lukeward.com

I am not the most athletic person. I’m not the least athletic person either. I run occasionally, and I’ve been known to kick a soccer ball properly (top/side of the foot, not the toe). However, there are specific skills to certain games that I just don’t possess. I cannot hit a fastball. I can’t dribble without staring at the basketball. I cannot hackey-sack at all (although, I don’t wear patchouli oil, dreadlocks or a goatee, so that may be part of it).

Don’t get me wrong, I want to be good at sports. I like playing sports, and I can safely say that I was one of the few band kids that actually liked gym class. But we’ll get to more of that later.

In high school, my best friend Blads shared my enthusiasm for sport, as well as my lack of skill (Although he was a bowling pro. He was on the bowling team, and his nickname was “Flintstone” because he bowled as well as the cartoon caveman, which was actually quite good. Though on The Flintstones, Fred’s bowling nickname was “Twinkle Toes”, so maybe the nickname was more in reference to his closeted sexuality than his bowling prowess. Nah, we’ll go with bowling acumen).

Blads and I wanted to be more athletic not only because we wanted to have our enthusiasm match our abilities, but at the time, it wouldn’t have hurt us to lose a few pouns. So in an attempt to embrace physical activity, we tried jogging to get in shape. Niagara Falls, or to be more precise, Goat Island, is a prime location for taking a run. It’s a little less than two miles around, fairly well paved, and has plenty to look at. For our first run, we decided to take a spin around. We drove down, parked the car, got out, stretched (because you always must stretch), and began to run. After twenty yards or so, enthusiasm fell by the wayside as we began to die from lack of oxygen, so headed back to the car to crank up the AC and suck down Gatorade. This ended the jogging experiment.

We next tried tennis, with a bit more success. We could hit the ball fairly consistently, and aside from referencing the handball court as the “play with yourself wall”, we had fun. But again, after 20-30 minutes of aerobic exercise, we hurried back to Doug’s car to crank up the AC and suck down Gatorade. Clearly we lost no weight and gained no athletic ability. And we were really straining Blads’s AC in his Monte Carlo (man, I miss that car).

But of all the sports we tried, quite possibly the saddest attempt at athletic expertise was seen during basketball drills in gym class. Now, as I said earlier, I thoroughly enjoyed the gym class experience. For whatever reason, our gym class consisted of honors students mixed in with a handful of students who had recently returned to finish high school after having finished giving birth to their 2nd or 3rd child. So in essence, gym class provided me with dinner and a show.

Like every other high school class, each week or so provided a new topic or sport to learn. And with each sport came a series of drills, which consisted of a day for learning/practicing, and a day of testing your skills. Larger sports would require more time; volleyball consisted of two days for serving practice & tests, two days for bump practice & tests, and two days for trash talk (this may not be true, but I do remember a LOT of trash talking when we played volleyball in gym class).

For basketball, we had to learn lay-ups. For those that don’t know, lay-ups are quite possibly the simplest of basketball shots there are. You basically approach the net, jump, and let the ball roll off your hand (or rather lay-up) and into the net. We learned how to get the roll of the ball right so that it rolled properly into the net. We also learned how to dribble and approach the net to get your momentum right for proper jump height. Some students even used the opportunity to dunk–but for Blads and I we felt we should crawl before we walked. When it came time to practice, I swear to you, Blads and I were like the Harlem Globetrotters. Each ball rolled perfectly into the net. Our height, speed and direction were all exactly right. I’m not saying we could have signed with the NBA there and then, but possibly an Italian league or somewhere in Turkey. We had skills and come test time, we would show them off.

The testing day was just a few days later. The gym teacher gave us 5 attempts to score 5 lay-ups. Armed with only our confidence, Blads and I began our tests.

I have seen war footage that looked better than what the two of us did in that gymnasium. We only had to sink 5 lay-ups, and each attempt was worse than the previous. Blads accidentally kicked the ball on one attempt. I actually got the ball in from under the net up through (which didn’t count apparently). Blads dribbled the ball with his face at one point. And I think I may have even slammed into the wall behind the net; the wall being 10 feet behind the net. It was a disgrace in athleticism if there ever was one. We both got a pity “C” for the test, mostly I think because the gym teacher was so entertained by our performance. One of the baby mamas in our class offered to hug me. It was not a pretty sight.

We never went back to basketball after that day. Nor did we focus much effort on any other sport really. But we did learn a valuable lesson that day. We learned that we were meant for a greater calling — air hockey.

One of my closest and dearest friends in the world texted me the other day. It was one of those, “Hey remember [blank]” texts, and instantly a flurry of memories came rushing to the surface. The text was also sent at 1:30am, so I can imagine it came about because of a few too many Vodka Tonics. It wasn’t the first late night text from this friend, and likely (hopefully) it will not be the last.

My friend wasn’t always this prone to partying. In fact, for the first few years of our friendship, he was moderately flamboyant but he was no where near the wild texter that I know and love. It was after one fateful night however that a monster was born, and there’s a strong possibility that I was the guy that flipped the switch.

Before I begin this story, you should be warned. It involves illegal substances, and a complete disregard for parental authority. Well, a modest disregard. The people in this story are real, but their names have been changed to protect themselves, their parents, and in certain cases, their own children.

It was the summer of 1995, and I was living at home after my freshman year at college. Summers during college were great because I could escape my college persona and return to the high school/college hybrid personality that I truly enjoyed (read: I could discuss musicals and high school band memories without looking over my shoulder). And that meant I could have a lot of fun with my best friend.

My best friend, Blads (for those that know, not a tough code to crack) and I had taken up drinking beer the year before, after having shied away from any sort of situations where alcohol consumption may arise. And now that we’d sort of begun down the primrose path, the subject of further intoxicants arose. Namely, marijuana.

Now friends of ours had partaken, as had our family, our role models, and most of the staff at the diner we frequented (How can you serve Frisco Melts to teens that tip 3% and not be high?). In fact, the subject came up because we felt like we were slowly becoming the minority, and we were curious to know if we were missing out.

“Actually,” I told Blads, “I’ve tried it. It’s kind of cool.” I had sampled weed the previous semester with very little fanfare. Blads was understandably surprised considering I staged my own “Very Special Blossom” at a party two years earlier when I berated a dozen friends for passing around half a joint.

That cinched it for Blads. He wanted to see what all the hubbub was about, and who was I to stop him? In fact, as his best friend, wasn’t it really my responsibility to help him achieve his goals? It would almost be a disservice to my oldest and dearest friend to not get him high. This is the logic I would tell myself as I tried to figure out a way to get us some weed.

The next day or so, almost by chance, we (along with a female friend who shall be named for Rayna for the purposes of this story) bumped into a high school friend (who for the purposes of this story, shall be named Batgirl) that we hadn’t seen in some time, who was a known pothead (and by our description, a pothead was anyone in high school who declared that they’d been high at least twice and owned at least one Phish CD). We told her of our situation, and asked if she would be willing to help get Blads stoned for the first time. Of course she agreed, because as anyone who smokes pot will tell you, it’s a highly communal affair. In fact, she was excited to bring another smoker into the fold.

Blads, Rayna and I arrived at her house just after dark. Batgirl told us that she’d make Blads’s first time a gentile and safe one, by having us all smoke in her backyard (Retroactive apologies to Batgirl’s parents), and she’d make the experience a pleasant, calming one. We moved to her backyard and sat in a small circle (Retroactive apology rescinded–how could Batgirl’s parents NOT know what we were up to? We were one degree below bringing out a hackey-sack and listening to the Grateful Dead). As soon as we were settled, Batgirl packed the bowl, and the ritual began.

Batgirl promised to make our experience a calming one, and she did so swimmingly. She gave a brief  lesson on where to hold the bowl so as not to burn your fingers, and how to inhale. As she passed the bowl and we begin to smoke, she would say things like, “Imagine yourself as a bubble, floating aimlessly through the air. Not too high, not too low, not too fast, not too slow”. It was like getting high while being held by Santa Claus in a beanbag chair made of love. I thought it was awesome, and so did Jimi Hendrix who suddenly showed up next to me.

As pot smokers may know, the first time you smoke you don’t get high right away (if at all). So to help Blads along, we kept passing, and passing, and passing, and passing, hoping upon hope that eventually he would stop because the bubble I was now imagining myself as was floating somewhere between Valhalla and the MIR Space Station. It was even too much for Jimi who left my side after the 10th puff puff pass. It was at this point I felt that Blads needed a little more coaching.

“C’mon Blads! Get high for America. Do it for baseball. Do it for great prime time television.” I now felt that Blads’s getting stoned was greater than the both of us. This was going to be on the scale of Live Aid, We Are the World and The Jerry Lewis Telethon. Blads needed to be stoned, and it was going to require a higher power to do so.

As I kept belting him with reason after reason as to who his inebriation affected, I landed on (for reasons unknown) upon the Cosby Show.

“Do it for the Huxtables! Do it for Theo and Claire and Cliff. C’MON! DO IT FOR RUDY!”

Now, I don’t know why, but for whatever reason, that set off the switch that took Blads from sober band nerd to high as a kite slacker. Because out of nowhere, he put the pipe down and declared,

“Root toot TOOTIE!” and began to laugh like a hyena at a Louis CK show. And while Tootie was actually on the Facts of Life, Blads was now officially stoned, so who was I to correct him on his unintentional racism.

To my surprise, I had awakened a monster from deep within Blads’s soul. While most stoners like to relax, talk about the deeper meaning behind the shapes of Chicken McNuggets and stare at paint for hours, Blads’s inner self decide to use his body as the medium from which to share an improvised musical about the lack of feeling in his tongue. (Lyrics consisted of “My tongue! My tongue! My tongue, tongue tongue!” and included a choreographed number reminiscent of early Fosse). His singing and dancing had clearly been lying dormant inside him, just waiting for substance-induced exorcism. The power of weed compelled him, and he was now a Born-Again Stoner.

And while I’m happy that Blads found enlightenment that night, I must confess that his performance went on for what felt like hours. After a rousing rendition of, “Hey what’s that?” and “Why isn’t Luke looking at me? Why is he only staring at Scooby Doo?”, Batgirl requested that we leave before the 2nd encore. Rayna and I were more than happy to oblige (Blads decided it was ok to leave as well, but made notes for what he deemed to be script troubles in the beginning of the chorus of “My Tongue”).

We all changed a little that night. Trying to avoid Blads made me focus my attention on Cartoon Network’s “Scooby Doo” marathon, and I learned that I enjoyed smoking pot while watching cartoons. Batgirl never invited pot newbies over to her backyard again. Rayna, well, Rayna doesn’t play a whole lot into this story, but I’d feel bad if I left her out. And Blads, well, what can you say about a man who can blurt out a musical number about his tongue at the drop of a hat (or rather, a bong)? Blads became a little more infatuated with pot, and emerged a little further out of the closet that night. Oh, did I forget to mention he was gay?

I’d like to think that it was me, rather than the weed that helped him become the man he is today. But the truth is that he would have become who he is without me—I just pushed him a little faster.

I love my wife. It’s almost silly to say, but I do, I really do. Writing the vows for our wedding was one of the easiest pieces I’ve ever written because there really are so many wonderful things to say about her–she makes me laugh, she cheers me up, she doesn’t get easily startled by my bodily excretions (that’s another blog posting). But there is so much more. So much in fact, that I’m not going to write any more about it because that’s not what this post is about. It occurred to me that of all the people I write about, I have yet to write about her, so babe, this one’s for you. 

This story takes place a few years ago. Long before we were engaged, or even living together. We had been dating for a while (I think), and Michelle had been taking an acting class which she said was going well. At the end of the session, she was to perform in her class show, and I was invited to come, although there was no pressure to come, it was totally breezy, but if I didn’t it would spell certain doom for our budding romance. So I thought I’d go. 

I’m not going to lie. I was not looking forward to the show. Not because Michelle pressured me into it, or because I doubted her talent. There was just this small part of me that had seen other girlfriends’ talents performed, and well, it wasn’t always a pretty sight. I’ve sat through some terrible concerts, shows and amateur nights (and to be fair, so have they), and there’s nothing worse than having to lie to someone you care about that what they’ve just poured their heart and soul into was fantastic when deep down your eyes and ears were just given a root canal. And although I knew Michelle pretty well at that point, I had never seen her perform–I knew she attended NYU for theater (which is by no means a small feat), so she had to have at least some talent, right? 

But what if she didn’t? What if this was the woman I were to spend the rest of my life with, only to have to attend community theater productions of “Cats” or “Miss Saigon” that wouldn’t pass for dinner theater in Kalamazoo, Michigan for the rest of my life? Would I spend the next 50 years biting my lip every time I was asked, “So what did  you think?” only to throw out the cliched, “You were so good! I could hear everything you said!”?

So you can imagine, I was a little concerned. But again, I should stress that this was past experience creeping into my brain, and had NO reflection on the woman I was dating. I see from the program that Michelle’s scene is about 5 or so scenes in, so I have about 20 minutes of show to sit through before I can pass judgement. And boy, were those 20 minutes a struggle. Have you ever watched a stripper try to pull off Mamet? I have. Have you ever seen a receptionist try to deliver Chekov? I have. And it isn’t pretty. 

Finally, the lights come up and there she is. She starts of the scene with a bang, and lo and behold, she kills. She’s hilarious, and sincere, and devoted to her character and everyone in the audience knows it, especially me. I let out a big sigh of relief and sit back and watch a master at work. 

Months later I told her this story (although no as elaborately as I’ve just written it), and about halfway through I realize that I have to tell her that I was worried about the whole spending the rest of my life with her. But since the subject of marriage has yet to come up, I realize I can’t phrase it this way, but it’s too late, as I’m already knee-deep in the story. So when I get to the part about spending, “the rest of my life” with her, I stutter and blurt out, “…you know, spending the, uh, well, rest of my days with someone…” Which of course my darling wife picks up on and proceeds to mock me for as I continue to tell her this tale. And so, for the rest of my days, I have this woman by my side. Making fun of me. Which I love.

I’ve been tasked with working on a certain drug that tackles the effects of a certain disease that (how shall I put this tastefully?) is responsible for causing problems with your junk. And while I don’t want to make those who suffer from this particularly irritating STD, it’s replaced the romantic side of sex & love with the painful, awful side.

Which is why I thought I’d write about a happier time in my romantic life–my first kiss. Actually, there were two reasons why I wanted to write about it, the second being I heard the song “Back to Life” by Soul II Soul, which instantly transports me back to one of the most-life changing weeks in my life.

I had one strong goal which started with my 8th grade year–I was going to kiss a girl. I had recently dropped some weight, my wardrobe was improving (slightly…very slightly), and if that goddman kid on Who’s The Boss? could kiss a girl, well hell, what was my problem?

One girl said she’d kiss me at lunch in the band room, but I chickened out the first day, and when I went back the next day, she was crying about some guy she liked (who was NOT me) who either didn’t like her or didn’t make parole. Another girl liked me, but didn’t like me, but then did like me, but didn’t but really didn’t matter because she wouldn’t kiss me.

Months later the class whore decided she wanted to be my friend (for what reason, I honestly couldn’t tell you), and told me she liked me (this was about a week after telling me she threw a party when her parents were out of town and lost her virginity to two separate guys in one night). Figuring this was a sure-thing, I said I’d be her boyfriend. The next day at school she wrote “I love Luke Ward” on her hand, announcing our newly formed emotional bond. News spread like wildfire and by the afternoon I couldn’t take the pressure, so I called it off (looking back I’m glad we never even hugged. That girl was skanky).

It was suddenly June and my goal of getting a girl to kiss me was pretty much turning into a pipe dream as the school year ended. I decided to hang up my hopes of ever getting closer to the opposite sex, and focus my energies on my latest endeavor: buying a compact disc player.

I’d never bought a major appliance before (life milestone #1), and in 1989 a CD player was just that. I saved up some cash, but not enough to cover the $99 (which was a STEAL at the time) Radio Shack wanted for its bottom of the line model (I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the brand that was specific to Radio Shack). I went to Radio Shack with my mom, saw the CD player I found in the ad and put down $40 to pay for it on layaway (white trash style). I’d have the remaining money within a day or two, but I had to put it aside now, so no one else would snatch it up.

The next night was Jackie Korth’s 8th grade graduation party. Jackie was (and still is) the child of family friends, and she lived in the next town over, which meant that I would know no one at her party. So I invited my best friend Sam to come along as my wingman (my first ever in fact, life milestone #2). Now Sam was (and still is) really good looking. My sister had a little crush on him, a bunch of girls had a crush on him, hell even my mom thought he was easy on the eyes. So when I invited him to come, it was strictly as my partner in crime, not necessarily my wingman (when using a wingman, you don’t want to have one that’s noticeably more attractive than you, as you never want to be a “leftover”. Well not never, but ideally not often.) In other words, I went into this party without the intent of achieving my current life goal.

Sam and I pretty much kept to ourselves as the party began, but as the evening went on we penetrated the inner circle of girls. A normally formidable task for the young Luke, but these girls didn’t know about me. They didn’t know I had been 20 pounds heavier and 3 inches shorter. They didn’t know I was in the band. They didn’t know I was on the honor roll. I was new, and they liked that. Especially Heather.

As we were all sitting together, Heather was extra flirtatious with me. Nothing overtly sexual or too aggressive, but just smiley and giggly and directed right at me. And Sam, god bless him, was fulfilling his wingman duties by entertaining her friends and letting me have my moment with Heather.

It was getting towards the end of the party, and my mom was soon to come by to pick me up. That’s when Heather showed me her left hand and said, “Do you recognize this?”. It was my phone number written on the fleshy part of her hand between the thumb and first finger in the loopy round font that only 8th grade girls can write.

“I do. It’s my number.”

“Good. I think I’m going to call it.”

“Ok.” Clearly I was a master of seduction from an early age.

Just then Jackie yelled out, “Luke, your mom is here!”. I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. The little man inside my head struggled with the owner’s manual trying to find anything on what was supposed to be done in this scenario. He had nothing. I started to throw out a bunch of “ums, well, uhs”, when Heather got up and left.

I was relieved. I left it with her calling me, and I didn’t have to perform anymore. I turned to Sam and let out a big sigh of relief through my big shit-ass grin. And then I heard,

“Luke, come here. I want to tell you something.” It was Heather calling from the garage around back. I hurried back there, without trying to seem too obvious.

“Hey, what’s u–” And that’s when it happened. She grabbed my head and brought it to hers and our lips met. And so did our teeth. And our tongues. And then we just held there, connected at the face. I knew I was supposed to do something, so I just darted at her with my tongue. She darted back, so I kept it up. I could hear Sam giggling behind us, along with her friends but I didn’t care–I had accomplished my goal, and life milestone #3.

The next day I went back to Radio Shack with the rest of the cash and found they had marked down the price to $75. I went home and basked in my newfound life experience to the crystal-clear sound of my first CD: Soul II Soul’s “Keep On Moving”.

The rest of the story doesn’t play out as well, but I kind of like how romanticized this version is, so pardon the abrupt ending, but I think I’ll stop this nice little tale here.

I used to box.

That may not be a fair description of what I did. I learned boxing techniques from a kung-fu/boxing school in Syracuse, NY. And while I gained a greater appreciation for the sport (it’s far more complicated than two individuals smacking each other around), I was not the greatest that ever lived. I wasn’t even the most promising that ever lived. I was more like the guy that kind of showed up and hit stuff. That ever lived.

The school was on the 2nd floor of a sad, slightly dilapidated 3-story building just off of Erie Boulevard. Not a whole lot going on in terms of décor aside from the occasional picture of our Sifu (that’s the kung-fu term for instructor) with Mr. T and a few guys from ‘Nam. If you removed the ring and the heavy bags, you could easily replace them with trashy hair salon equipment, a white trash dance studio or model car-enthusiast shop.

The reason I was taking these lessons was because of my good friend Frank. He found an ad for the school on campus and asked me and our fellow roommates if we’d like to join him for lessons. I was the only one who agreed (and enthusiastically at that).

Although Frank and I both got the form pretty well, Frank had a terrible habit of making me laugh during class, while seeming to distance himself from my lack of commitment. Which made the Sifu love him and hate me. I know this because during one class, the Sifu came up to both of us and said,

“Frank, you’re doing great. You keep this up and you could be in line for the Junior Golden Gloves.

(Turns to me) Keep hitting the bag.”

So after about 2 or 3 months of learning how to hit, block and breathe, and building up our stamina through excessive cardio, Sifu tells us that today we will spar. With each other. And with Sammy.

Sammy was a 40 year-old boxer, who looked 40 in his face but not in his physique. He was tall and lean, and didn’t come across as especially tough. But there was a look in his eye that seemed to say, “Yeah, I did time in prison. Don’t ask me about it and we’ll be friends.”

After we geared up (we were covered from head to crotch in padding), Frank went into the ring with Sammy first. Sammy was actually really great about sparring. He didn’t taunt his experience in front of either of us, nor did he school us in the ways of taking a beating. He simply danced around a bit, looking for Frank to hit him, and popping Frank a bit after getting hit. From what I was watching, I thought I would stand up pretty well against this probable ex-con.

So after 3 minutes in the ring, Frank comes out—exhausted—and now it’s my turn to go toe-to-toe with Sammy. I enter, and wait for the bell to signal the “round”.

The bell goes off and Sammy and I both begin our dance. I, for whatever reason, do not want to hit Sammy. He senses this right away, and just says, “It’s ok, just hit me.” So I throw a right hook at him. And completely miss.

“Come on, hit me.” I try another right, but Sammy easily dodges this one too. “Hit me!” he says, but I just can’t seem to connect.

Sammy then decides to throw me an easy one. He stops moving, drops his guard, and points to the center of his forehead.

“Hit me. Right here.”

And I do. I give him a nice shot to the cranium. So I start to smile. Proud of what I’ve accomplished. But no sooner do the corners of my mouth start to upturn, and then I get a shot to the side of the head by a quick left jab from Sammy.

I felt my brain stay in the position it started before the hit as the rest of my body (skull included) was sent 3 feet to my left. It took a good second or two to let my body realign itself, and by that point the round was over. I looked up at Sammy, who seemed happy that I remained standing, although I knew that he just gave me a small percentage of his striking capability.

Frank and I boxed one more round together, but it was nothing compared to our 3 minutes with Sammy. And while we were both proud of what we accomplished there that day, we both realized something.

Boxing involves hitting, and hitting hurts. We didn’t spar much after that.

I was a stressed out kid. I remember watching the movie “Parenthood” for the first time and thinking that Steve Martin’s kid was like looking in a mirror, if that gives you any sense of my early-childhood anxiety levels. Even from a young age, I worried about getting my homework done on time, crossing the street at the corners, and avoiding all sense of trouble at every turn.

Once when I was younger, I was invited to hang out with my friends Sam and Jake on a Friday night and sleep over. I must have been about 12 or 13, and when you combine puberty with pre-existing anxiety, you’ve pretty much got a recipe for uber-neuroses. So that made me the nerd friend. I was McLovin. Without the ID. Or the sex life. Or the sense of adventure. Come to think of it, I was really Paul Pfeiffer.

So I ride my bike over to Sam’s house, which wasn’t too far, but it was through a less-than-perfect neighborhood, and was kind of a distance. I go inside, and Jake comes by, and he says that we’re going to go out and play pranks on the neighborhood. You can only imagine the pre-ulcers I’m starting to get at this moment, but I know that if I object, I’m going to be subjected to, “Shut ups”, “Just do it” and the dreaded “Stop being such a pussy”. So I decide to go along.

Before we go out however, Sam pulls us into his room and closes the door.

“Hey, I swiped this.” And he pulls out a small bottle of whisky. I panic internally, but again, I know that I can’t back down (say what you will PSA’s, peer pressure’s a hell of a thing). Sam takes a quick swig and passes it to me. I take the smallest swig I could possibly take, and pass the bottle on down to Jake. Jake then takes a teeny swig as well. We put the bottle away and proceed to our dastardly deeds.

Now, while I’m thinking that our pranks are going to end with us in a Tijuana jail (there is some truth to that exaggeration), they mostly consist of us peeing on the sides of houses or knocking on doors and running away. In fact, most people who’s homes we “vandalized” had no idea we attacked them. The only real vandalism that occurred that night was when we ran into our friend Tim (who was oddly enough, wandering the streets alone), and he decided it would be hilarious if he defecated on the side of someone’s home. He did and it was.

So we’re walking along the streets in a white trash Little Rascals sort of way, having a laugh and sharing a great time. Even I had temporarily let my guard down and was enjoying myself immensely. Just then however, a car pulls up alongside of us. We all freeze.

“Sam? Is that you?”

It was Sam’s uncle and aunt, coming home from church. As it was about 8 or 9 at night, they offered to give us a ride back to Sam’s house. We happily obliged, as they had no idea of our evening activities, so we said goodbye to Tim and piled in the car. We’re still giggling and having a great time when Sam’s aunt says,

“Have you boys been drinking?”

Absolute silence. All of us look at each other, for what felt like an eternity, looking to see who was going to lie first (and believably).

“No.” says Sam.

“Ok. Just thought I smelled booze.”

The car pulls up to the house. The aunt and uncle say goodbye and pull away and all seems to be fine with the world. Which is what I should have thought. But I didn’t. No, I got so scared of getting in trouble for drinking that as soon as I got of the car, I ran to my bike, jumped on and didn’t stop peddling until I was home.

Nothing ever came of that night. My mom didn’t press as to why I was home so early. Sam’s parents never found out about us drinking. And the Johnsons just assumed their great dane “Chopper” felt the need to decorate their rose garden.

I’ve gotten a lot better at getting in trouble and dodging the rules, but whenever I get caught in a lie, there’s still a part of me that wants to hop on his bike and ride all the way home.

It was somewhat of a reunion-filled weekend for me this past weekend. I met up with a good high school friend, some old friends of Michelle’s (who in turn have become my friends), and got together with a group of good college friends to celebrate Erin’s birthday. In seeing all of these friends, I’ve noticed that all of my long-term friends fall into one of two categories–the first group has stuck with their life goals from day one (either by choice or because they know no other way to live) and the other has let life lead them by the hand, having their careers/destinies determined by forces other than their own. I most definitely fall into this latter category.

I wasn’t always like this, and I’m not upset that this is where I’ve ended up. I’m quite happy actually. But I’m reminded of my life goals at 16, and that’s where we’ll start today’s story.

When I was in the 11th grade, we had career assessment day at our school. We were taken to the local military base and given a standardized test to help determine our career aptitude. If you’ve never taken a test like this, it’s pretty fascinating how blatant and subtle it is all at the same time. Questions were as obvious as, “Do you like to work with cars?” and as semi-obtuse as “Are you happiest at home, at the mall, at school, or at a party?”.

Overall it was a pretty sad career day. There were few colleges with kiosks to visit (apparently the NFHS graduating class of ‘94 was not as ‘all that and more’ as we thought), and the only business that had a kiosk with which to visit was the local radio station “Kiss 98.5″, and the host at that stand (morning DJ “Rocky Allen” or some variation thereof) was clearly coming down from whatever uppers he had taken to pep up his morning Zoo crew and had very little desire to entertain a bunch of ignorant teenagers at partially defunct military base.

Weeks later we receive our results. My top 3 careers were “TV/film producer/director”, “museum curator”, or “priest”. It was then that I realized that maybe life wasn’t as easy and pre-determined as I was lead to believe. So seeing as how I hated memorizing history and that I was essentially Jewish, my only other option was TV/film producer/director, which having been obsessed with my video camera and film my entire life thus far, didn’t seem to be too much of a stretch for me.

Now none of my other friends seemed happy with their results. I don’t really remember how everyone netted out, but I do remember everyone generally feeling “I was kind of hoping for some guidance here and all I’ve been given is the recommendation to be a pharmacist”. So a lot of my friends spent the following few weeks moping about, concerned that the rest of their life would consist of dispensing analgesic creams and such. I, on the other hand, was quite proud that I had found a life-path that I was truly happy to travel down.

One night, a group of us had gathered at a friend’s house, and were discussing our lives. Everyone seemed saddened to think about their future. I, however, regaled in the idea that I would become a great filmmaker, as destiny (or the US military) had set this life in place for me. My friend’s mother had come into the room and mentioned that she was starting her career as (coincidentally enough) a career counselor for students, and did anyone want to talk about anything. No one really chimed in except me who declared, “I’m going to be a filmmaker!” and I beamed with pride.

Her response: “Oh dear, don’t do that. You’ll never make it. Try for a career in cable TV or something.”

My heart sank. How could destiny (or the US military) have been wrong? I’d taken their stupid test and they had looked inside my soul (or my markings from my No. 2 pencil) and found my true calling was film. And yet here was a live-person, a grown-up no less, telling me that this was not to be. I was crushed. I was crushed because I was impressionable and I believed everything she said.

Now, I eventually went to school to study film because there was a small part of me that still held on to the idea that the moving image was where my heart belonged. But I must say that ever since that day, the dream was never quite as strong.

Seeing as how I’m avoiding some work, I thought I’d blog twice today.

Now this story should be prefaced with a disclaimer: What I’m about to say is as true as I remember, even though I was about 11 when it happened, and some of my recollections about events in the story defy some logic. But you’ll make your own judgments.

So after my parents separated, my dad moved into a 5-room shack about a mile away from my mom. I hated this house for so many reasons (probably the biggest being it was the first home that I had to commute to from my other one), but it really was a shitty house. It was one floor, and had awful wood flooring that desperately needed a good sanding. Plus I think the house was just always cold (I imagine it wasn’t insulated, and I don’t recall seeing a heater, even though one must have existed). But it was the best my father could afford at the time, and the address was 123 4th St., which I still get a kick out of.

This particluar block of 4th street was quite the little community. Everyone knew each other–mostly because there were only 6 houses on the block and 1 held my dad and another housed my future step-mom and her 2 kids. So right away we ruled over about 1/3 of the block.

Friends of friends visited often, and doors were always open, so people went freely from house to house, in a weird Pleasantville meets white trash sort of way. One guy who visited was Tony (I think he was Tony. I want to call him Mike, but I did that in the last story I wrote).

Now, I don’t remember what Tony looked like, but I do remember he showed up at odd times, leading me to think that he didn’t have a 9 to 5 job. Or prior commitments. Or a sense of purpose. But there he was. Tony, if I recall, developed a thing for one of my stepmom’s sisters, so he seemed to be around a lot. But then it didn’t work out, so Tony didn’t hang as much after a while (This part doesn’t make total sense to me because this sister was married, I think. Maybe they were just friends? I just have a vague recollection of the 2 of them hanging out together, and now I’m spreading lies).

One particular night Tony came to say hello to my dad. Very drunk. He came inside, and I vaguely remember having the feeling that my dad was taking him to ensure that he didn’t hurt himself or others. I think my dad just figured he’d let the guy sit for a while, sober up and then send him on his way.

Now here’s where it gets fuzzy.

Tony turns to me and says, “Have you ever seen a gun?”, to which I being 11 said, “No.” He then said, “Well, I have a BB gun here.” and pulled out a gun from a crumpled brown paper bag. It could have been a BB gun because it was small (kind of like those guns that you think are real guns, but turn out to be lighters), but I remember it being steel, with an ivory handle, not plastic like a BB gun. My dad seemed to be paler than normal–looking back I imagine he was coming up with an exit strategy for Tony–but smiled, so as not to make Tony uncomfortable or anxious.

I don’t really know what happened next, but my dad got him to leave, using the “So & so just called and said they want to see you”/Fool the drunk excuse. It worked because I remember Tony left, and neither one of us (nor my step-mom or step-relatives) got shot. So that happened.

Today’s tale begins sadly, but stay with me dear reader(s), as it is brief, and will have a happy ending. Mostly. Well, for me anyway.

My dad passed away in September of 2006, and as my dad subscribes to the religion of theater, my step-mother coordinated a memorial service that was more secular, but in the best way possible. I spoke briefly, my brother and sister sang, and it was send-off that was more representative of my father than I could have hoped.

It was an emotional day for obvious reasons, and I found myself really jumping between elation and sadness at a high speed. Overall though, I had grieved earlier and knowing my dad, I really felt that he would have preferred we make less of a fuss over him, so I kept my sadness to myself (and to my lovely future wife).

As I said earlier, the service consisted of essentially a show, followed by refreshments and greetings afterwards. So at the end of the performance segment, as people were billowing out of the auditorium (my father’s church), a few folks came over to me to share condolences and stories.

There were some familiar faces I hadn’t seen in a while, and was happy to. There were some familiar faces that I hadn’t seen in a while and was not happy to (but I put on a good front anyway, as my dad would have were he in the same position). And then there was Mike.

Now, I’m not sure that his name was Mike, but he looked like a Mike. He was 40ish or 50ish, and he had the air of a reformed biker, both in appearance (he had donned a faded sweater-vest and black t-shirt) and speech (excessive use of the word “You’s” and “damn”). Behind him was a doting and silent woman, who I assumed was his wife, as they both had similar body types and similar appearance of a couple who has been together for multiple decades.

I mock Mike not because I am a mean-spirited person, and what he was trying to convey to me was his appreciation for the help my father had given him in his time of need, so I feel a little bit of guilt in painting this picture of Mike. But I do so because this is the anecdote he shared with me:

“Hey, I’m [Mike]. This is my wife [Mrs. Mike]. (No response from Mrs. Mike). I just wanted to tell you that your dad was a great man. There were so many times I just didn’t know what to do in my life, or with my marriage, and he just sat and listened and gave me such great advice that I just wanted to say thanks.

I mean, he really saved my marriage. Not sure it was the best thing looking back, but he did (No response or reaction from Mrs. Mike).”

I was a little taken aback. I thought that maybe I hadn’t heard him correctly, because why would anyone share with a total stranger (within seconds of meeting) that his marriage was a profound disappointment in his life. But, then I realized I probably misheard him. Until,

“So yeah, your dad was so great. Like I said, he really saved my marriage. Which again, probably isn’t the best thing looking back.”

Nope, I fucking heard correctly. This guy was in a loveless marriage, all thanks to my dad, and he was grateful for the advice to stick it out! I was silently in shock, but I didn’t want to make the situation more awkward (especially for the mute Mrs. Mike), so I simply responded the way I thought my dad might.

“Well, thank you very much for the kind words. And thank you for coming.”

Mike thanked me and he and Mrs. Mike huddled off. As they walked away, I wanted to laugh a little, but instead I smiled. I smiled because this brief glimpse into the lives of two interesting characters was a wonderful, if short, scene in a bigger play. And my dad would have loved to know that he helped put on one last great show.

Seeing as how I’ve shared a fond memory of my father, it’s only fair to recall a story about my mother. Which is surprisingly more difficult than I thought it would be (as there are a certainly plenty to choose from) because there are a great many I don’t wish to share, and a few more that I’m sure she would prefer me not to share as well. But here goes nothing.

Many years ago, my sister, brother and I were involved in a youth theater group. Although I did have many great times as a member of that group, it was lead by a man who later turned out to be a pedophile, thus tainting any joy or love I may have had for those times. But that’s another story for another day.

The group (who shall remain nameless for this story) performed shitty reviews of songs based on a theme (“The Sounds of America!”, “Did someone say Ragtime?”, that sort of thing), and the cast consisted of attention-starved children, semi-talented kids from ages 9-18 (I must stress that I most certainly fall within this category, which is why I declare it as such).

One of the performers, who for the purposes of this story shall be called “The Ninja” (just because it sounds cooler. Thank you HIMYM), was an awkward boy with a severe speech impediment, a stutter, and absolutely no rhythm whatsoever. In fact, when he danced, it seemed as if his skin was desperately trying to prevent his skeleton from leaping out of his insides in some sort of internal prison break.

Now, I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in a theater group of any kind, but it usually consists of a band of outcasts (no one ever turns down being captain of the cheerleading squad or the football team for the opportunity to sing “Summer Nights” in front of your fellow classmates). And when you gather a group of outcasts, they usually find outcasts within that group to thrust their personal frustrations and disappointments upon. The Ninjas was our outcast.

A bunch of us (parents included) blatantly mocked him, ideally not within earshot of The Ninja, but I can’t be certain. And soon enough, he became the punchline of many a joke. Which is where our story picks up.

The Ninja lived only a few blocks away, and his parents weren’t the most dependable of people (there was a pretty substantiated rumor that his father had a small crack problem. Awww), so my mother opted to give him a ride home with us after rehearsal one day. Now, this is the same day that one of the popular boys in the cast broke up with my sister. And although he wasn’t the best of catches, she was actually quite upset about the whole situation.

So the ride home went like this: My mother driving, my sister crying in the front seat, and me, my brother, and The Ninja in the back. With my sister crying, my mother’s gut instinct was to make her laugh, and the way she tried to do so was to suggest other cast members she could date–all of whom were known losers in one way or another. It went like this:

“You could go out with Bob Sampson!” (a known bed-wetter)
“Or you could go out with John Kelly!” (clearly very gay)
“Or you could go out with Tim Matthews!” (guy caught masturbating in a gas station bathroom)

This game starts working and we all start laughing, and my mom keeps amping up the names and the delivery to exaggerate her point and stress what losers these guys were, all the while having us all in stitches. That is, until she says,

“Or you could go out with THE NINJA!”

We all stop laughing. The Ninja brings his hands to his head, and assumes a plane-crash position. I (fighting the urge to laugh more so than I’ve ever had to do) put my arm around him and simply say, “There, there buddy”.

My mom, panicked, blurts out,

“OR…OR…YOUR BROTHER! HA HA HA! WOULDN’T THAT BE FUNNY?!?”

But it wasn’t. In fact, although it was only 3 or 4 blocks left to The Ninja’s home, it was the longest 3 or 4 blocks we’d ever driven.

As we pulled up to the house, my mom turns to The Ninja as if the previous 10 minutes were all part of a Dallas-esque dream and says,

“Have good night Ninja! See you next week!”

He smiled and ran (awkwardly) into his house. As soon as the car door slammed, my mother turned to us all and yelled,

“HOW THE FUCK WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE WAS BACK THERE?!? HE’S SO GODDAMN QUIET!!!”

My sister didn’t cry the rest of the night.