salute your short trip

Fresh from her weekend in the woods, Maria and I had lunch yesterday, to talk about her adventures in the wild, wild wilderness.

Like all camping trips, it started off real slow as they unpacked and pitched the tent. Of course, Maria wasnt the only one pitching a tent. As Maria helped Louie unpack the truck and set camp, she could sense that he wanted to be more than just friends. Duh. But not wanting to ruin a perfectly good weekend before it had even begun, she talked to Louie over "tall boys" and told him that if anything was to ever happen between them, it would have to be eased into and not forced. Kinda like sex with a virgin.

Of course, Louie saw this as his chance to shine. The primitive beast within Louie was released, and like any good agile hunter who provides for the clan, he made the best cheeseburgers Maria had ever tasted. He showed his compassionate side as he offered Maria the better half of the air mattress they slept on inside the tent and when it came to showing selflessness, he allowed Maria to spoon him in the middle of the night without a fight.

The next morning, as the sun crept through the clouds and the fresh pine-scented breeze came rolling down the hillside, Maria awoke to see that Louie was already bustling around camp making breakfast. No one was more surprised than Maria. And speaking of surprises, back in Tucson, my mother also awoke to a surprise. As she was watering her front lawn plants, she noticed that each one of the tires in her Expedition was flat. What she found was four nails buried deep in each one of the black rubber tires. Now I'm not one to point fingers or judge, but I suspect foul play and that a certain neighbor of mine is still harboring unresolved feelings...who knew people with arthritis were capable of revenge?

Later that day, Louie decided to take Maria on a small boat trip. As they both stepped into the plastic purple boat, Louie realized that he was too big for the seat belt.

MARIA: Is everything ok?
LOUIE: Yeah. It's just this is a little too small.
MARIA: Mine fits me ok.
LOUIE: Oh, well.
MARIA: I think it's because you have a little too much body fat.

From then on, everything said between the happy campers was taken with the proverbial grain of salt. Maria explained to Louie's that by consuming as much alcohol as he did, it was a factor that led to his horizontal growth. And Louie explained to Maria that by being as offensive as she was, it was a factor that could lead to a bitch growth. As they drifted off into the lake, the hot Arizona sun began to beam down upon them. Seeing that Louie was perspiring profusely, Maria suggested a swim.

LOUIE: Well, if you do, then I'm gonna head back to shore, because I dont wanna get wet.
MARIA: But I need someone to be out here with me.
LOUIE: Well, how much fun will it be for me? Sitting here in the boat, waiting for you while you swim.
MARIA: Well, you know, you can get down and swim with me.
LOUIE: But I dont wanna get wet. And the water's dirty!
MARIA: Louie, it's hot! Dirty water or clean water, it doesnt matter! It's water! And it's cold!

They ended up not swimming that day, and instead, ended up driving home. They drove in silence, only speaking when it was vitally necessary or if their cell phone's rang. After Maria got home, she realized how quiet it was. The rest of her family was away, vacationing in Southern Mexico, leaving her a house full of stillness. There was no one to talk to. No one to argue with. No one to see how miserable she was, now that she was all alone.

Swallowing her pride, Maria called Louie and apologized for ruining his weekend trip. He accepted her apology and soon, the two of them were laughing and gossiping like two old ladies at a beauty salon. It was then that Louie suggested a second camping trip. This time, in Northen Arizona in a real-life cabin with all the amenities of home.

ME: But you're not gonna go, right?
MARIA: Well, kinda, sorta, yeah.
ME: Maria! You called him fat and he called you a bitch! You guys obviously dont mesh well!
MARIA: Well, I still have some time off and I dont wanna be home all by myself.
ME: And that's your reasoning?
MARIA: Well, sometimes it's better to be with someone, than it is to be lonely. You just want companionship. Someone to talk to and hang out with. It's not so bad...

not so lucky

It's a fact of life, in every neighborhood, there's that one thing that makes it personal and unique. For some, it's that beautiful two-story brick house, with the little white-picket fence. For others, it's that sweet grandmother-figure that always has a pot of warm coffee on and serves it with a warm smile. For our neighborhood, it's the next-door neighbor's dog, Lucky.

Lucky is a black shaggy dog, with no particular, special sort of pedigree, just a particular, special sort of arrogance, which I believe was instilled within him from his owners. They didnt believe in leashes or dry dog food. They believed if one had no boundaries (or food with perservatives for that matter), one would be able to determine right from wrong in a more reasonable way. They were wrong.

The neighborhood was Lucky's kingdom and all of us, were merely his humble subjects. Lucky roamed the orange and red gravel-paved yards with a certain je nais se quois, not really caring whose land he stumbled upon, just so long as it was kept clean and available to him. And like all rulers before him, with no heart, he shit all over his kingdom. Literally. Which would have probably made for good comedy in a cute Disney Channel Original Movie, but unfortunately, this was real life. And it was not cute.

Which is why I was in a particular foul mood, Thursday afternoon. Lucky had graced our yard with his pressence, which really wasnt all that lucky for me. In fact it was disgusting. And I knew, as I was picking up all that dog doo, Lucky wasnt wagging his tongue because he was hot...he was laughing at me. And apparently at all the other neighbors too, since it appeared he had visited them, as well.

No one in the kingdom was happy and so, one mere mortal peasant, Ms. Pelba, took a stand and rebeled, by calling the Pima Animal Control. They came while I was getting the mail, but I didnt know who they were, and figured they must have been the Mexican workers, our neighbor hired.

MEXICAN: Is this dog bothering you?
ME: Yes! Can you please take him away from here?

I turned and walked back into my house, not really caring who came to get Lucky, just so long as he was taken off our front lawn. Later that day, Lucky's owners came to our house, asking if we had seen their dog. Of course, we hadnt seen him since that afternoon and really didnt care one way or the other where he was that night.

The next morning, during her morning grunting and puffing, also known as her morning stroll, Ms. Pelba walked by, just as I was leaving, and let me know it was her moment of brilliance that led our neighborhood to a peaceful morning. I didnt know what to say or do, and so, I left, trying to figure out the right way to tell my neighbors that it was I, who sent away their dog, and that it was I, who would try and being him back.

And speaking of getting lucky, that afternoon, in a little bistro across town, Louie was having lunch with Maria. It was all so perfect. The food, the lighting and even the instrumental jazz in the background, all added up to the perfect ambiance for Maria to tell Louie that instead of partying hard and getting drunk at all odd hours of the day, she would accompany me to California. But before Maria could break the news to Louie, he had his own news to break.

Louie felt the whole drinking til dawn trip was a little prosaic, so instead he initiated a little camping trip to Patagonia Lake. As Louie raved about the not-so-great outdoors and the thrill of roughing it with no running water, Maria could see the excitement in his eyes and the happiness in his hands as he moved them all about...and foolishy, accepted his invitation to go camping. Ugh. As Maria retold the whole lunch conversation to me, I knew she felt bad about the whole outcome of the situation. She realized she had hurt a friend to help save the reputation of another friend, who she would end up hurting later. I could've gotten mad and rubbed it in Maria's face til the end of time like any good friend would, but knowing that this would be Maria's first time camping in the woods with no electricity, no running water, or the possibility to color-coordinate made me feel just a little better.

Sometimes, when the answer's right in front of you, it's hard to see. Sometimes it's begging to be revealed and sometimes it lingers around and waits...waits to see how everything will unfold or wait until a more perfect moment can present itself. Either way, when the truth is finally revealed, someone is bound to be hurt and crushed...is there really anyway to help soften the blow?

louie, louie

In the grand tradition of cheering up my heart-shattered friend Maria, no one was better at it, than Louie. Louie flew back into town, the day after our horse mishap, and every night, after eight, he would take Maria out. And far from over the aftermath of dismantling her once settled life, Maria happily accepted his invitation. Wearing an Arrow-brand shirt from Kohl's and Hugo Boss cologne, Louie made quite an entrance with Maria on his arm. They cruised around town, eating at all the four-star restaurants and dancing at clubs where the dancers wore two-stars.

Hanging out with Louie was exactly what Maria needed to help get her mind off Ray. After being down and out, Louie was the well-timed, little shot of insulin that Maria needed. Which of course, didnt bother me at all, except for one thing.

Two years ago, Maria and Louie used to work together at the same car dealership. No sparks flew between the two co-workers, but Louie did take an immediate intrest in Maria. So, he did what any red-blooded American guy would do. He asked her out. And being the single and sweet girl who just couldnt say no, Maria went out on a date with him. Unfortunately, Louie's wish of making Maria his girlfriend didnt come true, and being the true gentleman that he was, he took a step back and remained a close and peronal confidant. But with Ray out of the picture and Louie stepping in, I wondered if maybe old feelings had resurfaced.

Sunday afternoon, Maria asked me to come along with her to dinner. Louie had made a killer sale at the dealership and was in the mood to celebrate. But not knowing all his friends, Maria asked me to tag along for company and conversation. Of course, she ended up being twenty minutes late to the Diamond Agave, which meant I had to have, what I like to call, the awkward-acquaintance chit-chat. That talk you have with the friend of a friend in hopes that the only reason you have to hang out with them, is for the sake of a good party or a good alibi.

LOUIE: David...you're good friends with Maria, right?
ME: Uh, yeah, I guess. Why?
LOUIE: Does she like me?
ME: Dude...I dont know. I never really asked her.

The truth was, that was a lie. I had asked Maria about Louie before, and she told me, that when she saw thought about her future, she never saw someone like Louie sharing it with her. The person she saw sharing her future was someone who looked like Ray. To Maria, Ray was Marlon Brando, the early years, while Louie was Marlon Brando, the Cannoli years.

LOUIE: Because I'm thinking of asking her to come with me to Rocky Point.

Rocky Point, a hop, skip and a jump away from Tucson to a city where the 25-cent pina coladas made you hop, skip, and jump into hook-up haven. And if that's where Louie was headed, I knew his whole "friendship" with Maria was headed into some dangerous territory. Maria had originally asked for time off, to travel with Ray to the Grand Canyon, but when her relationship fell apart, she thought her plans did as well. But there was Louie, flyin' in and tryin' to save the day. But while eating my wok charred salmon, I knew Maria didnt want to be saved.

MARIA: David, I think I have to stop hanging out with Louie.
ME: Why?
MARIA: I think he's getting the wrong impression. He keeps buying me stuff.
ME: Yeah, presents totally ruin my day too.
MARIA: Shut up. No, I mean, I feel bad that he's treating me out to all this nice stuff and not expecting anything back. Isnt that weird?
ME: Well...honestly, yeah. Just a little. And I think it's cuz he likes you.
MARIA: Yeah, but we've talked about this before. I told him I'm not looking for anything right now. He's nice and all, but I dont want to be his girlfriend.

Which makes me wonder...should I invite Maria to Disneyland, which would allow me not to go insane while hanging with my family and allow her to let Louie down easily? Or should I let Maria handle it all on her own, knowing that when it comes to matters of love, it's all fair?

getting back up with the horse

It was a regular Wednesday afternoon, and in typical Arizona fashion, trying to avoid the three-degree desert sun, everyone stayed indoors. And to help pass the time, I called my friend Maria.

ME: ...and then my mom's on this whole kick of taking us all on a vacation to California.
MARIA: What's wrong with that?
ME: Maria...my brothers and I are all over 17. I mean, I like Disneyland and all, but when you're that old, it's weird going with your "mommy" and "daddy".
MARIA: Yeah, I guess so. Well, you should come with me and Ray. We're planning on doing a a road trip to the Grand Canyon at the end of the month. And then, since we're like, right next door to Las Vegas...
ME: Yeah, see, now that's what I call a nice family vacation.

After I got off the phone with Maria, I started to wonder what would be more awkward...vacationing with the parental units or being the third wheel. On the one hand, vacationing with the parents would be a free trip, but then I'd pay for it later with all those cheesey character photos. With the road trip it would be kinda cool to see all of Arizona on a good buzz, but then when we got to Nevada, how lame would it be to be single in the city of sin? Wait...that one would actually work towards my advantage...ugh, I should've just gone to Spain with the dysfunctional duo.

An hour later, one of my vacation options dropped when Maria called me back with some bad news.

MARIA: David?
ME: Hey, what's up?
MARIA: He, uh...I...he broke up with me.
ME: What? Why?
MARIA: Because I'm Catholic.

It was an argument the newly-ex-couple had found themselves in, so many times. Ray was a Christian, a Baptist to be exact, and although they say Christianity is a form of Catholicism, according to Ray's pastor and personal friend, the relationship would never work out because their beliefs were just too different. Apparently, traveling with a sinner to the city of sin, was just too much for a saint to handle. Devastated, Maria cried herself to sleep that night.

The next day, I decided to help Maria forget about Ray, but no matter what we did or where we went, Ray was everywhere. He was the guy walking down the street, wearing the same shirt Maria got him for Christmas. He was the guy in line at Starbucks, ordering the venti caramel frapp. And as it turned out, even the burrito I ordered at Nico's Taco Stand was the same burrito that Ray would order. The worst time Ray came to Maria's mind was when we stopped at her job. She went in to clear up some paperwork and I went in to use her employee discount. When we got to customer service, the sales lady behind the counter reminded Maria that only "certain people" could use her discount. She asked if I was her husband, which prompted me to say yes, to help Maria avoid any issues with company policy, but prompted Maria to cry, because it reminded her that she probably would never get married or find love, ever again.

Still too depressed to be at her own home, Maria and I went to her friend Louie's house. Since we knew Louie was away on business and had a fully stocked mini bar, it only made perfect sense. Two feel-good-cry movies and several tubs of Häagen-Dazs later, I was still helping Maria figure out the way to win the age-old contest between ex-lovers, also known as "who will die miserable and all alone". Sadly though, we didnt come up with anything, and instead, just decided to call it a night.

Driving fast down an uncharted path, Maria soon came to a bump in the road. Actually, it was a horse. From out of nowhere it came and before Maria could swerve to avoid it, the horse and right sideview mirror came in contact with each other. As the car spun backwards, my side hit the horse's head and sent the horse flying backwards into the desert.

ME: You killed a horse.
MARIA: I killed a horse.
ME: You're so going to jail.
MARIA: David, shut up!
ME: I'm going to jail!
MARIA: I killed a horse!
ME: Now I'm not gonna go to California!

But then something miraculous happened. The horse, shook it's head and walked off. It was then that I realized, if the horse could survive, after being knocked down by something so big, shake it off and walk away, then maybe so could Maria.

blanket ailment

Maybe it was from hanging out with my friend Madelaine all week, who had self-diagnoised herself with walking amonnia. Or maybe it was karma getting back at me for challenging someone who was height-challenged (thanks Lisa B for that PC twist!). But whatever it was, last Friday morning, I woke up to see that I came down with the flu. It was your average sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, with-a-fever-so-high-I-was-seeing-koala-bears-kinda flu.

Laid up in bed, with only a satelite TV and my favorite soft powder blue blanket that I "borrowed" from the hospital from a long time ago, to keep me company, I knew my time on this earth was coming to a slow end. The light at the end of the tunnel was becoming brighter and nothing was helping me get better. Not my bottle of Nyquil or my mother's home remedy of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and prayer. And as appealing as lying in a bed all weekend may sound, yellow just really isnt my color.

Fortunately, like other flu’s, after mine had taken its course, it soon went away. Except for the coughing part. It stayed behind. This weird, dry, hawk-up-a-lung-kinda cough that wouldn’t go away, despite the vast amounts of cough syrup and lozengers I was taking. And it always came at the most unfortunate of times. During the silent prayer at church. During the movies, when Meryl Streep gave Anne Hathaway demanding orders in hushed tones, in The Devil Wears Prada. And even during the middle of the night, when I was already fast asleep. And as we all know, if I don’t get a good night rest, no one gets a good morning.

The worst time my cough made an appearance was the following Tuesday. It was the Fourth of July and like other outside-barbequing Americans, our family was no different. Except for the traditional crab we always have flown in from Southern California. Next to fireworks, it’s the one part of the holiday I most enjoy. But of course, since everyone thought my cough = a rare and terrible illness, I could not partake in the traditional leg-cracking, butter-dipping, pleasure that I so very much enjoy. I mean living in a desert, you don’t exactly garner the best, quality seafood, so to miss out on something so rare, I knew right then and there something needed to be done about my cough.

The next day, my pre-med friend Maria came over with a bottle of Jose Cuvero. She suggested I try her old, tired and true family tonic of tequilla, claiming that the alcohol’s burning sensation would clear whatever bacteria I had lodged in my throat. It, of course, didn’t clear anything. So much for Maria having a career in the medical field. But the drunken stupor did help me sleep well until the next morning. At which time the cough came back, prompting my friend Erica to try her own remedy.

Like Maria, Erica believed that any bacteria could be killed after it was burned and took me to Blue Wasabi for salmon skin rolls and wasabi. But like the tequilla, the effects of the wasabi were only temporary and it just ended up leaving a nasty and numbing taste on my tongue. Which was really sad, since I couldnt enjoy the rest of my sushi and even more sadder when I remembered sushi wasnt made for takeout. My cough got so bad, that at one point, my grandma suggested rolling a newspaper into a cone, sticking it in my throat and lighting the top of it with fire. Sure, it was an old Mexican trick to get air out of your ear, but was she serious?!

Tired with everyone’s inventive and creative remedies, I decided to try my own and headed straight to one person I knew could make all my pain go away with just a simple signature. My doctor. And though the prescribed medicine did make my cough less violent, it was still there. It just wouldnt leave. It was kinda like that story of the guy who hiccuped for 30 years straight which kinda freaked me out because who wants to live life with their mouth covered like they got SARS?

That night, right before going to bed, I realized the only thing I had to keep me company was the satelite TV. My favorite knitted, powder blue blanket that I "borrowed" from the hospital from a long time ago was in the wash, meaning, this would be the first time in many years that I went to bed without that blanket. Not that it was a security blanket or that this was ther first time I ever washed it, but still...it was weird going to bed without it. To me that blanket was just as much part of my bed as the mattress or the sleigh frame.

One weekend of drunken shannigans later, I realized I hadnt had any of my prescribed cough syrup or any contact with the blue hospital blanket. But I was feeling much better. My cough actually disappeared. At first I thought maybe it was the effects of good western medicine, but then I realized it was actually because I no longer was in contact with that dirty, infested blanket. My blanket had turned into a fabric of germs and that's what was keeping me from getting better. And maybe it was too far-fetch to connect both things together, but really, how often does medicine work if you fail to take it? The moral to the story? Well, there really is no moral, except how weird is it that something I looked to for comfort and warmth is the very thing that kept me sick?

the knights of the night

In the days of Yore, chivalry refered to the medieval institution of knighthood and was often associated with the ideals of knightly virtues, honor and of courtly love. But in a fast-paced and independent society like ours, is chivalry really dead? Some would think so, including a famous singer who once sang that, "Roses are red, some diamonds are blue, chivalry is dead, but you're still kinda cute." But is she right? I mean, yes, no matter what anybody says, full-sized of half-sized, I am totally "kinda cute," but is chivalry really dead? And if so, what killed it?

Thursday afternoon, I was blog surfing when I came across a post by my blog friend K. In a beautifully written post, K talked about an Australian ice cream parlor in the East Village. The gooey, rich and velvety concoctions, gilded with designs and infused with teas and other subtle flavors was all I needed to read, before I decided I needed an ice cream of my own.

That night, with 20 bucks in hand, I convinced my mother and brother Collin to walk with me to Dairy Queen. We could have driven and arrived to our destination within three minutes, but there was something appealing of a summer walk. That and the fact that I was not about to waste my money on gas. That's what parents are for.

Walking back home with our Blizzards in hand, we first had to pass the Berkshire Shopping Center and the 24-hour Taco Bell. It was there, we came across the shortest, three-foot, ghetto, Emeniem-actin', South Pole-wearin', trash-talkin' midget ever.

MIDGET: Yo! Mommy! Ditch these punk-ass bitches and take a ride with me!

Was he really hitting on my mom? I mean, yeah, she did maintain a size four waist after giving birth to three sons and she was looking more mid-30's than early 40's, but my mom wasnt hot. Parents are never hot. Was this foo' trippin'?!

A big believer in the phrase, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me," my mother ignored the whistles and cat-calls coming from the long-lost eighth dwarf, Idiot. My brother Collin, on the other hand, wasnt such a big believer and instead, walked straight to the midget and stood his ground, staring at him straight in the eye. Which would had been easier, if the midget had stood on a step ladder.

COLLIN: Dude, dont talk about my mom like that.
MIDGET: What? Got something on it?
COLLIN: I aint got nothing on it, dude.
MIDGET: Fuckin' shut your mouth then!
ME: Collin. Dont.
MOM: Collin, please stop.
MIDGET: That's right! Best step back! Cuz you know I'll beat your ass!
MOM: Collin, come on.
MIDGET: I got my boys right here dawg! What you got on it?! I got my boys and they will beat your ass!
ME: Collin, dont listen to him...he's a midget. The world already shuns him like a leper.
MIDGET: Yo! Shut your face!
ME: Let's just leave.
MIDGET: Yeah! Listen to your ugly-ass looking brother!

I had just about had enough of this little gnome-creature and before I knew what was happening, I was throwing my medium-sized, Reeses and Cookie Dough Blizzard ice cream, with full force, aiming at the midget's head. And while trying to duck the flying ice cream the midget fell on the black asphalt. I rushed over to the fallen midget, and instead of lending out a helping hand, I gave him my foot. In his ass. Following my "great" chivalrous example, my brother threw his Cookies N' Cream Blizzard and together we kicked and beat the fetal posistion-layin', knee-high man.

COLLIN: Dont. Talk. About. My. MOM!
ME: Yeah. And. I. Am. Not. UGLY!

The midget's boys from the Lollipop Guild never came to his defense, and it was probably because they never existed. Which was sad, because it meant no one had his back. Unlike my mother, who left smiling, because she knew she would always have her children around to defend her. But me? I left feeling like an ass. Did I really just beat up a midget? If he was covered in muppet fur, it would have been like knocking the stuffing out of one of Jim Henson's creations, but this was a real human. Was guilt the real reason chivalry died?

bye-bisexual

Nicolas Cage and Lisa Maria Presley. Renée Zellweger and Kenny Chesney. Britney Spears and that guy she was married to for 55 hours. Sure, we all laugh at these blink-and-you'll-miss-'em marriages and chalk them up to celebrity flakiness, but it does make you wonder...was it really love at first sight?

Saturday night, I attended the engagement party of my friend Sean and his bride-to-be, Brittany. As far as parties go, this one was, well, odd. There was food present and drinks-a-plenty were present. The only thing not present was the bride. At least not physically. She was still 864 miles away, give or take a few miles, in Oakland, CA. But thanks to the internet and a couple of webcams, the fiancée du jour was present and projected onto a stucco wall. Which was a real shame since the bumpy wall gave the impression that the blushing bride had a horrible acne flare up.

As I made the rounds, I realized, not a single person there gave hope to the quickie marriage. Of course, most of the people there were Sean's old boyfriends, who, like my blog friend Ms. Bees Knees, believed in the age old saying, "Once you have cock, you never go back." But there was one optimistic hopeful in attendance.

MACKENZIE: So...how long do you think it'll be before they get a divorce?
ME: I dont know. I'm starting to think this isnt a joke.
MACKENZIE: Yeah, me too. It really is love at first sight.
ME: I dont know if it's so much love at first sight as it is, two people who had really great sex the first night and thought, well, if it's this good now, imagine ten or twenty years from now.
MACKENZIE: You're funny. But no, I still think it was love at first sight.
ME: Really?
MACKENZIE: Yeah. I totally think that you can find eternal love in those first few seconds it takes to land your eyes on someone.
ME: But then, wouldnt that be called, lust at first sight?

In a room full of non-believers, I wanted to believe that maybe there was such a thing as love at first sight. I mean, is it still possible? Could Sean and Brittany really be in love? For a swift, whirlwind wedding between a converted bi guy and a straight gal, the whole thing was creating a lot of questions for everyone, but the groom and virtual bride.

The next morning, waking up from a tequilla-shooter haze, I drove with Sean to the airport. He was on

SEAN: You know, David, I really appreciate you coming with me to the airport.
ME: Yeah, well I'm still a little drunk. I dont know any better.
SEAN: Well, anyways, I do. You know a lot of people dont think this is gonna work out.
ME: You dont say.
SEAN: Yeah. But I'm telling you it will. I just know it will. It's like...when you go to Disneyland and you know, no matter what, no matter how expensive the souviners and food are, no matter how long the lines are, no matter if a ride's down or if it's gonna rain, you just know that no matter what you're gonna have fun. It's more than a gut feeling, but I know I'm gonna be happy.
ME: But...you're bi! You used to have sex with guys! Like, arent you gonna miss that?
SEAN: Honestly? No...I mean, maybe down the road, I will, but I love Brittany way too much to hurt her. And if those old feelings come up, well, then I'm just gonna have to fight that much harder to stop them. Im not gonna give up that easily to temptation. I love her, dude. I really do.

So, maybe it's not that we're all cynical, non-believers in love. But maybe when it comes to matters of the heart, it's just that we havent experienced love at first sight, first hand. After all, doesn't it make more sense to believe in something that you've experienced more than once before then not believe in it at all? Maybe, we should all pay a little more attention to those first few seconds.

the beauty of books

They say, you should never judge a book by its cover. They say, you never know what kind of surprises are in store, when you look beyond outward appearences. They, are totally wrong.

Thursday afternoon, I was hanging out with my friend Ashley at The Downtown Flower Shop, when a picture of the Bradgelina baby popped up on AOL.

ME: Isnt she cute?
ASHLEY: Yeah, I guess...I dont know...I'm not really into that sorta thing.
ME: Babies?
ASHLEY: Celebrities. I could totally care less about them.
ME: Well, I'm not asking you to care about them. I'm just asking you to agree with me that she may very well be, one of the hottest kids on earth.
ASHLEY: David, that's wrong. Judging someone, solely on the basis of their looks?
ME: Oh, please, how else would you judge someone?
ASHLEY: Uh, maybe by their character. Duh.
ME: Ashley, nobody goes around, looking at people, saying, "My, dont you have a nice character soul?"
ASHLEY: Well, the point is, I could care less about looks. If you asked me what somebody was wearing, I wouldnt know, since I would only be looking at their face. In fact, I wish I were sometimes blind, since honestly, looks just arent that important to me.

Friday afternoon, Ashley got her wish.

I was back at the flower shop, helping my friend Madelaine de-leaf and de-thorn 600 red and pink roses, for her dance company. It was long and arduous work, stripping the stems clean, while avoiding the red sharp thorns. It was a total war of the roses and I totally got the battle wounds on my fingers to prove it. Why did roses have to have so many thorns? Was it a natural defense mechanism they had as a way to stop people from picking them? And was it all worth it?

As it turns out, it was. But not because of how the roses opened up to perfection, once we were done. But because I got to work next to Alice's sister-in-law, Laura. Laura was an extremely attractive girl who had mastered the half-closed, dreamy bedroom eyes look to perfection. Not too thin, not too fat, not too tall, not to short, just totally perfect. If there were three bears eating porridge, I swear I would've thought I was in a fairy-tale. She was just hot.

MADELAINE: David, dont say that! She's 15!
ME: She is not 15. Did you see her boobs?!
MADELAINE: Yes, David. She's bigger than me, I get it. But I'm telling you, she's 15. You cant date her.
ASHLEY: Yeah, it's like an unwritten cardinal rule. Thou shall not covet they friend's boss' husband's sister.
ME: But she's hot.
ASHLEY: I dont know. She looks like she's about to cry or something.
ME: No, that's just a look. You gotta admit it's still hot.
MADELAINE: Nothing's hot about a 15 year-old with a 36 Double D bra size. And plus, she only looks bigger, because her waist is so tiny.
ASHLEY: Madelaine, you were looking at her boobs?
ME: How could you not? They were right there!
ASHLEY: Sorry! I wasnt looking down there. I dont notice those type of things. I told you already, I could care less about looks.

And that's when it happened. As we were cleaning the flower shop, Ashley's left eye began to itch. At first, it was nothing big, but as Ashley continued to rub her eye, it began to swell up. According to Ashley, it felt like something was crawling inside and it was really starting to bug her.

ASHLEY: David! What's wrong with my eye?!
ME: Ew. I dont know! But it's growing!
ASHLEY: David, shut up! What if I iced it?
ME: Do something...I'm not even lying to you! It's like you're trying to grow a third eye.
ASHLEY: Shut up, David! You're not helping me!
ME: Dude, I'm sorry, but you're eye is freaking me out.
ASHLEY: What the hell did I touch?!
ME: Well, who cares, right? You said looks arent important, right?

Ashley left the shop looking like the deformed, inbred child of Quasimodo and that weird guy from the basement in The Goonies, while I left the shop wondering if Ashley would change her ways and admit, that deep down, she was just as shallow as the rest of us. And here, she wanted to be my date for New Years Eve. Ha.

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?