy, I certainly could survive a lunch with a girl whose body odor was deemed unholy. Zahqwandra chose the Olive Garden because she was a huge fan of the $5.95 All You Can Eat Soup and Salad meal. I was a huge fan of being anywhere you could eat in the afternoon without being recognized. Two salads and a bread basket later, I had learned that Zahqwandra was actually turning into one of those loser-in-high-school-winner-in-life type of people. She had been accepted into some naval school in Virginia Beach, was advancing fast in her education, and was totally destined for great things. Unfortunately, I was not chosen to share her accomplishments.

ZAHQWANDRA: David…I already know that you like me.
ME: You do?
ZAHQWANDRA: Yeah. Ever since high school. Remember Lynette from Yearbook? Yeah, well she told me everything.
ME: Wait, what did she tell you?
ZAHQWANDRA: She told me, you would spray my backpack with your cologne spray, cuz you hoped the smell would make me like you.
ME: Oh. Really? She said that?
ZAHQANDRA: Yeah. And the thing is…I don’t see you in that way. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a great guy and the sweetest person I’ve met, but I only see you as a friend. I’m sorry.

I could’ve told Zahqwandra the truth and that the whole cologne spray was a teasing tactic, but I decided not to. Somehow it didn’t seem right. She was successful and whether or not her success was based on truth or deceit, Zahqwandra totally deserved all the achievements in her life. I did wonder if keeping the truth from Zahqwandra was bad, but then I decided not. Every day we lie. We tell lies to protect ourselves and the reputation of others. Of course, every now and then, the day arrives when someone finally decides to tell the truth, but maybe we don’t need to know it, because sometimes isn't it the little white lies that are told not to hurt, but to help make life more pleasant, ok?

everybody has a laughing place

The great thing about being young is the lack of responsibilty one has when partying hard. As inhibitions are thrown out the window, recklessness...es...ity is welcomed. Because when you don't really think about the consequences of your actions, you're much more likely to have fun, fall in love, relax, have an adventure, or at the very least, laugh. But the bad thing about being young? The lack of funds.

Friday morning, I got a call from a Mexican tile company asking if I was interested in a sales posistion with their company. The truth was, I was a bit cash-poor, and since man can not live on credit alone, I went in for an interview. When I got there, I found out my assistance was not needed, as they had already hired the first candidate they interviewed. Depressed, I went to the mall to buy myself a little happy, and ended up at a party.

That night, in a hotel room by the freeway, I was ready to forget my gruesome day and so I toasted the night away with an assortment drinks and an assortment of friends. Everyone was bumpin' and grindin' to Nelly Furtado's Promiscuous, and having a really good time. No drama or drunken devotions of love...just highly intoxicating-induced fun. And for me, one drink turned into many, and before I knew it, I was sprawled out on a synthetic-fabric down comforter, with a bong in one hand and a shot glass in the other. I was drunkity-drunk-drunk. And high. And starving.

And so I did what any intoxicated-induced individual, in my situation would do...I went shopping for food. A half hour later, with my confident cooking skills (thanks to my blog friend Alicat), my friend Miguel and I were in the hotel kitchen, preparing to make the world's best tuna-fish pasta salad ever. It was yellow. It was smelly. And it was so good. Or at least I remember it being good. The morning after, my stomach told me a different story, and I had to agree that the contents of the cuisine from the previous night was not agreeable. I was sick, and still depressed about the whole interview thing.

So Miguel called me up and asked if I would be interested in attending a Hasya Yoga class with him and our friend Blake. I wasnt exactly sure if my friends were speaking English, or if they were sober, so I went along to find out. It turns out Hasya Yoga, or as it's more commonly known, Laughing Yoga, was a form of exercise that helped to improve your health and well-being, by laughing. According to the instructor, Mrs. Christine, the average child laughs at almost anything and everything, up to 300-400 times a day while the average adult only laughs about 15 times, if that. It's been proven that laughter is a cure for many things, like depression, aches and pains, stress, suicidal tendencies, mood swings and even loss of sexual drive. I wasnt so sure how laughter would help with my depression or the person who was sexually incompetent, (because when you think about it, isnt laughter, the last thing they need?) or how the class would manage with a broken AC, but I figured it was all worth a shot.

Twenty two beads of sweat on my mat later, I was laughing with my new friend Doris in our Hasya-turned-Bikrim-Yoga class. The heat had opened my pores and an entire night of mixed drinks began to seep out of me! Which would have been embarassing, had it been only me, but thanks to Miguel and Blake who smelled like vodka stingers, and Doris, who smelled like gin martinis, it wasnt. As we stretched out and shared our Ho-Ho's and Ha-Ha's, Doris also shared with me that she was taking the class, in hopes that her new approach to a good life, would help her approach a good man. Her last three relationships were all disasters (incarcerated, gay, missing), but Doris was not gonna give up. She was a true life trooper and decided that it was better to laugh at life, than to be spend all her time hating it and mising it.

Which really was an inspiration to all. In life, there are certain events that are just beyond our control and out of our reach. As Mark Twain once said, "Everyone complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it." True, we could just bitch and moan when life doesnt go our way, but maybe the best any of us can do is not give up, play the hand we've been dealt, and laugh with everything we've got.

dating with the enemy

They say in high school, the easiest way to infiltrate a clique, is to talk about anything from the three universal topics: TV, music, and clothes. Of course, it also helps to unite against a common enemy...a good choice would be the sexually challenged P.E. teacher. The clique I had tried to infiltrate? Yearbook. I was a senior, with no experience, and to the class I was nothing more but a mere mortal stranger, trying to learn all the secrets of putting together a well-put, end of the year, memory book. And though it may sound like war, it's worse. War is just hell. This was high school.

And like every high school, we had that one girl that all the kids would make fun of. You know the kind...bad at sports, a little overweight, friends with the lunch ladies...and Zahqwandra Thomas was just that person. She wore bifocals, her teeth were a little crooked, and she smelled like onion and feet. And though she was loud and obnoxious, I never said anything mean at all to her. Until one day, when she tried to get a petition going to have me kicked off the yearbook staff as Copy Editor. Apparently, she did not appreciate the helpful criticism I offered. But really, how can you include "When da sun iz out, da best thing to do is pop yo collar and chill wid yo homies by da poo," in a yearbook without making it sound ghetto?

From then on, I tortured Zahqwandra mercilessly behind her back, as any and all students would have done. Of course, my torture tactics were the best. I'd spray her rotting and decaying backpack with my Axe Essence deodorant spray and the class would go wild. I mean, I killed. I mean, I totally killed. And then, a year later, I found out just how much of a total bitch I was.

The Arizona Daily Star had its annual "Five Star Senior Achievers Across Tucson" article and Zahqwandra was one of the chosen few. Why? During her sophomore year in high school, Zahqwandra's mom had decided to live in Nigeria with her new husband, and not wanting to live a whole ocean away, Zahqwandra decided to stay. At first, she stayed with her sister, but after a month of living on the couch, Zahqwandra knew she needed to take matter in her own hands. For the next three years of her high school career, Zahqwandra ate, studied, slept, and lived out of her car, working two full-time jobs, while maintaining a 3.5 GPA. As soon as the article came out, everyone showed it to me. I felt so horrible, but then a little ok, when I realized I never actually made fun of her in front of her face...just behind her back. Which was worse, but thankfully she never heard any of it...or did she?

Earlier this morning, I took my younger brother Collin to his job interview at Target. He was psyched about the idea of working there, while I was psyched about the family discount I could, and would, use. But then, a dark cloud settled over the store, for behind the glass sliding doors was Zahqwandra. Last I heard, she had moved to Virginia Beach to be in the army, so it was a surprise to see her standing inside the store as the hiring manager.

After the group interview, and a quick "Please dont fire him, before you've hired him" prayer, Zahqwandra and I talked and caught up.

ME: So...did my brother get the job?
ZAHQWANDRA: David! I cant tell you that...that's confidential information.
ME: Yeah, I know, but...you know...
ZAHQWANDRA: I'm sorry, David, I cant tell you. If you're brother is hired we'll let him know. It wouldnt be fair to the other candidates, would it?
ME: Yeah, but the other candidates arent from Tucson High. They dont got that Badger pride, like we do.
ZAHQWANDRA: David...I cant...I really cant...I'm sorry.
ME: Ok, well...cant say I didnt try.
ZAHQWANDRA: Ok...
ME: Hey...now that you're back in town and whatever, do you wanna grab a bite to eat and hang out? Catch up on old times?
ZAHQWANDRA: Ok! Sure!
ME: Great...
ZAHQWANDRA: It's a date! Ha-ha-ha! We rhymed!

True, it was a cheap ploy into making Zahqwandra thinking we were friends, but is going on a date with someone, you picked on in high school, to help further the career of your brother all that bad? I mean, I know sometimes in life, you have to make sacrifices in order to advance in your career, but should I be the one making the sacrifices? I know I should be the one apologizing, but sacrificing...? I always felt bad that I never told Zahqwandra I'm sorry but was this really my chance in disguise?

the awful friend

It's been said, that there are certain topics, that should be refrianed from conversation. One such topic is, money. Which is ironic because money is one of the primary engines that fuels civil society. In fact, money is one of the most important things in our lives, although it's terribly materalistic to admit that. And in my experience, I've seen more friendships break up over money than over anything else. And I wonder...can a friendship ruined by money, still be salvaged?

Eight months ago, my friend, Susan-Catherine, a major executive rep for an investment company, gave me two free tickets to go see Gwen Stefani and The Black Eyed Peas. The company for which she worked for, was always giving her free concert tickets to entertain clients, but since the tickets she was given were aimed towards a younger audience, she would give the tickets away to students or sell the tickets on Ebay and profit from the auctions.

After the free concert, Susan-Catherine encouraged me to keep in contact, which I did, but as the months passed, my emails, grew less, and then one day, they stopped altogether. Until three weeks ago, when I saw Susan-Catherine online and asked her if she had any Madonna tickets. I thought it would be the perfect birthday gift for my friend Madelaine and so did Susan-Catherine, which is why she sold me a pair of two tickets, Section 102, Row D, for a grand total of $80.

But then something tragic happened. Susan-Catherine gave my precious tickets away! She claimed that since I paid her 12 hours later than I said I would, she thought I didnt want the tickets and so, she gave them to someone else. I was plauged with confusion. Why would my friend Susan-Catherine do that to me? Had she no soul? Was it because I was an awful friend? I mean, yeah, I know I hadnt really kept in contact with her, and I'll admit the Madonna ticket request totally came out of left field, but was that enough of a reason to warrant a cancellation on the birthday surprise for my friend?

Later that week, I had to confront the belated birthday girl, Madelaine, and tell her that the birthday gift I had planned would be forever belated. I felt awful. Madelaine had already told everyone she and I were going to see Madge, live and up-close and to crush a dream like that was just...well...awful. But why was I feeling awful? I wasnt the awful friend...or was I? In the course of one week, I had broken a payment promise, and a gift guarentee. And it was all because Susan-Catherine wanted her money at a certain time.

It made me upset to think that Susan-Catherine had made our friendly transaction into a business merger, but when you work for a large investment company, I guess the value of money increases. Just like the price of Madonna tickets on Ebay. As the days leading up to her concert decreased, the price of tickets increased. And so, hoping to keep one of the promises I made, I placed a bid and scored a pair of floor tickets, Section AAA, Row 51. The seller was touched by my story and sold me the pair of tickets for a grand total of $150. The tickets came in yesterday, via FedEx, along with an email from Susan-Catherine.

David...I know you might be a tad bit upset that I have sold the tickets to another individual, and I apologize for the confusion. I did not think you were interested when I didn't hear from you for so long. I hope this does not put a damper on our friendship. I will be in Tucson next week, and maybe then we can meet up for lunch? Let me know...Susan-Catherine

death by karma

In a town like Tucson, where you're most likely to see your old friend from the third grade pumping gas at the same gas station as you, you start to realize just how small this town really is. And when it's that small, well, it's not that hard to be found. So it's no surprise, karma has found me.

Friday afternoon, I was down in the basement of Alice's Downtown Flower Shop with Ashley, when I asked her if she was going to Alice's place later on that day.

ME: Hey, so are you going to Alice's?
ASHLEY: No...I dont think so, why?
ME: Oh, well, dont you wanna help with your cake?
ASHLEY: My cake?
ME: Yeah. Adrianna said something about making you a four-tier Hello Kitty cake.
ASHLEY: No. Adrianna told me Alice was making a Hello Kitty cake for her niece.
ME: No, she told me the cake was for you. I thought it was for your birthday or something.
ASHLEY: Maybe you heard her wrong.
ME: Or maybe I just ruined your surprise. Sorry.

I later found out, that's exactly what I did. That night, when I got to Alice's house, the first thing Alice told me was that the cake was a surprise for Ashley. Feeling horribley bad for ruining a surprise, I began to play bartender and drank my sorrows away. Four bloody mary's and three glasses of mango rum later, I was buzzing and what better way to spend my state of buzz, than at the movies?

So there I was, with my good friend Madelaine, getting ready to see The Da Vinci Code, a little drunk, a little hungry, and a little tired. Ok, so it was a lotta tired and I totally missed the last hour of the movie, but who knew karma was sitting just a few rows behind us?

The next day, my Aunt Sylvia invited me to chaperone a 5th grade transition/graduation/birthday party for my little cousin Katrina. I, of course, wasnt in the mood to babysit a bunch of 11-year-olds, but since there was the promise of a good cake, I went. And it's a good thing too. The Barbie and eight-pointed star piñata's were filled with the good kind of candy, like Reese's and Kit Kat's, and not that cheap hard candy you can get for almost nothing across the border. As I stood around, watching the kids line up to hit the piñata's, I began to wonder which kids I could take out, when all of a sudden a huge mess of pink tissue paper came flying towards me. Barbie and her Butterfinger-filled body knocked me down.

It was totally humiliating, and when I remembered how cruel and ruthless 5th graders can be, well, it just made the whole thing worse. So, to compensate for being knocked in the head (and for getting the kids all riled up), my other cousin, Vanessa, invited me to a party she was throwing for her graduating class.

Another night with another drink in my hand, I was retelling my weekend tales of the birthday surprise gone sour, my Da Vinci doze-off, and my brawl with Barbie, when Vanessa's friend, Annie, began to tell me how wrong it was to fall asleep during such a controversial movie.

ANNIE: You fell asleep during The Da Vinci Code?!
ME: Yeah. Well, it was midnight and I only had like four hours of sleep the night before.
ANNIE: So?! That doesnt matter! That was just totally disrespectful!
ME: Uh, I already read the book, so...it's not like I was missing much.
ANNIE: Uh, hello?! Did you know there are people in the Middle East dying because they cant see that movie?!
ME: No they're not!
ANNIE: Yeah, they are!
ME: Well, they were dying before the movie came out, and my guess is they'll probably die after the movie comes out.
ANNIE: Oh, you just wait. You think you're so cool now, but you wait! Karma will get you!

Sunday morning, with Annie's words still fresh in my mind, I stumbled into church, with my not so fresh vodka breath. Annie was totally drunk and deluded, but did she have a point? Was karma after me? I mean, sure, karma is an important concept in several Eastern religions, but I was of Western religion, so it couldn’t have that much of an effect on me…could it? But then what about getting hit in the head by the Barbie piñata? Was that really karma's way of getting back at me for ruining Ashley's birthday surprise?

It was too early in the morning to have such a philosophical thought in my head, and so I concentrated on finding an empty pew. My church is set up like a concert stadium, minus the bleachers, with the pulpit and stage at the bottom, and all the pews at a slant, leading towards it, so you can see what a challenge it is to walk down the isle. My family and I settled on a pew near the sound system, when all of a sudden, I tripped on one of the wires and pushed my brother Collin down the isle. Collin rolled down, nearly missing the corner of a pew. He could have lost an eye, but instead he lost his temper and started yelling at me in the church.

It was definately karma. And it wasn't the funny kind like they show in My Name Is Earl. It was the scary kind. But can karma really hurt you? And if so, how can you get rid of it?

all growed up

Last Friday, my director friend, Jeff called me. Jeff was a student film director whose dream was to make the greatest American film of all time. It was also his dream to put me in another one of his films. Originally, he had given me a small part in a student film he was supposed to direct last February, but when he got arrested for a DUI, the whole thing fell through.

Jeff had won some sort of scholarship through some film school in California and was given $5000 to make a movie. And since he remembered my phone number (and my face), he called and asked if I was interested in making another movie. I, of course, had my misgivings because if my "movie career" didnt pan out the first time, really, what was different this time around?

But Jeff convinced me to meet with him and reluctantly, I agreed. I still felt somewhat responsible for being the person that drugged Jeff (and for keeping the green jacket from the first film) so Saturday night, I found myself having dinner at the historic Hotel Congress in historic downtown Tucson with Jeff and his group of drama major friends.

They were a...what’s the word...unique group of people who wore black without being too morbid and spoke big words like "beneficial" and "intellectual" without sounding too pretentious. They were the epitome of what I considered the word "adult" to mean. They were sophisticated and classy and spoke slowly and clearly, while I was a raging mess of a person who spoke too fast with Marsala cream sauce dripping from my mouth. They used French phrases sporadically in their conversations, while I just sat in silence and smiled. The only French I ever mastered was very basic French, with phrases such as "bonjour" and "voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir."

Sitting across from me, was a girl named Monique. The only French she seemed to master was the kiss and the phrase, "ménage à trois." Monique had studied drama for three years, hoping to one day make it to the Broadway stage, but so far she had only made it backstage. She wasn’t much to look at, but she was horny as hell, and it seemed that was all Jeff needed to know to cast her in his movie.

After dinner we went back to Jeff’s apartment for cocktails and a viewing of his favorite movie, Ed Wood. Someone had brought out the kama sutra body chocolate paint and soon, arms, legs, and faces were made into delectable deserts. I coudnt believe this was the same group of mature adults that I just had dinner with. I started to wonder if this was really how adults behaved behind closed doors. Were they just mature on the outside? And if so, why were they afraid to be young and carefree?

I was even more confused as I saw Monique perform fellatio acts on Jeff during the movie. It certainly wasnt a child-like thing to do, but getting sick from the body chocolate and throwing up all over Jeff's lap was. So I decided to ask my friend Rose, at what age do people stop acting young and start acting mature? Unfortunately I never got the chance to ask Rose anything, because she interrupted me with an invitation to a dysfunctional Mother's Day dinner with her...Jesse...and Damien.

Sunday evening, at the Golden Corral Buffet, I was eating, yet another awkward dinner. Somehow, Jesse and Damien had made peace and were able to eat dinner at the same table, but somehow I couldnt accept their newfound friendship. The level of denial was just unbelievable. It was like that one episode of The Twilight Zone where all the people were different, except one person, and the others all thought that one single person was ugly when that person was really pretty, and so they made fun of that person, and...actually, come to think of it, weren't all the episodes pretty much like that?

As I got up to get a plate of pepperoni pizza and mashed potatoes, I started to think, that maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe I was the one that needed to grow up. It's like what my blog friend Jillian said on her blog...

"When I was younger and thought about where I would be at my age or older I always thought that I would have things under better control and that I knew where I was going to be going in my life, and the truth is, I do not the have the slighest idea."

And though, it's something I know I'll have time to figure out, I wondered if it was too soon to be thinking of becoming an adult. But then, as I saw hot chicken noodle soup spill onto the lap of an armless man, I laughed and realized I was not yet ready to be all mature. Someday, I would grow up, but for now, I was happy being the fast-talking, immature, non-French-speaking, person that I was.

As I came back to my dinner table to share my newfound wisdom, (and the funny armless man story) I found Damien, down on one knee, on soda-stained carpet. And it was right there, in front of me, Jesse, and a room full of outlet clothing and Fantastic Sam's haircuts, Damien proposed to Rose. I guess some people, just never grow up.

the definition of marriage

Three weeks ago, my blog friend Miss Jay posted this question on her blog: What causes one marriage to fail where another succeeds? Or better yet, for that matter, what makes a relationship work?

For my mother, it was obvious she believed that a good meal is what seals the deal. And true, they say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but is that really enough? My mother asked me, how I did know Jennifer wasnt the right person for me if I never gave her a chance and the truth was, I didnt really know. But what made my mother think she knew what was best for me? It was like that magazine article I read in the 11th grade. In India, most marriages are arranged by the families. The bride and groom may never even see each other until the day of the wedding, yet divorce between such couples is rare. Was their way better than mine?

I needed some answers. So I went to my favorite downtown flower shop to find them.

What I found was that my friend Ashley was in a similar situation. The other week, Ashley's mother told her she had seven months to find a boyfriend. Her family decided to spend the upcoming 2006 New Years Eve going out, and apparently, for a parent, nothing is worse than bringing along your single 18-year-old daughter.

ME: Why dont you just ask one of your guy friends to do it?
ASHLEY: Because it wouldnt be fair to him. Having to drag him along and be with my family, when he could be at some party, is just not cool.
ME: I dont know. It could be fun. When you're with a friend, anything can be fun. Just dont ditch him, you know?
ASHLEY: Hmmm. You know what? Maybe you should be my boyfriend.
ME: What?
ASHLEY: Yeah. You should. I get my date for New Years and your mom gets off your back. It's so perfect and convient!

I didnt know what to think. I mean, yeah, sure, Ashley was cute, but was hooking up just because it was convient, enough? On the other hand it would get my mother off my back about having a girlfriend that I could marry, just so she could have grandkids. But I was still unsure. And with it being my last week of school and finals, finding a new girlfriend wasnt exactly my top priority.

The next morning, also known as, the last day of school, I found myself at the college computer commons room printing out my final term paper for journalism. And it was there that I saw my good high school friend, Elena. She was writing a last minute term paper on the issue of illegal immigrants, and after seeing how long it was, I asked her why she was so passionate on the subject.

ELENA: David...can I trust you?
ME: Yeah. Elena, you know you can.
ELENA: I'm an immigrant. An illegal one too. I came here from Mexico when I was six.
ME: Really? Like you wandered through the desert and actually crossed?
ELENA: Yeah. We crossed the border through a hole in the fence. Back then it was a lot easier.
ME: Wow. Elena I had no idea. I would have never thought you crossed the border. I mean, I know you're Mexican, but you dont even have an accent.
ELENA: Well sometimes I do.
ME: Arent you scared that someone might find out? That you might get taken away?
ELENA: I'm scared every day. I dont want to be, but I am.

It wasnt fair that Elena had to live a life of fear. She was a full time student who still managed to work 40 hours a week, while I being a sorta-full time student, with no job, complained about not having enough time for anything. For spring break, I dreamed about appearing on MTV hoping to get "discovered", while Elena stayed at home, never going anywhere, because she couldnt leave Tucson. It was a sad college life, and I coulnt help but feel sorry for her.

ME: So why dont you just marry your boyfriend James?
ELENA: Because I love him.
ME: Ok...and?
ELENA: If I marry him, it's like I was using him to get my green card. I cant do that to him. Plus it would look kinda fishy.
ME: How so?
ELENA: A Mexican marrying a German? That'll send up a red flag, and it'll look like I married him for my green card. No, I have to marry someone who's a U.S. citizen. Someone who's available, but not looking for anything romantic. And if he was Mexican, well, it wouldnt look so weird, you know?
ME: Uh, kinda...well do you have any friends like that?

No sooner had the words come out of my mouth, that I wondered whether or not Elena considered me a possible candidate for a groom. I was a U.S. citizen. I was available. And after seeing Elena swallow four onion chili dogs at a high school party one time and pass gas, even after she passed out, I certainly wasnt interested in anything romantic. I was the perfect guy. Hell, I even had that Mexican heritage thing she was looking for. But was Elena right? Was having a similar heritage really what it took to make a marriage work?

I could see why she thought she couldnt marry him, without it looking like she used him, but I couldnt see how she thought marrying a Mexican looked less suspicious than marrying a German. When you love someone, is a factor of heritage really that important?

After finishing her paper, Elena invited me to go out for sushi, but I had to decline. I kinda sensed that her sushi supper was more of loaded lunch with the possibility of marriage and though I did consider myself a good friend, getting married without being in love was just something I couldnt see myself doing. I always thought, that if that day should come, it would be with someone I not only loved but liked as well.

So what does makes a marriage work? Is it a matter of convience or is it having somthing in common? I know that love doesnt always exist in some marriages, but yet somehow, they still seem to work. For a whirlwind wedding that doesnt even exist, the whole talk of marriage is sure creating a great deal of stress...especially for the groom!

caged!

In life, certain events come along so rarely, that when they do, special attention must be paid. Events like Hayley's Comet, perfect birthday dinners, or in my case...getting a wife.

Back when my mother was bedridden with a broken ankle, and the unwanted free dinners were abundant, one meal came from a fellow co-worker of my mother, a kindergarten teacher named Mrs. Janice Marantino. Mrs. Marantino was a self-described, "classy Italian broad" who looked, talked, and acted just like Rosie O'Donnell. She brought us a classic Italian meal of spaghetti and meatballs to our house, and honestly, it was one of the best homemade dinners I ever had. I later found out, it was her daughter, Jennifer, that made the delicious meal, and of course, my mother took this as a sign of possible infatuation.

MOTHER: David. Dont you wanna have kids?
ME: Uh, yeah, but not right now.
MOTHER: Well, you do wanna get married, don’t you?
ME: Mother…I’m only 20 years old and in case you forgot, this isnt Kentucky.
MOTHER: And how many dates have you been on recently?
ME: Let's see...there was that one girl, who turned out to be gay and that one gay guy, who turned out to be psycho. Why do you care?
MOTHER: David, Jennifer is a nice sweet girl. She used to live in New York and you like New York.
ME: But...
MOTHER: She doesnt drive, so you can take her to school with you everyday.
ME: Mom, will you...
MOTHER: And she's a really great cook! Plus, I think you would really like Mrs. Marantino as your mother-in-law.

It was scary seeing my mom so set on marrying me off. And it was even more scarier when I learned that she and Mrs. Marantino had been planning a dinner for both me and Jennifer, behind my back. Everything was set...the food (Italian, of course)...the music (classic Henry Mancini)...everything. All except for one factor: me. I wasnt exactly keen on the idea of having such a pressured dinner, and so when my day of despised doom arrived last Friday, I ditched. I had already told my mother that I would not be going through with the dinner, but my words fell on her deaf ears.

I had hoped that once the weekend had passed, so would my mother's wretched wedding wishes. They, of course, didnt. In fact, the more I detested to the dinner date, the more my mother was determined to make it happen. Come hell or high water, my mother was going to make me eat dinner with Jennifer. Which explained Mrs. Marantino and Jennifer's pressence at my house yesterday.

My friend Madelaine was having a birthday dinner at El Charro, in very downtown Tucson, while I was at home, running very late. I had just stepped out of the shower and into my white terry-cloth robe, when I saw them...my possible future wife and possible future mother-in-law, sitting on the living room couch. Despite our irreparable differences, my devious mother had invited the ambiguously Italian Duo and demanded that I cancel my dinner date plans. I, of course, politely declinded, and so, as retribution, my mother hid my car keys. I was trapped. It was the ultimate ultimatum. And so I did what any mature adult in my situation would do...I called my friend Maria and climbed out my bedroom window.

A half hour later, Maria and I made our grand entrance in the outside courtyard of the Mexican restaurant. I'll admit, it was a bit selfish having all eyes upon Maria and me, instead of the birthday girl, but when you're wearing jeans that conceal from the world everything which is flawed and evil and show only that which is true and plump, could ya blame us?

The food was fantastic and as far as birthday dinners go, it was totally top-notch. At one point, the dinner even became heart-warming as Madelaine stood up and made a speech, telling every individual party guest why he or she was special. Unfortunately, Maria couldnt stick around to find out why she was special, as her special someone, Ray, called her for last-minute chemistry notes. As I walked Maria to her car, the hostess stopped me and handed me a note. It was from Paul, my crazed gay stalker.

David - 8:15 - Paul will be waiting in the parking lot for you.

How did Paul know I was here? And how long had he been watching me and my friends eat dinner? Just the thought of his pressence outside in the parking lot, waiting for me, made me sick. Or maybe it was that carne seca I ordered? Well, whatever it was, it made me feel trapped inside the restaurant. I didnt wanna leave. I couldnt. Didnt Paul know that his unanswered phone calls was a sign that I did not wanna talk to him? Or was his phone set on silent, therefore, making my plea fall on deaf ears?

And so I wonder...when you're trapped in a proverbial cage of fear and ignorance, and are tired of running away from your problems...how do you make your deaf captors listen?

the secret life of colette

The other day, near the Burberry cologne counter at Dillards, I bumped into my good friend Colette. I had known Colette since the seventh grade, when her mouth was full of metal and her hair was full of butterflies, and have had a crush ever since. We hung out during high school and even went to prom together, but during my first year in college we sorta fell out of touch...mostly because Colette never paid her phone bill. So you can imagine how ecstatic I was to see her.

COLETTE: David?!
ME: Hey!
COLETTE: What's up?! How've you been?!
ME: I'm good. Just...shopping.
COLETTE: Me too!
ME: Yeah, I can tell...
COLETTE: Hey! Wanna help me pick out a Coach bag?

Coach bag? Seriously? Was I the only one who remembered that this was the same girl who used to sew on patches of rock bands onto a denim bag she bought at Target? Obviously, the girl had changed, and yet, I was still the same blubbering idiot who stuttered and sweated when in her pressence.

While I blabbered on, something about dolphins (whatever...I dont wanna talk about it!) Colette admired the assortment of Coach bags, behind the bullet-proof counter. And it was during this time, that a flood of my saliva showered out of my mouth and onto her lime-green halter. Because her head was turned, Colette couldnt see what I saw...my spit, slowly slithering down, making it's way to her denim capris. As luck would have it, the Optic Signature Shoulder Tote Colette was trying on for size, stopped my runny spit and saved me from further embarassment. God bless Coach.

Colette bought the bag, and not a moment too soon, since Dillards was now closed. I walked Colette to her car and told her, that her newly streaked hair, made her look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffanys. She, of course, had no idea who I was talking about, and didnt know whether or not I had given her a compliment or a slap across the face.

ME: You've never seen Breakfast at Tiffany's?
COLETTE: Who's Tiffany? And why is she having breakfast?
ME: Tiffany isnt a girl. It's a place. The jewelery place?
COLETTE: Oh. Ok. I didnt know you could have breakfast there.
ME: You cant...it's just...the name of the movie.

Ok, I'll admit. Colette wasnt exactly the brightest diamond in the rough, and was a few carats short of a tennis bracelet from Tiffanys, but she was still cute. And as we all know, the rules according to guys, clearly state that "cuteness rules over intelligence any day of the week."

Because my car was on the other side of the mall, Collette offered me a ride, while I tried to convince her that my Audrey Hepburn comment was a total compliment. We arrived at my car, and just as I was stepping out, I was also in the middle of telling Colette that she needed to check out that movie. Before I even had a chance to shut the door, Colette drove away. I was plauged with confusedness. I mean, sure, Colette gave me her new number and told me to call her, but maybe her driving away was meant to be some kind of coded tu culpa?

There were so many questions I wanted her to answer, but would not ask. Not tonight, at least. But soon. Unfortunately I couldnt find anyone who thought talking to Colette was a good idea. My friend Madelaine suggested my best would be to forget the mess that was Colette, but I couldnt. And after seeing her again yesterday, I'm not so sure...

As I was blog-surfing, I read on my fellow blog friend Johanna Edward's blog about that newly controversial book, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life by Kaavya Viswanathan, a story written by a girl, who had a secret herself. Allegedly, this young author had plagiarized many passages from other chick-lit novels, and so of course, I went to the mall to investigate. And it was there that I saw Colette.

COLETTE: David! What are you doing here?
ME: Well, I'm not shopping for jeans.
COLETTE: Yeah...I'm...
ME: Hey, I'm sorry I didnt call you.

As I waited for a response from Colette, I noticed a really strange guy standing next to Colette. He had dark, curly hair and was wearing one of those really retro shirts with a dragon print on it. (Hm. So that's who's keeping that company in business, huh?) He was the epitome of geek, but there he was holding hands with Colette.

ME: Hi.
GEEK: Hey what's up.
ME: So you're...
COLETTE: Ok, well, I'll call you, then! Bye!

The girl couldnt get away from me faster. And as I saw her and her alleged boyfriend leave the book store, I wondered, what's up with Colette? Why did she keep running away from me? Was it something I said or something I did? And who was that weird guy she was holding hands with? What kind of secret was Colette trying to hide, and is it really worth finding out?

peace of mind

Your cell phone is vibrating. Again. There are over a dozen unread and unanswered emails in your inbox all marked urgent. You try to ignore the unpaid pile of bills on your desk by focusing on a breaking news story, only to be distracted by the tiny ticker on the bottom. Your favorite vintage Tee you were planning on wearing is still dirty, there's a wail of an ambulance siren outside that wont quit, and as far as dinner's concerned? You're no closer to making it then you are winning that billion dollar lottery.

It's days like these that you just need a break from it all. I, of course, find my break in the mall, in a little place called, Origins. It's a store where one can find skin care products, candles, bath oils, and just about everything else you need to help you unwind for a relaxing afternoon. My choice of peace? The Peace of Mind™ gumballs. Filled with peppermint, basil, and eucalyptus, these tiny white gumballs not only help tense jaw muscles relax and unclench, they help soothe the band of tightness around your head as the pressure, tension and the weight of the world melt blissfully away.

And I knew that on a day like last Thursday I was going to need them.

It was the day before the funeral, and I went to the downtown flower shop to help my friend Madelaine arrange floral wreaths for her five-month-six-day old, kinda-sorta nephew. (I say "kinda-sorta" since it's kinda-sorta easier than saying "Madelaine's mother's boyfriend's daughter's baby." Yeah.) As I helped spray-paint the white carnations baby-blue, I realized that these flowers werent just for anyone. They were for somebody whose life was cut short. Way too short.

The very thought of the whole thing was depressing. We were going to bury a baby. And maybe it's just me, but I dont think people arent supposed to bury their babies. Babies are supposed to bury their parents after they have lived a long and fruitful life. It was heartbreaking, reading his tiny obituary, but it was even more heartbreaking seeing my friend arrange his baby Kermit doll and baby rattles on his wreath. A few times I could see Madelaine tear up, but each time she stopped, knowing that she needed to be strong for both herself and her family.

Friday morning, I attended the funeral of Heriberto Cota Cruz Jr. It was a small ceremony at Martinez Funeral Chapel, with close friends and family. And under the maroon flouresent lights and the larger than life painting of a sad Jesus, holding an antomically correct heart with a crown of thorns surrounding it, was a tiny powder blue casket. The kind of blue that made prom tuxes look tacky, but on a baby casket...somehow, the color was refined.

I, however, wasnt as refined. Under the blood red lights, my charcoal-grey, Ben Sherman shirt turned into a weird shade of lavendar-plum. My black square-toed shoes were pinching my toes. And my hair? Well...let's not even go there. So much for death with dignity. But as I approached the tiny casket, all my problems seemed to fade. My shirt seemed less colorful, my shoes pinched a whole lot less and my hair wasnt a big disaster as I thought it was. I had somehow found peace with my look.

And sitting on the front pew, Madelaine had found peace with Heriberto's (aka Squishy) passing.

MADELAINE: I dont know, David. It's weird. I feel like I should be more sad.
ME: Why?
MADELAINE: Cuz my Squishy died and all, and I'm not even crying as much as I thought I would. It's like...I know that that's not my Squishy up there. It doesnt even look like him.
ME: Oh, I know. They totally messed up his eyelashes. They're way too clumpy.
MADELAINE: Yeah. I know. They did a bad job. He doesnt look like I remember him. That's not my Squishy up there. My Squishy is in a better place. And I think, just by believing in that...
ME: ...it's why you're not sad.

Unlike the baby's mother, who was crying a never-ending flow of tears, Madelaine knew in her heart, that that body in the powder blue casket wasnt her Squishy, because her Squishy was in Heaven. By believing in that her Squishy was in a better place, Madelaine was able to find peace with his passing.

And I was able to find peace, with my issues of death. I realized, thanks to most of y'all's comments up in here, that death shouldnt be something to fear. Rather, it should be seen as an adventure and something to look foward to. And until that day comes, I should just relax and not even think about it and just live life.

As we said our goodbyes to Heriberto, Madelaine left him with one last prayer and I left him with one last Peace of Mind™ gumball.

I shall call him Squishy...

True, he couldnt use the gum...

and he shall be mine...

and it probably would attract more bugs to his coffin...

and he shall be my Squishy.

but maybe, knowing that he had Peace of Mind with him, would give us all, peace in our mind that somewhere out there, Heriberto was looking down on us, smiling and enjoying his afterlife adventure.

Come on, Squishy! Come on, little Squishy!

death does not become him

They say there are only three things certain in life. Change. Taxes. And death. And though they are an invevitable part of life, something you must experiece at one time or another, is it wrong to ignore it and just wait for the inevitable to pass?

Friday morning, I went to visit my friend Madelaine at her work, the downtown flower shop. The shop opened at 8:30, and already it was 8:38. My friend was late, which was odd, since she was one of the most punctual people I knew. Something was wrong. But what, I didnt know. My suspicions were confirmed when Madelaine called me a few minutes later.

MADELAINE: David...(sob)...?
ME: Madelaine? What's wrong?
MADELAINE: Can you do me a huge favor?
ME: Yeah, sure. Are you ok?
MADELAINE: No...just...(sob)...can you open the shop for me? Alice is in the hospital...(sob)...
ME: Why? What happened?
MADELAINE: She has kidney stones, but that's not important. I'm not coming in because...(sob)...you know Alicia?
ME: Your kinda-sorta-step-sister?
MADELAINE: Yeah...(sob).... her baby died this morning.

It was a bomb, I wasnt expecting. Alicia's baby wasnt even five-months-old. Five-month-old's just cant die like that...could they? It was a question, I knew, that wasnt appropriate to ask at such a time, nor was it one that I wanted to find out the answer to. I tuned in and out as my teary-voiced friend told her tale of tribulation, only listening to the parts where she explained how to open and set up the shop.

As I hung up the phone, I realized, as a friend, I was totally not there. I had ignored my grieving friend as she talked about her kinda-sorta-nephew's death. I couldnt imagine the pain my friend was going through and listening to her talk about death as she was in the middle of experiencing it first-hand, was hard.

I called the other employees to come in early, since I of course, didnt even work at the flower shop, and was afraid of pushing the wrong button and burning the entire place down. I mean, I'm sure, Alice, the owner didnt install such a button, but with my luck, I wasnt taking any chances.

After Adrianna and Ashley came in, all they could talk about was Alice's kidney stones and the unimaginable pain Madelaine must've been going through. I felt uncomfortable talking about the death of Madelaine's kinda-sorta-nephew, and tried changing the subject several times, but each time, the subject found me. How could Adrianna and Ashley be so comfortable talking about death as if it were just a everyday kinda thing? Maybe it was me. Maybe I was the weird one for not accepting death.

After I left the flower shop, I started thinking how precious life can be. One moment, you’re making plans, and the next, life makes its own plans for you. It’s an unexpected thing that should never be taken for granted and should be lived to the fullest. Which is why I couldnt understand my retired missionary neighbor Mrs. Deliccio's request.

Last week, Mrs. Deliccio found out that she had breast cancer. I found out after I had left the little flower shop of horror. It was one surprise, right after the other. And like my earlier surprise, Mrs. Deliccio and her husband also had a request. Spreading the Word of God for over 50 years, all over the world, the Deliccio's never had a chance to settle down and raise a family. And since the day, I moved into my house, two years ago, the Deliccio's have come to think of me as the son they never had.

And as the son they never had, the Deliccio's have asked me to be a witness, making sure that tomorrow, Wednesday, Mrs. Deliccio is of sound mind and body as she signs the neccessary papers needed to state, that should anything go wrong in the operating room, she would not want to be kept alive by way of life support. Instead, she would like to die and meet her Maker peacefully. But as the son they never had, shouldnt I speak up and say that, wanting to die instead of live is just plain insane and not normal?

For most people, when you're young, your whole life is about the pursuit of fun. Then, you grow up and learn that you have to be cautious. Life isnt as easy as you once thought it was and so you vow to make each day count. You live life to the fullest. And I wonder, when did life stop being fun and start being scary? And is it so wrong that I'm ignoring death and not giving it the full acknowledgement it needs?

do we the deformed not feel?

Wednesday morning, I woke up rejuvinated and refreshed, thinking of the infinite possibilities a day like that could hold. Perhaps, I would volunteer at nursing home or maybe find a cure to end all world hunger. Or at the very least find a pair of plaid boardshorts that matched my light-blue Empyre jacket. After taking a shower and eating breakfast, I proceeded to do my hair.

For me, doing my hair, is like constructing a building. I lay out the foundation using pomade and putty. Then, to support the structure of the hair, I use a comination of wax, paste, glue, gel, volumizer and moouse. To get the look of really great second-day-dirty-bedhead hair, I then rub a towel over my head, pushing my hair foward. A spray of hairspray, and bada-bing, bada-boom! I am sportin' one stylishly cool, coifed, head of hair.

I was in the middle of gluin' and gelin' when I realized I didnt have a towel. The towel closet only had fancy guest towels, and thats when I noticed the rag on my brother Darrin's nightstand. I was on my way to lookin' hot, when my younger brother Collin saw me using the rag.

COLLIN: David!
ME: What?
COLLIN: That's Darrin's rag!
ME: So? He aint using it.
COLLIN: No! It's his rag!
ME: Ok. It's his. Who cares?

And that's when I saw beads of a white gooey substance in my hair. Apparently, it was a rag Darrin used nightly. I freaked. It just couldnt be. There was just no way I had a head full of jizz in my hair. But there it was. Taunting me, and making me angier by the second. I didnt have time to wash my hair and build it again, so as I rubbed my hair with a fancy guest towel, I pleaded with God, asking him to rid my head of spooge. And he did. For the most part. But there, at the top of my head, was a cowlick, like no other. I was already running late, and my hair was starting to set. So I did the next best thing. I cut a chunk of my cum-covered-hair.

My hair was ruined. A disaster beyond repair. And because I never liked the way I look in a hat, there was just no hiding to the fact that I my hair was deformed. But the funny thing is, no one really noticed the damage. Was I just overreacting to something not that big?

Later that day, I went to my dermatologist, to have a mole looked at. As it turns out, it was bordering in wart territory and so Dr. Brehnan zapped my face with freezing cold nitrogen. As I left his office, he told me that the mole would blister and that it would take ten days for to heal. Ten days. What could possibly make my doctor assume that I could look awful for 10 days? And then I realized, that maybe he saw my hair.

Devastated, with my jacked-up hair do and my face looking like Eric Stoltz in Mask, I decided my best option was to stay at home, and surround myself with orange cones and police tape. But I couldnt. I had a test in my Geo class, and so it was with a deformed look, I went to school.

I could feel everyone's eyes on me, and for all the bad reasons. I mean, being the center of attention is kinda cool, but when you look like you should come between the man with three nipples and the bearded lady at a circus freak show...not so great.

The weird thing about my abnormality was that it didnt seem to bother anyone, but me. What was even weirder was that it opened the bonds of communication to the other freaks and geeks in my classes. People who I never talked to before, started talking to me, acting as if we had been aquaintances for so many years. For a whole semester, these people ignored me, and I them, but now...it was different.

Was it that obvious that I looked like a wreck? And why was it that it took my hideous, Quasimodo-esque deformation for these people and I to talk? Is it because I was now one of them? It's weird. Before, it seemed as if there was an unwritten, mutual agreement that they keep to their own fantasy world and I to mine. But now, with my herpe-looking face and lawn mower hair cut, I feel as if the only reason they're talking to me is because I look...like...one of them...

a family of feelings

Last Monday, I got my picture taken for the cover of a puzzle/game box. It was a ton of fun, as people fussed over the lighting and how the models should pose. I thought that I would finally be able to see the puzzle/game that I was helping to endorse, but unfortunately, I didnt. I had to smile and pose around an empty table, along with my fellow models, pretending to play the game.

As I looked at the other deluded smiling models, I wondered if this was how it was done in the real world of modeling. Were products just placed in after the pictures were taken? My questions were soon answered as my newly fellow model-friend, Miguel, made a comment about the whole thing and received a very stern answer from the photographer.

ME: Dude. How dare you question the greatest photographer of our time.
MIGUEL: Whatever, this is glay. I mean...gay.
ME: Ha! Dude you messed it up. You're stupid.
MIGUEL: Shut up!

I couldn't help but fight my laughter, as Miguel kept making little side comments every time the photographer said something. And me, being of the quick-witted mind, followed his comments with my jokes, as well. After the photo shoot, I hung out with Miguel and we became, as he put it, "soul-brotha's". It was funny how one could be considered part of the family after only a few jokes, but I guess when you decide to make a family out of friends, you get to choose who you want and dont want. And as a part of this new family, Miguel invited me to go with him and a few other friends to Douglas.

Saturday night, I was in Douglas, two hours away from Tucson, and two minutes away from the border of Mexico. And it was there, in downtown Mexico that I partied with my new family of friends. The club was hot, and yet, oh so quiet. The reason being that the music could only be heard through headphones, that were supplied by the club, rather than from overhead speakers. Apparently, this was a club that wanted its patrons to meet, drink, and stay. And stay, I did. One drink turned into many and before I knew it, I was falling asleep on the bed of a sleezy motel. To avoid looking like I had been up all night partying, I decided to stay up all morning. Unfortunately, my plan fell through.

Sunday morning, a time for rest, a time for relaxation, a time for getting over last night's hangover. As my pastor talked about Christ rising from the grave, all I could think about was last night's dinner, rising up my throat. Sure, it probably wasnt the holiest of thoughts I ever had in a church, but then again, how holy would it be if I pulled a Linda Blair?

After church, we headed over to my Uncle Richard's house for an Easter barbeque, and it was there, in the middle of my barbeque glazed chicken lunch, that my Aunt Corinna decided to tell us, my uncle was leaving for Afghanistan this Friday. It was a shock to all, except for my uncle and aunt who had known about the trip for several months. And it was at that moment in time, while everyone asked questions, I found myself, not really caring about my uncle going to war.

My uncle isnt really one of the friendliest people you'll meet. In fact, if you were to go up to him and introduce yourself, he'd give you a grunt and then walk away. He was the type of guy who distanced himself from his loved ones, even at family gatherings. So it comes to know surprise that I'm not really all that close to him. Which is sad, seeing that he's leaving for Afghanistan and I really dont have any feelings for his leave of absense.

Instead, I felt closer to my new family of friends in Douglas than I did with my family here in Tucson. And then it hit me. Maybe I was like my uncle, in that I had more fun elsewhere, than I did with my own family. To me, the most important thing in life is your family. There are days when you love them, and others when you don't. But in the end, they're the people you always come home to. Sometimes it's the family you're born into and sometimes it's the one you make for yourself. And I wonder, is it bad to have more feelings for the family you make, rather than the family you already have?

catching flies

It's been said, that you can catch more flies with honey, than you can wih vinegar. And unless you have a reptile or amphibious pet, I never understood why you would want to catch flies. But what I do understand is, if you want someone to do something for you, ya gotta act sweet. Which explained why, last Tuesday, my-not-so-hot-post-it-friend-girl Corrie wore a baby blue corset, under a fitted black blazer. Obviously, the girl was after something, and as it turns out, it was me. I was the fly. Sorta.

Ms. Tyler, my journalism teacher, said, that as a final, we were all required to write a news article. And since I was found to be the most interesting person in class, Corrie decided to do a feature profile on moi. I thought the very idea was a bit narcissistic, but after some convincing arguments from fellow classmates, I relented and agreed to meet Corrie for lunch the next day.

That night, I got to thinking what kind of outfit would the most interesting person wear? In entertainment magazines, all the most interesting celebrities go casual e.g. flip flops and jeans, and so I figured why not me? After much consideration, I finally decided on a pair of olive green cargo pants from Express, my brown Crocs, a white t-shirt, and oversized white sunglasses. It was totally casual, with a hint of subtle sophistication. It was just the kind of look celebrities hoped to be caught candid in. Too bad the paparazzi here in Tucson, is like almost non-exisistant.

Wednesday afternoon, at exactly 1:45 PM, I arrived at Cafe Poca Cosa, an upscale Mexican restaurant, where the waiters looked like models and the lunch menu changed more often than Sarah Jessica Parker at the MTV movie awards. Immeadiately I was seated by two hostess' who both offered me a glass of wine. But being that I wasnt 21 and afraid they'd card me after I drank it, I declined and stuck to my water with cucumber slices.

Fifteen minutes later, me and my casually cool clothes were still waiting. Where was Corrie? Was I being stood up? Was Corrie trying to get back at me for going out with Paul that one time instead of her? But how would she know that? Maybe she was psychic. I realized, I only had about five dollars in cash on me, and began to wonder if restaurants really did make their low-fundage patrons wash dishes. But I only had water and complimentary tortilla chips. They wouldnt do that, would they? As I began to formulate a complicated dine-and-dash plan, in walked Corrie, the journalist du jour. And following the journalist du jour, was Damien. And his girlfriend.

Quickly I looked out the front window and tried to cover my face. This was not happening! Damien's too ghetto to eat in a fancy restaurant like this. Who does he think he is, trying to walk up in here, all casually dressed in jeans? I mean, really who wears jeans to a hip, happenin' place like Cafe Poca Cosa?

CORRIE: Hey David!
ME: Ok, do you really need to shout my name with such enthusiasm? God, you're worse than a cheerleader on crack! Hey!
CORRIE: What's wrong?
ME: Oh, uh, nothing. I just have a, I have a, whatchamacallit, itch on my face.
CORRIE: Oh. Ok.
ME: Yeah, and...and, um...
DAMIEN: David?
ME: Shit muthafucker fuck shit!

Damien spotted me. I could feel his eyes on me, and so I continued to scratch the non-existent itch which had spread to my entire face, hoping that he would get the hint. Or at the very least, ignore the person with severe turrets. I mean, what would I say to him?

DAMIEN: David?
ME: Oh, hey! Dude, what's up? I didnt even see you there!
DAMIEN: Yeah. Um, can I talk to you real quick?
ME: Oh, well, I dont know. I'm actually kinda on this, um, this, uh date thing with this person friend and, you know...
DAMIEN: Dude. Just real quick. I need to know how Rose is.
ME: Yeah. Yeah. Um, she's ok, but um...
DAMIEN: Is she mad at me? How's Katrina?
ME: Uh, I dont know. I, um...
DAMIEN: David! Just real quick. Five minutes.

I sat there, unsure of what to do. I mean, did he really expect me to just get up and tell him that everything was all right? That Rose was just fine and dandy? That his three-year-old daughter was telling everyone she met, "My daddy scares my mommy and me." Luckily, Damien's girlfriend, came over and whisked him away. The problem may have disappeared, but unfortunately, it wasnt solved.

CORRIE: Well. That was rude, huh?
ME: I know. I'm sorry about that. I didnt think he'd ask so many questions.
CORRIE: No. I meant, you ignoring me. That was kinda rude.

Oh, no she di-int! This bitch, trying to tell me it's rude for friends to table hop and chat. Wasn't she the one who was late? Wasnt she the one that didnt have the audacity to phone the hostess? And it's not like I ignored her. I acknowledged her pressence. Sorta.

After the waitress came and took our order, Corrie began to interrogate me. Where did I grow up? What do I like to do for fun? Where do I see myself in the next 5 years? I wasnt exactly sure, but what I did know was, Corrie would not be in my future. After all these months of having a kinda-semi-sorta crush on Corrie, my intrest in my not-so-hot-post-it-friend-girl faded away. Throughout the entire lunch, she complained about everything. The chicken was too dry. The slice of watermelon garnish on her salad was out of season. The restaurant decor had no heart and was way too modern/good for Tucson.

Maybe she was trying to impress me, but instead she only managed to turn me off with her acid tongue. The food was excellent, top-notch really, and unless she went down on Brad Pitt every night, I highly doubted that Corrie had put anything better in her mouth. Besides, I couldnt be with someone like that. Someone who looked for the bad in everything. Because when you look for the bad in something, you will surely find it.

As our lunch began to dwindle down, the waitress presented us with a large glass dish of chocolate mousse, compliements of "our friend." The very word, made my stomach turn, and I knew, without a second of a doubt, that it was from Damien. Corrie, spooned at the dessert like there was no tomorrow, but I couldnt. I was now the fly, and Damien's honey was this mousse. This delicious, airy, chocolatey, smooth...ok, so maybe I could just try it. I could tell Damien really was concerned about the reprecussions of his actions from last weekend, but I wasnt sure how to tell him that it was gonna take a lot of honey to get on Rose's good side. Obviously he knew his behavior stung like vinegar. And now, here he was trying to lure his past life back into his life, using me as the honey.

He called four times yesterday, and I'm still not sure what to say. If I help Rose and Damien get back together and they break up, it's my fault. If they dont get back together, Damien will tell Rose that I tried to help reunite the odd couple, therefore assuming the fact that I think the only man that should be in her life is Damien, forcing Rose to never speak to me again. It's a classic no-win situation.

movin' on foward

Two weeks ago, I went to the wedding of my ex-boss's sister, with my ex-employee friend Rose, who so happened to be cousins with my ex-boss's baby's daddy. Following me so far? It was your average southern Arizona wedding. Invitations created and copied at Kinkos, a cake from Costco, and a four-month pregnant blushing bride.

At a wedding this size, it's almost natural to run into someone you know. And that's exactly what happened to Rose. She ran into an old family friend and her 17-year old son, Jesse. Immeadiately 21-year old Rose was smitten and spent the entire wedding reception talking to Jesse, leaving me to babysit her annoying 16-year old sister.

The following week, Rose asked me if I would help her move into her new house. She was tired of living the life of an apartment dweller, and bought a small, two-bedroom house in central Tucson for her daughter Katrina and her. As we packed Rose and Katrina's life away into boxes, I could tell Rose was genuinally happy. She had a new home, a daughter who always made her smile, and a new man in her life. She was moving foward. And being that she was a high school drop out/unwed mother, it was important to Rose to move foward and away from being just another statistic. Her life was running smoothly, unlike the car that followed us.

On our last trip from the apartment to the house, a dark car followed us shining very high headlights and turning them off every so often. It was very cheesy-teen-horror-flick, which at first freaked us out, but when we saw it was a huge van, we laughed. How cliché would it be for the van driver to blow out our tires and harvest our organs right there in the van? As it turns out, the very idea was very likely.

Last Saturday, Rose held a birthday party for Katrina in their new house. It was a Little Mermaid party that lasted well into the night, and since I was clearly under the sea of a drunken state, I stayed the night. As did Jesse.

I was just getting ready to watch MTV's Yo Momma, when all of a sudden I heard a loud crash. Not two seconds later, a half-naked Jesse ran into the room, followed by a topless, pink-pantie wearing Rose. I stared at the two, almost stark-naked, lovers and wondered how violent that momma and her boy made love. It was then that we heard a pounding on the back door.

ME: Rose! What's going on?!
ROSE: Damien is here!
ME: What?! Why?!
ROSE: That muthafucker broke my window!

Damien was the father of Rose's baby, and apparently, just like Jesse, he was trying to make a late-night visit through the back door. Within a matter of seconds, Damien broke the door down, pointed to Jesse and attacked. It was like a live Jerry Springer show and I had front row seats. Katrina was crying, Rose was screaming, and Damien was swinging, trying to get away from Jesse's headlock. I of course, sat on the living room couch with a bowl of chips watching the whole thing.

ROSE: David! Help me!
ME: Are you kidding me? I cant scrap.
ROSE: You're a guy!
ME: Yeah, for procreation, not combat! Besides, Jesse has it under control.

Which was true. Despite being six years older and more experienced than Jesse, Damien was getting his ass kicked like nobody's business.

ME: I wonder if Damien is embarassed. Poor guy. Cant even get in a few punches. Damn! Ouch! Ok, so I guess I better mentally note not to ever piss off Jesse. Hmmm. I should also probably tell Rose she has a tear in her underwear. So not sexy. Oh God. Rose, dont fight! You're not even wearing a bra! Wow, those are big! How are Jesse and Damien not even distracted? Maybe they're gay...oh wouldnt that be a cool twist?

But the only twisting going on, was Damien's arm. Damien ran out of the house, crying and cursing Rose. Rose tended to Jesse's wounds and Katrina's crying, while I looked out into the front yard. There was Damien, driving away in a dark van.

Once the excitment had died down, I started to wonder if Rose was mad at me. When someone from your past gets into a fight with someone in your present, and your friends just sit and watch it happen, how likely would you include them in your future? The more I think about it, the more I wished I would have intervened and stopped Jesse and Damien. But I didnt and as a result, Rose recieved a broken hand and probably a broken spirit. I feel like I should talk to Damien, and tell him that if Rose had moved on, then maybe he should as well. But if I cant even talk to my own stalker (aka Paul) how can I talk to another?

the contribution

The other day in my journalism class, my teacher, Ms. Tyler read my class a story. It was about a lady named Miss Rumphius, whose grandfather had told her to do three things before she died: travel to faraway places, live by the sea in her old age, and contribute something to make the world more beautiful.

Despite the fact it was a cheap ploy to get my fellow classmates and I to contribute our time and writing to next semester's college newspaper, the story struck a chord within me. What would be my contribution to the world? I wasnt too concerned about the traveling and living by the sea since I had a whole lifetime to accomplish those tasks, so I figured I'd settle on my worldly contribution. That's when a dark cloud settled over my computer. As I checked my email, I noticed one from Josh Levin, I didnt get the Slate Internship.

Thank you very much for applying for our summer internship. I’m sorry to say that we’re going to be hiring someone else for the position. I appreciate the time and effort you put into the application and thank you for your patience. Best of luck in the future, and I encourage you to contact me again if you have a story contribution that you think might work for Slate.

Best, Josh

That was one contribution I had no intention of contributing to. Devastated, I felt the only thing I could do was to console myself with endless sugar-coated crap, so I headed to the campus cafeteria. That's when I met Mary, a talent scout who was looking for students to model for the cover of a game/puzzle box. It wasnt a major product, just a small toy that would be made here in town and sold at the next college fundraiser. My crushed feeling were somewhat mollified, and so I agreed to do it. It would be a contribution to my school!

I felt so satisfied, I decided to make more contributions. But what? What else could I possibly give to the world? What else could I put out there that would make me a part of a dialouge?

Later on that week, on Thursday, as I considered my contribution options, one of my fellow math classmates invited me to a frat party. Jason had been struggling in class for a while, and felt the only proper contribution he could make to the people who helped him would be to invite them to get drunk.

True it was a small contribution, but it was one that led to a big party. It was your average college mixer: ten percent jock, ten percent slacker, and jello shots with with way more than ten percent alcohol. As I made the rounds, before I committed to a location, Jason saw me and invited me to the whipping room.

ME: A whipping room?
JASON: Yeah.
ME: For like eggs and butter?
JASON: Um, ok.
ME: Yeah, I guess. I didnt have anything to eat all day. Where is it at?
JASON: It's down the hallway to the left.

Turns out the room served more than breakfast. Two asian ladies in black leather dominatrix outfits and a guy in a leather thong and mask, escorted the party-goers to a sexual expression of being whipped like a horse. Wa-cha! It was totally humiliating, but like a car accident, I couldnt look away. The masochist students obviously enjoyed the crop but I wasnt drunk enough to enjoy that crap, so I left the room.

An hour later, Mistress Ana, one of the ladies who used and abused the crop, came out from the whipping room for a drink.

ANA: So, have you been whipped yet?
ME: No.
ANA: Why? You should try it!
ME: Yeah, I dont think so. I never really got off painful fetishes.
ANA: Pain? It's not pain. It's healthy fun! Plus, if I can make those people happy, then I'm happy.

Apparently Mistress Ana's contribution to the world was painful pleasure. It was a weird contribution, but it made people happy. And it got me thinking. Would my modeling contribution make others happy or just me? And if it was just me that would be happy, wasnt that contribution be considered selfish? And what if the game turned out to be super lame, like a 9 piece puzzle? What kind of contribution to the world would that be...me sitting at a desk, struggling to put together a puzzle?

the bad kisser vs the bad boy

Two weeks ago, on the grassy knoll of a university campus, two mere mortal lovers fell back in love. After spending a week of camping in the woods (I know, let's not go there...), Ray realized that the tired and true cliché "absence makes the heart grow fonder" did hold some truth. The cold and dark forest, made Ray realize that life without my friend Maria was just as cold and dark, and so immeadiately, the following Monday morning, Ray asked Maria to go steady. And Maria, who believed in the cliché, "three times the charm" accepted.

Since then, the two have been inseperable and so it was surprising when I met Maria, yesterday at Magpies Pizza for lunch, and saw a big purple bruise on her chin.

ME: Maria! What happened to your face?!
MARIA: David! Shhh! Dont be so loud!
ME: Sorry! Sorry! It's just...what happened?!
MARIA: Ray.
ME: Did he hit you?!
MARIA: No, he kissed me.
ME: Huh?
MARIA: Ray kissed me and, well, he's not really, that good at it.

Maria then began to fill me in on the downside of dating Ray. True, he had the build of a soccer player. And true he had a head of hair that would probably last him until he was 80. But what was also true, was that when it came down to making out, Ray just didnt make the cut. According to Maria, Ray used too much teeth and too much suction and focused his attention on her face rather than on her lips. Although, to be fair, Maria did say he gave good head. Apparently, the dude was only able to make out with one set of lips.

As we ate lunch, Maria wondered if giving a bad kisser a second chance was a good thing. I thought, it was, because if Ray was willing to give the relationship a second chance, why shouldn't Maria? To me, kissing is an art. Originality isnt always a good thing when it comes to kissing, but, if there's enough of a connection there, cant the worst of bad kisses be forgiven?

After lunch, we headed to the U of A, where Maria and I were greeted by Ray and his tutoring student, Elisha. The moment Ray saw Maria, his face lit up and immeadiately he jumped out of his seat and rushed over to her...where he then began to ravage the enitre left side of her face. I stood in horror as I watched Ray kiss/chomp on my friend's face, making these weird "Mmmmmm!" noises. And all the while, Maria just stood there, smiling. I felt bad for the guy. I knew he meant well, but this was just too much! I was about to rescue my friend from being eaten alive, when Elisha spoke up.

ELISHA: Ray! What the hell are you doing?
RAY: I'm giving my sugar, some sugar.

Oh, God please tell me this is a joke...

ELISHA: You're eating her face! You dont know how to kiss!
RAY: Elisha, you're only in middle school. Trust me, when you get older, you're gonna do the same thing with your boyfriend.

Ebarrassed by both Ray's kissing technique and advice, a determined and impatient Maria grabbed Ray by the chin, squeezing his mouth into an "O" and kissed his mouth shut, only to have Ray stick his tongue out and lick her bottom lip and chin. It was beyond gross and Ray was beyond help.

Later on that day, as I walked Maria to her car, her friend Doogy saw us and asked if we would be willing to help him and his band, Double Top, set up for a gig. They were opening for another band called, (ironically enough) "The Life And Times" and with no real plans set, Maria and I agreed. The music was good, but the free drinks were even better. And since I was designated drinker, I drank Fantasy Island Iced Teas all night long, which were kinda like Long Island Iced Teas but with three times the alcohol. A guy could get used to being with the band.

By the end of my second drink and the second opening act, I was faded. My lips on a nice, cold, tall drink was just what I needed. And apparently, a bad, hot, tall drink of man, was exactly what Maria needed. Through a hazy and intoxicated gaze, I could see Maria making out with the drummer, aka Derric.

ME: Maria...what are you doing?
MARIA: Oh, David, I know, but he's so cute! Don't you think he's cute?
ME: Yeah, if you like that whole, "I-cant-afford-a razor-or-any-hair-product look."
MARIA: Whatever. He's a really good kisser! He doesnt chew on me!
ME: Yeah, but what about Ray?
MARIA: What about him? We're still together.
ME: Yeah, well when you're kissing another guy like that, it's kinda hard to tell.
MARIA: David. I'm just kissing Derric, that's all. Just be happy for me.

I tried to be happy for Maria, but I couldnt. I knew, that somewhere out there, Ray was thinking of Maria, while here in the bar, Derric was thinking of doing something with Maria somewhere down there. Derric was a self-proclaimed bad boy, with the Tony Manero look down to a T, and it was a persona that Maria was instantly attracted to. She claimed her hot and heavy makeout session was just a one night fun thing, but still, the whole thing bothered me. I guess it's because so many people have left comments that I'm a good guy, and I feel that Ray's a good guy, so somehow, it just didnt seem fair. Sure, his kissing was atrocious, but was it reason enough for Maria to go look for hot mouth-on-mouth action elsewhere? Is there any hope for the good guys? Or should we just let the bad guys win and hope it all works out in the end?