I am not an open person. Yes, I see the irony, but it’s true. I don’t like to ask for help, I don’t like to reveal too much about my personality to strangers and I don’t like to get too personal, even to my doctor.

Such was the case recently, when I forced myself to go for an office visit after having some difficulty urinating (even writing this story down is causing me a great deal of stress. However, since I know the ending and find it amusing, I’m going to continue). I had never had urination problems prior to this point, so I knew that something was wrong that required medical attention.

Now my doctor is great. I call him a “conveyor-belt” doctor because you’re in, he sees you, you’re diagnosed and you’re out. Fantastic. I love this because I don’t have to talk to him, I don’t have to feel guilty for being sick, and most importantly, I don’t have to reveal too much. In fact, in the past when I’ve given him too much information (“I started getting sick on Saturday. I had a hamburger for lunch that may have been undercooked. Then I went to the movies and saw “Fight Club” and the guy next to me kept coughing.”), my doctor will look at me and say, “It’s ok. Take this pill.”

I tell him I’m having troubles, and he tells me to pee in a cup and we’ll have an answer within a few minutes—neither one of us really looking each other in the eye. We leave his office, I comply with his request, leave the cup in the bathroom and wait in his office. A few moments later he returns and says pretty much the most frightening thing that I can ever hear from a doctor:

“Are you doing anything weird sexually?”

This bothered me for a number of reasons. One, I’d have to get into a conversation of what qualified as “weird sexually”, and with a medical doctor, I imagine what I envision as “kinky” is probably a 2 on his “weird things I’ve had to discuss & remove from patients” meter. Two, I couldn’t imagine any of my behavior that would result in my getting an illness that is brought about by something that is considered “weird sexually”, but whatever it was scared the hell out of me. Think about it, when it comes to things that really mess you up, STDs rank right up there with brass knuckles, jetlag and seeing your parents have sex.

“No. Not that I can think of,” was my response. And what a shitty responses that is. “Not that I can think of”? What sort of weird sexual activity would get placed in the back corners of your mind? Oh wait, I do like to melt wax on my nipples while watching reruns of “Alf” during intercourse, but it slipped my mind. I bet if someone asked you to name the 5 strangest sexual encounters you’ve had in your life, you could probably name them faster than all of your elementary school teachers. And hopefully those two lists don’t overlap.

“Well, you’ve got a urinary tract infection. It’s somewhat rare for a man to get, but it does happen.” And just like that, we had moved past whatever strange locations I was placing my penis to the heart of the matter. He outlined my drug regimen for the next few days and told me to call if it didn’t go away in a few days. With that wrapped up, he got up and began to leave. But I did something odd. I asked a question.

“How does a man get a urinary tract infection?” It took all of my courage to ask him this, but there was a part of me that had to make sure that I wasn’t partaking in any dangerous behavior or activity and that outweighed to stay quiet.

Without missing a beat, this man who has maybe spoken 30 sentences to me over the past ten years looked me dead in the eye and said,

“Fecal matter in the urinary tract. Hey, you asked.” With that, he smiled and left the office. I sat there for a moment, reeling in what had just happened. And then it dawned on me.

HE THINKS I’M STICKING MY DICK IN MY OWN ASS.

Now I apologize for the graphic nature of that last sentence, but I swear to you faithful reader, that was the first thought that popped into my little neurotic head. Not, oh he considers anal sex “weird sex” or “that’s strange, I haven’t engaged in any activity that would place fecal matter in my urinary tract.” No, I immediately get anxiety that my doctor thinks less of me because I know believe that he believes I’m some sort of weirdo sexual contortionist.

This is why I’m not an open person.

NOTE: It turned out that I had a kidney stone, not a UTI. So fecal matter never played into it.

As a married man in his thirties, it is an unavoidable fact that the idea of creating a child will come up periodically in your life. And while I won’t comment on my views on the subject nor of my spouse’s, it is fair to say that I’ve done minimal research in the area of reproduction just so that I know what’s involved.

Here’s what I’ve learned: Basically sex goes from recreational to pro-creational. That’s the difference. Here’s what I’ve also learned: no one enjoys going from recreational to pro-creational anything. In fact, anytime you go from a “re” to a “pro”, it can be more work than you bargained for.

Think about it. It’s always easier to destroy than to create; Spock told us that in Star Trek II. So that’s why no one finds it easy to be productive after being reductive. And who wants to attend a rally or pass out flyers or cold call people on election day? That’s proactive. I’d rather sit at home and bitch—reactive.

The only time “re” and “pro” are interchangeable? In the ass. Look up “Rectology” online and they’ll send you right to “Proctology.” I guess when you someone’s sticking cameras, medical equipment and their hands up your bum, you really don’t to get into a semantic argument.

Wording aside, going from recreational to pro-creational is no picnic. Think of it like this. Imagine you’re a kid and someone says to you, “You sure do love playing with your Transformers. But if you want to get your hands on a limited-edition Omega Supreme, I’m going to have to ask you to limit the time you currently spend with your Transformers to one day a month. When is this day you ask? You know, I’m not really sure, but it’ll be the day after the wind blows a little bit less than normal.” This may actually work as the child will spend that month staring at you trying to figure out this horrible riddle you’ve presented before him.

The bottom line? When I think about it, life is a series of moments that go from practice to reality. High school and college paved the way for my careers, video games prepared me for driving a car, Monopoly prepared me for homeownership. At some point in your life many things go from being for fun to being for real. Why should sex be any different?

There isn’t anything in particular that made me think of this, but it popped into my head anyway, so here is:

Top 5 things I miss about being a Teenager

1. Lamenting
I wasn’t a drama queen or anything, but man, I could sit and wallow about some of the most meaningless topics in the world (and I secretly loved every minute of it). Whether it was, “Why doesn’t she like me?” or “Why does my hair poof so much?”, spent many depressive hours searching for the answers and praying for rain.

2. Yelling while sober
I’m a yeller. But I also have the utmost respect for the well-being of my fellow man, so I do try to restrain myself—although after a few beers, I’ve been known to damage some eardrums. That being said, when I was younger the world of my peripheral vision didn’t matter, and I was as loud as I wanted to be.

3. Aggressively caring about one side of an argument
High school debate is something of an oxymoron, as teenagers will not be reasoned with. I certainly couldn’t be bogged down with facts and figures—I knew in my gut what was the right thing to do and what was wrong (Democrats were ALWAYS right and Republicans were ALWAYS wrong). While I still enjoy debating a topic and exploring the particulars, I must admit I don’t have the passion that comes out of instinctually believing in what you’re saying, rather than relying on the facts.

4. The Music
I know it’s Old Man of me to say, but music was phenomenal when I was 14. Gangsta rap was in its infancy, as was grunge, and even shitty pop music had a heart to it—En Vogue beats Destiny’s Child any day of the week, even if Beyonce can sing rings around those ladies. This was the time when Guns N’ Roses put out two albums at once because one disc just couldn’t contain their awesomeness. Beat that Plain White T’s.

5. Saturday Night Live
I know it’s cliché, and I know that the folks that work at SNL now are really trying to be funny (that sounded sarcastic which is truly not my intent), but no one made me laugh like the combined forces of Phil Hartman, Dana Carvey, Jan Hooks, Kevin Nealon, Mike Myers, Chris Farley, Chris Rock, Adam Sandler, Ellen Cleghorne and even Melanie Huntsell. I haven’t had a good belly laugh over a sketch since Hans and Frans.

Luke’s Top Five Guilty Pleasures

5. The Spin Doctors – I’d like to admit that this entry is here for some nostalgia reasons, but I can’t. I love these guys. They’re the first concert I saw without my parents and they rocked my socks off. I won’t convince you to enjoy them, but I do own their live album (“Homebelly Groove: Live!”) and it’s pretty goddamn good.*

4. The Nanny – Much to my lovely wife’s dismay, I make a point to put on The Nanny and keep it there. The jokes are predictable (VERY predictable), and that voice gets more nasally as the series progresses, but I can’t not watch it when it’s on. Even this one I don’t entirely understand.

3. Denny’s – There’s nothing nutritionally beneficial to ANY food found at Denny’s and pre-packaged, idiot-chef-proof meals ensure that I can’t alter the meal to my preference but I still find my mouth watering every time I drive by one. I think it’s the smell. It smells of failure and home all at the same time and I just love that.

2. The work of Josh Duhamel – In my defense, I have not seen a lot of pieces in his acting portfolio, but what I have surmised is that he’s aware he’s submerged in crap and he’s along for the ride. Don’t believe me? Watch any episode of the show “Las Vegas”. Granted everyone is in on it (except for that woman who used to be married to Corey Feldman), but Mr Duhamel seems to wink at the camera without you ever noticing and for that I tip my hat.

1. The Harry Potter Series (books only) – What began as a way to kill time during an awful day at the Denver Airport turned into a full-fledged relationship with the entire Hogwarts graduating class. I would also love to admit that this is some sort of kitschy/hipster/bandwagon type fascination with these books, but kitsch doesn’t make you tear up at the last five pages of The Deathly Hallows, and I certainly did.

There you have it. Five reasons why I will never be able to fake my way onto the guest list at any club.

*Author’s note: all references to things being “good” are purely perceptual.

I have been in a few fights. Nothing major. Mostly just a couple of blows thrown at each other.  In my junior high school, fights were an everyday occurrence. I mean, it was like part of the daily curriculum—math, lunch, gym, fight. Some kids fought to vent their aggression, Some fought to showcase their only marketable skill, and some kids, like Tom, just wanted to a slightly higher assignment on the popularity ladder by showing that they had the ability to defend themselves.

Tom and I began as friends. Well, friends of friends. He was friends with a couple of good friends of mine and on occasion we would all hang out. I thought things between us were pretty good. Well, pretty ambivalent on both ends. I didn’t care about him, and he didn’t care about me. Or so I thought.

One day a good friend came up to me and said, “Tom wants to fight you.” “Why?” I asked. “No idea. But he wants to meet up after school to fight.” Now I’m not saying this to sound like a tough guy, but I could handle Tom. If I was five feet even at the time, then Tom was four foot six at best. I had some weight on him, so even if I couldn’t take him in speed, I had him in reach and mass.

“Ok, I’ll meet him after school to fight.” It was on.

Even then I knew why he wanted to fight. He wanted to put on a show and he thought that I could oblige. Fine I thought, if he wants to put on a show, I’ll put on a show. Only he won’t end like he wants. I’m going to beat up Tom. And I’m not going to cry.*

The school day ended, and the show would begin soon. I wouldn’t run; I’d take on Tom, no matter who watched. I walked out of the side exit, and I could already see him. Tom was across the street, standing on the corner, waiting. He was smart, because officially that corner was off of school grounds. So there would be no reprimanding if any school officials saw us mixing it up.

Seeing him standing there, I was uncertain about my fighting prowess. Could I truly beat up Tom? If I feel no animosity towards him, would I gather the strength I needed to take him on? And it being so close to the close of school, would the audience be too large for me to comfortably take the stage? I then did what many generations of men have done before him.

“Come here and fight me then Tom”. I challenged him to meet me on my turf knowing full well he wouldn’t cross the street. Or at least, hoping he wouldn’t. But at least this way, I could try to come across that I wasn’t agreeing to battle because we couldn’t come to a consensus on location.

“No, you come over here and fight me.” Point Luke. He wasn’t budging and neither was I. We yelled back and forth for a while, but eventually both of us could see that neither would move, and frankly, the three other students who came for the fight got bored and left within minutes. The fight was over…at least for now.

Two or three weeks later Tom was at it again. He wanted to fight. And he wanted it badly. Seeing his true colors that last round made me realize that I could probably take him on and suffer minimal damage. So I agreed to the fight, and even agreed on the location. I honestly don’t remember how the terms of this arrangement were reached, but I do remember agreeing to them.

Fast forward to the fight. Tom and I are there, as are three other students. Three. 3. The Roman Coliseum that Tom had been hoping for was in fact more of a Dinner Theater in Pensacola. The first begins with the first act: the circling. Each opponent moves in a clockwise movement, keeping equal distance between each other, preparing for one or the other to increase or decrease speed and begin the attack. This lasts for ten minutes.

Act Two: The first strike. In many boxing matches this is a quick jab or smack to the jaw, to get a sense your opponent’s position. IN our case, I dropped my guard and Tom gave me a sweet bitch-slap to the cheek. Well played Tom.

Act Three: The finale. Now while you may not believe what I’m about to tell you, it is the truth. I dropped my guard on purpose. I let Tom hit me. I was tired of circling, I was tired of fighting and frankly I was tired of Tom. I figured I’d let him get in a quick lick and then I’d return the favor and the whole damn thing would be over. So after he hits me, and ran at him, and threw him into some nearby bushes. I began pummeling his stomach, hoping to put an end to this goddamn thing, but Tom keeps struggling. So I continue to hit him—nothing too powerful, just enough to show the crowd of three what I’m capable of, and to remind Tom that I’m not as easy of a mark as he made me out to be. And while hitting him in the abdomen did little to stop him, it did bore the crowd—apparently watching two pre-teens wrestle in a bush isn’t exciting enough to eat into their Contra time, so with a “Man, this is lame”, they left. Leaving me on top of Tom in the middle of a bush.

As soon as they left, Tom saw that his plan had failed. He hadn’t beaten me, he hadn’t drawn a crowd, and the next day at school, no one would care about our fight. And even though I was 12, I could see the anger, hatred and frustration in his eyes—and I could see that it was directed at himself. I got up, helped Tom to his feet and never spoke to him again.

In fact, after graduation, I have no idea what became of Tom. I’ve searched Facebook and Googled him, but nothing. I guess if you can’t move up the social ladder, the next best thing to do is abandon it.

*Were I not to beat up Tom, I probably would have cried. Were I to beat up Tom, I probably would have also cried.

There are many many times in my life here in New York that I often think to myself, why am I here? Why don’t I leave? Why do I put up with all of the crap that we as New Yorkers have to put up with? Let’s face it, to have 9 million people residing in just over 10 square miles is a bit crowded.

I was thinking of this a few months ago during a lunch break from work. I was walking down the street, lost in my own thoughts when a young man approached me.

“Excuse me. You seem like a smart man.” This is actually what he said, I’m not exaggerating. I blame the fair skin and glasses for this remark.

“What do you call a…I mean…what is a…what is it when…” he stammers at me, as if he’s nervous to ask this question. I have two thoughts as he’s saying this; the first being maybe he’s lost and doesn’t know how to properly pronounce Houston, and the second being this guy is distracting me while someone else is one their way to steal my belongings. Being a New Yorker, my assumption is that it’s more the latter than the former, so I look at him, and then walk away.

“No no wait!” he yells, “I really have a question for you.” Well how can I argue with this logic? If he really has a question for me, and he really wants to get my attention, and as I scan the street from end to end and see that there is no one else around but the two of us, I acquiesce. “What would you like to know?”

“What do you call it when a lady farts out of her vagina?”

“No.” I say “You’re done here.” And I walk away, a bit more hurriedly this time as again he either legitimately wants to know this information or this is the last thing I’ll hear before waking up in a bathtub with two scars where my kidneys used to be.

Why am I here? Why don’t I leave? Stories like this invoke thesse questions within my inner monologue. But there’s also one more question that arises that a story like this also begs for: How can I even think of leaving when there’s such an amazing world outside of my door?

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.