Lawn Darts and Land Rants

For my visit to Ann Arbor, I drew up an entire maize and blueprint of plans. Like a childless aviary activist, I wanted to take a generation beneath my wing and leave my imprint, all but guaranteeing their ejection from family circles and membership into my exclusive club. All my plans were vacuumed into an alternate reality, where vacuum bags are full of unmet potential, when we instead ended up “floating” down a pile of rocks - rocks with only the faintest trace of water flowing over them. These few droplets of moisture were enough, however, to convince someone adept at being incompetent to label the bastardized gash in the earth a “river.”

Ike (previously referred to as Kent) convinced us that during Spring term he took a lazy float down the Huron River, and that the float was relaxing and life-altering. With this simple story he convinced nine others to join him, myself included. After ten minutes of seeking bright lights at the end of dark tunnels, I had no skin on my hands, and Ben had been nearly impaled by an underwater logknife. Forty minutes later, no less relaxed, we emerged from the sludge and ordered an ambulance home. Forty-two minutes later, whether from the myriad moss injections or the garish stress and cold our bodies were subjected to, we all had The Sickness.

While in the Acceptance stage of recovery, I had a brilliant plan to get all of my sicknesses out of the way at once, so I posted the following on Craigslist:

Wanted: Swine Flu - Let's get this out of the way (for $3)

I figure that everyone is going to have to deal with this eventually. As I consider myself a go-getter, a Casanova of initiative, I would like to be an "early adopter" of the latest virus that Piglet technology has to offer. Pigs have had such a misunderstood image since Animal Farm, and I feel like things are finally turning around for them. I tote an "I support Porcine" reusable grocery bag, and this has garnered me the support of many in the community. If you even have to ask "what community?" then I'm not interested in further communication with you.

Now the logistics: I have been sleeping poorly and not drinking sufficient fluids for weeks in an attempt to lower the effectiveness of my immuno defenses, but to no avail. I am seeking someone who definitely has H1N1, but I don't really care if you have been “officially” diagnosed. I have always been told that the Proof is in the Pudding, so to start things off with forensick foreplay, I would like you to eat half a bowl of pudding. I will then take your spoon and finish the bowl. We don't need to kiss, probably shouldn't actually, so I will settle for a hug-and-sneeze combo. To finish, I will ask you to take a few drinks out of my water bottle. I should be able to take it from there.

Serious responses will receive serious consideration. Feel free to attach photos depicting various levels of your physical disarray.

IF I AM SUCCESSFUL IN CONTRACTING THE DISEASE, I WILL BUY YOU DINNER AT THE RESTAURANT OF YOUR CHOOSING, or give you a $20 gift certificate to for bacon/porkchops.

Location: Chapel Hill

The post was deleted after twenty minutes. This highlights all that is right with America: you have a higher chance of contracting an unwanted STD from a 17-year-old online than a consensually downloaded illness. I was simply practicing my viral marketing skills.

To make up for my failed attempt at drinking piggy “cough syrup,” and for the group’s mishap with the Huron River, we bought pink floaties at a gas station and went to a lake deep in the Washtenaw County woods.

Conversation (while performing a real float):

Snack Snake: “Pyramid schemes are the lawn darts of our generation.”

Myself: “Who gave you the right to speak for our generation?”

Snack Snake: “I am the generation. I am the voice of our generation.”

Myself: “I don’t want you as my spokesperson. I’d rather have this floatie speak for me.”

Ike: “If Snack Snake is our voice, if he is right, then we are all drowned.”

Myself: “But if we drown the Snack Snake, we’re alright.”

At this point the Snack Snake thrashed around in such fear and was performing such advanced avoidance maneuvers that he almost drowned himself. Whether it is driving snakes at him through waist-high weeds, or driving fear into him in waist-high water, there is no better entertainment than a cornered Snack Snake.

When I returned home to the Triangle – wearing my Burmuda shorts and a plaid skirt as a shirt – my dad was waiting for me. He was here for my birthday, or at least this was his cover story. Really, he was here to help my murder the Intrepid. I went to work as normal, barely suppressing a smile, knowing what my dad and I were planning. The plan was flawless; not only were going to get away with murder, the endeavor was to act as a catalyst for father-son bonding.

Our molecular bond began its rift when a third element entered the equation: such is the physics of mechanics. In order to officially declare the car dead, we needed to get it checked out by a grease monkey. Grease monkeys cost money. I wanted to hire a patsy… some pansy who would look the other way while I pulled out the vehicle’s Roveries, rendering it sterile. Instead, my dad wanted to take it to a licensed mechanic who was actually going to look under the hood. I said no. My dad said nothing. I should have looked him in the eyes. People say when you are lying, your eyes point a certain way. I’ve never understood this; when I lie, it is always on my back. My eyes always point at the ceiling. So does my nose, mouth, and sense of entitlement.

So while I was at work, smirking like a bondsman, my dad was out trading fiat for false securities; he was bankrupting our mutual fun and breaking my heart. After all the hard work I put in to poisoning the car – neglecting its maintenance, never locking it, telling it it was adopted – my dad was going to fix it so I could keep it. He called me in the early afternoon and said, “Pick me up at the shop. I’m just down the road.” I got in his car, a minivan, and drove to him, almost in tears. I had never wanted to see the Intrepid again.

When I pulled into the address he had given me, I was surprised at the amount of cars the mechanic had endeavored to work on. An entire field full of shifty excuses. Impressive. I pulled up to my dad, noticing as I put the van in park that he was holding a knife. I left the van on and motioned that he get in without ever meeting his gaze. I wanted him to feel my blazing scorn. I wanted his conscience to burn like discount popcorn.

Still standing, holding out the knife, he assumed nothing and thusly pushed all my buttons. I flung open the door, telling him he could drive. He turned the blade inward, presenting me the handle, and said “Do the honors.” It suddenly all made sense. The field of broken dreams. The knife. The forklift operator dragging cars into a huge pile and in turn dragging an entire pack of cigarettes into her. I was at a junkyard. I made my bed, and now I was to lie in it. I couldn’t bring myself to stab the beast; I wouldn’t do that to an old friend. I had no problem, however, leaving that same old friend at the mercy of the forklift driver, and treating the only father this kid’s got to a pork chop and pasta dinner.

Next time: my dad forces ice cream down everyone’s throat between tequila shots, and I try to play guide dog, but instead end up spraining my sarcasm on a misplaced and dangling modifier.

Christmas in Calamityville

Most of the time I wear my badge proudly; it perches illicitly on my pocket like a motel-room purchase on a credit card statement. Sometimes it falls off. Sometimes it catches the glare of the sun and reflects my features to the heavens, announcing my wonder (and confusion). Mostly, it just watches the world stand still while I sift through the crumbs of my daily bread. There are times, however, when it slips inside my pocket to rest. This normally happens when I am done with work and tuck it in so it isn’t swinging in all directions and rubbing things the wrong way.

It doesn’t appreciate being tucked.

I drove over to the gym after work on Monday. I approached the door, bedecked with handheld accessories, athletic shoes to complement my athletic stance, and a bag full of workout clothing. In my pocket, the aforementioned piece of plastic with a pompous personality. With my hands full, I am at a loss for what to do to access the building. At first I consider putting everything down, but then I ideate and decide to bifurcate from that stupid idea, opting instead to press the card to the reader through the lining of my pants. I lean against the building, but my hips are too low slung to reach the reader. I lift my leg up, so that I look like a dog marking his territory with the musk of the misinformed, but my badge slides away from the reader and inches closer to the area marked Private Access. Next, I swing my leg open, touching the inside of my knee against the wall, so that now it looks as if I am attempting to mount the sexless and decidedly impassive card reader. This almost works, but in order to spark this particular electronic happy ending, I have to thrust upward against the wall. The door beeps; I realize I have no available hands to open it, but a man steps up from behind me and opens it for me with an amused flair. I briefly lose interest in living.

At some point during my time at the gym, perhaps even while I was pushing my dignity through the business end of a nutcracker, Lily Pad’s pad was getting robbed. Thousands of dollars of goods were taken but the neighbors saw nothing, and the thieves were bold enough to attack during the day. I couldn’t fall asleep last night after hearing Lily Pad say that the police didn’t really have any ideas on how to follow up on the crime. Into the wee hours of the morning, I poured over satellite images of his neighborhood, marking points where lookouts would be posted and where they likely loaded up the goods. There is an access road running along the pond behind his house – a great place for a getaway vehicle. I would like to ask the people at the end of that access road if they saw anything interesting, but I likely won’t. I think I’ll let the cops not do their job.

Before that late night of detective work, I went over to Brandon’s house to help load up the Budget truck he had rented to move back to Michigan. I put to use my excellent moving skills: twisting couches around corners, tossing hutches through tight spaces, and pinching mattresses in such a way that they practically carry themselves. I still remember the first time I ever helped anybody move. It was a lady from church and I was maybe eight years old. She bought everyone pizza after, and I fell in love with being helpful. The next time I volunteered to help someone move, I kept a keen eye on the relocater, waiting for them to order food for everyone, and started to get nervous when the vehicles were packed and my stomach started to throw punches. I remember asking, “When are we getting the pizza?” and getting shoved roughly aside and told how inappropriate I was being. Since then, I have always harbored some suspicion toward people that are moving, but my suspicions turned out to be merely passing pigeons last night, as it was agreed upon early that we were working in return for grub. I demolished a large container of sweet-n-sour chicken with my deft chopsticking skills, which I picked up from Zhang it!.

Mike and I have a late date (10:30 PM) tonight to checkout a possible living arrangement procured through the online intercourse haven known as Craigslist.org. There are some nice three bedroom townhomes not a stone’s throw from downtown Chapel Hill, and a nice young fellow is looking for two more to round out his chic adobe abode. It isn’t adobe, it’s brick, but I can never say “No” to anagram soup. Anyhow, the guy is coming back from D.C. tonight, and understands that Mike and I are jonesing to sign on a place, so he told us to come over late tonight. I plan on keeping my back to the wall, as usual, and I told Mike to bring a gun, so we should get out of there safely. If I don’t come back, however, split up my things accordingly. All I ask is that my EEYORE mug gets donated to charity. Which reminds me of the time in high school when Bert and I went around asking for donations to the Battered Women’s Club instead of the Hooved Animal Rescue. Needless to say, we got more donations than anyone else.

In a quirky turn of events, I went to pay my cell phone bill with Alltel yesterday and instead of owing them $80, they owe me $220. So, if someone out there put three hundred dollars on my phone account, declare yourself and I’ll treat you to an ice cream, because there is no way I’m calling up Alltel to complain. If it was a mistake on their part, then it is literally Christmas in July. And I heard Summer Santa doesn’t really care whether you’re naughty or nice.