It's A Match!

Begin Act 1.

Fade in: It's just dark. Like AFI back in 2003.

So life as we know it, it’s just weird and full of itty bitty coincidences that make me giggle, but also some that make me do a double take. Well, if I start out by stating that there is a coincidence then you’ll be hunting and pecking through this piece until you realize that, just like waiting on her to text you back, it may never come. * Cue John Williams * Dating in this day and age is awkward. It’s full of pixilated tension and electronic epistolary slumps. I’ll go ahead and say it, I’ll confess – I have a Tinder. If you don’t know what Tinder is then just imagine a dating application for your iPhone or Android that the insanely curious or desperate sign up for in order to meet new friends or the one nightstand of their life. It’s a rapid fire “Hot or Not” that can disappoint you as fast you can say, “nope.” Each time you are matched with a mate, the app allows you to then talk to them, and then stores them in a little column for your convenience. Kind of like an embarrassing little black book. Or better yet, watch this informational video!

 With that said, I am that guy who swipes right on gorgeous amounts of cleavage and left on “Roll Tides!”(Is it hockey season yet?) I’ll swipe right on the nerdy and left on the dirty and girthy (Showers are helpful before taking intentional glamour shots). Also, before you get peeved at me, I am an equal opportunity swiper. If you got “dat butt” or call your self a “Whovian” I’ll say yes too (Perhaps regrettably). I’ve been using the application since February of this year and I’ve felt ashamed ever since.

First of all, I’m convinced that men should not be privy to the notion that there are THAT many women out there; ready to mingle, ready to harpoon a single. It’s just mind-boggling. Every time I open it I feel like an instant dick. Here I am judging these girls based off of five to six pictures and their 500 character bio (which most of the time reads like a 5^th graders letter to Santa). I now know how many girls in the greater Chattanooga area need either a strong shoulder to cry on or a sexual experience as timely as a Woody Allen film. I have a hundred plus matches on this little application. Out of that hundred I’ve probably talked to 30 and out of that 30 there are only five that I’ve had an adult conversation with. If you’ve ever used Tinder you know that you only get matched with people who have also swiped right on you. So my hundred plus doesn’t even include the amount of women that I’ve “liked” and have not “liked” me. This pattern is addicting. Often, if I get matched within seconds of swiping right, I click the appropriately titled button that says, “Keep on playing?” “Oh why yes, yes I shall!” and I continue on my merry way. It’s this proverbial idea that the next girl could be hotter or the next dame could have Star Wars listed as one of her interests. Or even better, she is in the Princess Leia slave gear from Return of the Jedi! I better keep playing! And damn right, I keep on playing.

I’ve met a total of four girls off of Tinder and each time it was just... weird. First of all you have to get to the point where your electronic “icebreakers” lead her onto the next phase of, “Okay, well what do we do now?” I mean, when one is at this juncture it is established that both parties have already acknowledged that they are at least remotely interested. So you’d think that you don’t have to fight for their interest, because obviously they’ve noticed you, but you’re wrong. Now you have the hardest battle ahead of you, you have to fight for their attention.  To break the digital ice I’ve said a multitude of curious and/or embarrassing things. They range from, “We should get jerseys... because we would make a great team...”, or “How many tickles does it take to make an Octopus laugh?”. But then there is my favorite, “Hey, I bet I’d beat you in a fist fight.” The last one always makes me giggle. Oh, and by the way, it’s ten tickles. Each time I’ve either gotten responses that are equally as interesting or one that resonate like a dead pigeon hitting the pavement. You might also be surprised to find out that some girls block me on the spot.

Oh, do I hear your woes.

Woah!

Wait!

Girls block you?!

But you sound so charming and cute. I know, thank you. I know I do. * kiss kiss – call me *

But yes, they block me! I was under the impression that they were interested. It’s not like I’m actually going to fight them and no, I’m not shooting for a deep seeded sexual innuendo when it comes to aquatic life. Pfft girls are weird aren’t they? But if they don’t block me then I am stuck with their response, just as they were forced to deal with my witty charm. One girl responded to the “fist fight” statement with, “Oh yeah? Well who’s your trainer?” To which I responded with, “Yoda. Yoda’s my trainer. He told me size doesn’t matter.” (Yes I am that retarded) One could make a strong argument that I don’t take this seriously, I mean should I? On the other hand though, one girl responded to my octopus line with,

“You can’t hear an octopus laugh. They are... like really deep in the water. But just tell me anyways....”

“Um, ten tickles.”

“OH! That’s cute.”

“Yep...”

And that is where I awkwardly stare at my phone screen for about two calendar days wondering what the fuck happened to saying hi in public. Oh to be bck in middle school where my hands would shake before I called her house. I’d pray to the Lord above, “please don’t let her father answer. Please oh Lord, let her be home and bored enough to enjoy my candor." But that’s beside the point because we are no longer living in that age. The point I am going to make is that sometimes the universe allows you to have what you want, and once it’s there you must stand quietly before making a most ridiculous choice. I met a girl off of Tinder this weekend and it wasn’t crazy, but it caused me to seriously examine my personal growth over the years and how my love life ended up here, on an application for the casually desperate or curious.

            It all began when I was at my fathers 60^th birthday party out by Harrison Bay on Thursday evening. The sun was chill, just bobbing and weaving around the mountaintops shinning on the water. It was as still as the breeze and the ducks would paddle their way across the waves and land for bits of hot dog buns (after I stopped chasing them of course). It was cozy. My mother had worked hard on this party all week. She set up camp under a wooden veranda. Everyone wore Hawaiian shirts; the bubble machines were pummeling the park bench tables with suds and there was a palm tree raft filled with ice, drinks and h’ordeurves. If most of the people there were my age I would have opted to buy three or four cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon and let my wild side rip, but I didn’t. Besides the presence of my lovely sisters I had two friends with me that might as well be brothers, Robert and Geoff.

Robert has a rather large ego and I probably don’t need to bolster it any farther, but he is a good-looking fellow. Robert is tall with dark brown scruff and has features that I’d picture that most women within the ages of 25-30 would want in a reliable partner. We’ve been all over the globe together and have a plethora of rated-R stories that have bound us for life. Geoff is about Roberts’s height except clean. Geoff is a clean-cut dude and you should expect that from him since he is in the National Guard. He rides a motorcycle, has a nerdy chuckle and enjoys old 8-bit games on his Wal-Mart laptop. So standing in the middle of these guys I’d often feel a tad inferior. Geoff and I have also traveled the globe together. If you ever get us together, as us about Japan and we'll never stop laughing.
Geoff’s built, Roberts the good neighbor next door and then there’s me; I am short, tattooed, socially awkward and most of the time inappropriate. My friends have often joked about the “Brady Test”, as if I am a litmus exam for future prospects. Not many have passed. Either way, we were sitting on a bench by the lake as the party was winding down when we began to discuss Tinder.

            Robert was giving Geoff some pointers about the Tinder world, and as he should have – he has over 300 matches. In the distance my sisters giggled and my father told stories of old over a plate full of hot dog remains. It was the perfect silence of a moment. Geoff joined Tinder earlier that week and was already going on a date the next week. I guess when you’re muscular the system works fast for you. “What you need to do is put a picture of you on your bike man. You’ll be flooded with requests... if you know what I mean.” Robert said with a sly grin while giving him a quick click of the cheek. Geoff chuckled but then took a serious mental note. He’ll probably call me next week in hopes that i’ll snap a few shots of him on his crotch rocket. While Robert was educating Geoff about the “dos and don’ts” I was scrolling through the potential girls I could match with, like you do.

Blonde, brunette, Black, Asian, Southern, power lifter, hunter, nursing student, mother of three and so on. I’d periodically swipe right on ones that were cute or I presumed would be a decent human being to share a drink with. I wasn’t really paying attention when a girl named Claire came upon my screen. My first impression was: tattoos – okay, swipe right. Next girl please. Oh wait! It’s a match! I opened up Claire’s profile and the first thing I noticed was that we had a common interest that was pivotal -- we both liked Star Wars. In my mind I was doing a booty shake twerk dance thing, but then continued on. She was covered in gorgeous ink, from her chest to the tips of her wrists. Her hair was long, a roasted toffee color that complimented her cream complexion and matched her small but soft eyes. From what I gathered from her photos was that she was small, cutely petite and ready to mingle! Booyah! But there was something about her that I couldn’t quite place... If I were a Jedi I would have said that the dark side is clouding my thoughts, but something is amiss (Bum Bum Bummm foreshadowing!). Oh well! I sat there for a second before I alerted the boys to my most recent catch.

            I nudged Robert, “Hey, check this girl out.” He snatched the phone from my hand and began to assess the situation. He’d let out murmurs as he scrolled through her photos, “Yeah...MmmHmm... Okay... Okay. Yeah man, she’s a cutie.” Geoff then took my phone, “Hey wait! Let me see.” He did the same thing and passed me back the phone in a congratulatory nod. I could tell by the look on his face that he wouldn't mind matching with her either (Haha sucka!). Then Geoff asked me, “Well what are you going to say to her?” I froze. I honestly didn’t know what to say. Opening lines are so pivotal; they might as well mirror peace talks between two awkwardly aggressive countries. “Okay, ‘Country A’, do you agree not to be an asshole to ‘Country B’ anymore? Come onnnnn. Shake hands. Please?”

            After a few terrible suggestions I decided to go with, “Hey, where do you get your work done?” I landed on this choice because I didn’t want to sound creepy by asking how many tattoos she had or where they are placed. I didn’t want to give off the rapey vibe and tell her that she was stunning or be lame and just say, hi. I mean when you tell a girl she's beautiful she either loves it or stamps you with the "creepazoid" mark, and dudes, that shit is hard to wash off. And there was no way I would risk the Octopus joke; I needed certainty.  Like any good woman, she waited.

About 30 minutes had passed and had to leave the party to drive Geoff back home so he could be at work. Third shift at the city jail -- woof! After I dropped him off and I was cruising home with the wind in my face my phone bleeped, it notified me that I had a message from Claire. Oh, sweet joy! She responded with, “West Palm Beach, Florida.” And that was it. Nothing else. I was left hanging with a big large, “uhhhh” hanging from my jowls. I had to act fast and strike hard, I quickly said, “Oh yeah. Florida’s as hot at Tatooine. I get mine done in Atlanta.” (Nice! You like that Star Wars nod? Yes... no?) 

As quick as my mind could work she responded again and told me that she had just moved to Georgia and didn’t where to go for future tattoos. Being the gentlemen that I am, I fired off into the night sky with a list of places to go and my readiness to be her helpful tour guide. In retrospect I’ve learned that if you ever let a female know that you are “ready to be their immediate friend/whatever” it doesn’t work. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way the universe conducts their behavior. But Claire didn’t run, and from what I understand now, she is no runner, Stella is a diver. Claire went on to say that she didn’t have any friends, to which I opted to be a new one for her and that I’d show her around, drinks on me. She then hit me with the best message that you can get off of Tinder, “Text me??” (The double question mark must mean that she is excited, right??)

Mentally I thought, Oh yes, yes I will text you. (EvenThoughIHateTextingBecauseICantStandWaiting)

            We began texting that evening. I introduced her to Fanboys, which is a comedy that every Star Wars fan needs to see. We talked about stand up comedy and even body fat content, which resulted in her sending me a picture of her belly. Weird -- but sure, why not. So far so good I guess. I felt like I was winning this digital haze of hormones. Throughout our texts she told me that she was coming to Chattanooga then next evening and that she would take me up on my offer for a drink. It took me a second to really process the fact that a complete stranger, who is exceedingly attractive, hasn’t blocked me due to poorly timed social cues and then insisted that we meet up. And I didn’t even use my octopus joke! Huzzah! So there it was. Tomorrow evening we would go to a free concert together in downtown Chattanooga and follow that up with a drink among friends. After we were done texting, a.k.a. she stopped responding, I shot Robert a message. “Pookie! I am meeting that chick tomorrow” to which he immediately responded with, “That was fast! Huzzah!” 

Time for bed.

Time to rethink over every little thing I said and panic because it just seems like this is going to happen. *gulp* 

            End Act 1.

Fade out: I’ll laugh until my head comes off... (Radiohead)

Sometimes you just have to vent.

So I’ve been sitting in this coffee shop for about two hours. I mean, as far as I’m concerned I’ve been in this damn place for all of purgatory, i.e. the past year. Today though in particular I’ve downed one French press, which is about three cups of coffee and then I decided to follow that with one “regular” cup of joe. It’s rocketing through my veins. Needless to say, I have the jitters. It’s a toss up from the sensation of falling ten stories down and insomnia. I’ve been listening to Wilco, The War On Drugs and Slyvan Esso. So it’s been a fine mixture of folk and electro pop, basically the most common type of music that I’ve been blasting as of late. It’s been a year since I fractured my pelvis jumping a rain soaked fence at Skyridge hospital in Cleveland Tennessee after the birth of Bonnie Leigh Cotton. Since that day I’ve heard in multiple ways, “Brady, thank God you’re a dumb ass... I’m so glad you’re retarded... being stupid just saved your life...” and so on. But I’m currently at a stale mate, how do I look back upon the last year? Should I still be thanking my stupidity or start reflecting on my victories? If my stupidity is truly the unsung hero, then was it in fact a dumb move or a divine act of God that I ignored my typical statement, “I don’t do dangerous things.” And as for my victories, are they really my victories? Being a cancer patient I’ve been at the whim of blood tests and doctoral prognosis’, I never once leaned over during a procedure and said, “You should do this differently” or told them the proper medication to give. I was a mouse in a laboratory and now everyone hails my courage and stubbornness as if I had saved my self. The most courageous act that I’ve done is lean on others who are much stronger than I.

Bone marrow biopsy.

I’ve been through heavy radiation, blood and steroid treatments. I’ve had chemotherapy, bone marrow biopsies, skeletal surveys, radiated scans and stem cell transfusions. I’ve survived it all. Each time I’ve “gone under” I’ve made sure to make my nurses laugh, my doctors smile and have even tried to wipe away the tears of family and friends. Some nurses would tell me, “Even though I hope you never have to come back, I hope to see you again... You’re a great man” while others would scoff at my candor, tattooed body or sailors mouth. I once even got one of my oncologists to “cut up” with me after a series of hesitated laughter about how long I have to live. He said to me, “Ha ha, yeah... you did get knocked on your fucking ass.” We laughed; he shook my hand and told me to be back next week. But there have also been other doctors who’ve brushed me off. One in particular, during the first week of my battle walked into my hospital room, put his hands into his hair as if he just watched a child fall from a high chair and exclaimed, “I...I can’t do this...” But at least he was nicer than the one who scolded me and angrily said, “what you have is not life compatible...” as if this were my fault.

Even after all of this my little sister Kelly still hugs me, loves me and sometimes even purposefully annoys me like nothing has happened. My closest of friends still continuously rip me apart; get me drunk and debate the ridiculous nature of women -- like nothing has happened. We’ve kept our game faces and held our heads high. When I reflect on these memories I am reminded that I am truly blessed, cancer or no cancer.

When I was released from the hospital back in July I grabbed my computer one evening and tried to accurately describe how “it all went down.” The end result isn’t completely factual but it reflects inner turmoil that I had experienced. I ended up writing a weird short story where I inhabit two different forms of my self. The first “self” is the young and reckless buffoon that only cares for the shimmer of the moon, the size of a girl’s rack and beer in his gullet; I named him Matthew. As for the other, the narrator, me -- well I’m just a kid that looking for the sincerity in love, the open ticket to move forward and move on. I was searching for any sunrise that would brush my windshield and paint a smile on my face.

Before the accident, well I guess we can call it that; I was researching jobs on the west coast while passing the time as a key holder at the GameStop in Cleveland. I was considering Los Angeles, Seattle and even my old stomping grounds of Oakdale California. In Los Angeles I had my old roommate and co-conspirator Jordan Duke who at the time had been begging me to move out there with him. Then there was Scott, another old roommate of mine who would always say, “Bro! Seattle was made for someone like you” and after much research I found him to be right. There was even a moment where I asked my boss at GameStop what it would look like to transfer out there and he told me one drunk night at a bachelor party, “oh, very doable.”

Jimmy & I.

I was living in a two-bedroom apartment with my friend Jimmy. That apartment was my favorite that I’ve ever had. We had a tiny kitchen with large wooden cabinets and in the adjacent trash room lurked a stolen portrait from Lee University with two young girls smiling brightly at the camera, it was ill fitting for Jimmy. He would often grimace each time he went to dispose of an empty Miller Lite box. But our living room was my favorite part of the apartment. It was neatly decorated. It looked like the poor hipsters version of a Crate and Barrel add; old paintings and aged knick-knacks from Michigan were nailed to the wall. The best part of the living room though was the “dad chair” that sat next to the record player. Between the two of us we had a probably 70 records. Jimmy and I, after a long day would put on a record, open the balcony windows and let the sound carry outside out on to porch. We’d enjoy the cool Tennessee air; a smoke and a chilled can of Miller Lite. We were living simply and took everything a day at the time. If there was ever any drama it was the simple and good kind, the sort of drama that breaks a dark comedy with a touch of light. 

If I told you that at that moment there was no girl in my life, I’d be lying. There’s always a girl and her name was Maggie. We “met” in April even though at this juncture I had never seen her face-to-face. Everything about Maggie was stunningly loud. I knew she was something special when she told me my “Mustafar joke was hilarious...” Her very voice was eye-catching and alluring. It was as if Ross from friends was screaming “Pivot! Pivot! Pivot!” 

I called her the “unicorn” to co-workers and friends because how else could you explain a girl like her? Eventually people became accustom to asking, “How’s the unicorn?” then I'd weave a tale out of our most recent two-plus hour conversation and how important it was. We never had a dull conversation.  We’d talk on the phone for hours and even Skype for the same amount of time. Maggie would go on and on about life in Florida, skateboarding, Super Smash Bros, Star Wars and or Star Trek. In fact the very first conversation we had on the phone was right after I saw the latest Star Trek installment. Maggie called late that evening with a nerdy intensity that I’ve never experience before. She explained the nuances of that sci-fi series for what seemed like days. To this day I have never let anyone ever talk to me about Star Trek that long. Every time someone mentioned her name it was as if it was a password to my heart. I’d open like a locket and read aloud a memoire written in red.  To this day I’ve never met a girl like Maggie and I’m afraid that I never will again. Eventually we met, face-to-face. All my premonitions and forecasts of what she was like in real life were true. And on that day, the day I got discharged from the hospital, it was the happiest that I had been in years... but that’s another story for later.

So, here I a still am. Sitting on the stool at Mean Mug, the coffee shop off of Market St., reflecting on everything. I am brimming with anger, but I’m also thankful for what has happened to me. I have become separated from my old life and have had to let those old dreams die. Over the next several weeks I am going to make it a point to document and write down what I’ve been going through this year and share them with you. I have had a head start on the source material because one of my best friends, Robert or better known as “Pookie”, gave me a journal in July when I was still in the hospital. It’s full now. Every page is soaked with prayers, unsent letters, anger as thick as pavement, sadness as permanent as the scar on my chest from open heart surgery and lists upon lists of what to do next; distracting tomes of stories of old that still makes me chuckle. I am a stronger person today than I was a year ago. But to quote a close friend of mine, “Brady, this is a man maker... at the end of this, you’ll be a man.”

I think the best way for me to process this is to share with you the short story/narrative that I penned. We’ll start with the beginning of it all. But I’d rather let a professional have the last word...

“Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

I saw Matthew in the reflection of the puddle on the pavement, that blonde bearded bastard. The night was a cool whisper on my face and the moon wore a skimpy layer of white-laced clouds. “I can see her legs.” Matthew said looking up at the moon giving me a naughty wink. It was late July, tomorrow is my older sisters birthday. I feel terrible; I haven’t bought her a thing yet. So many things on my mind, the rents due soon and I had barely gathered enough cash to afford a road trip to Florida. My apartments so dirty too. My roommate will be pissed if I don’t clean the apartment before I leave.

I looked up to see Matthew skipping along on the glimmering pavement waving my keys around. He looked a drunken penguin with an old police baton and it’s a safe bet that his “Look Mexico” shirt was still a little wet from the beer he had spilled earlier.

“Look Mexico...*burp* they’re just like, like Built to Spill but... but then again, they are so not. No one’s like Doug Martsh.” That’s something Matthew would say defending his shirt and why no one has heard of the band. I was at the town bar; a watering hole that housed cave trolls for patrons when I got the call. “She’s having the baby!” then John hung up as fast as he said the words. Matthew spilt his brew and I grabbed the keys and we bolted for the hospital. After an awkward and tipsy conversation with John’s relatives by the vending machine John’s baby girl was born. I only got to see her for a second before the nurses whisked her off to the intensive care unit for infants. “You don’t have to stay man,” John said as he placed his sweaty palm on my back.

Johns face was glowing. He was now a daddy and you tell by the wholeness in his voice. We were keen to get home and drink some celebratory beers in due honor of John’s baby girl, Bonnie Lee. John and I had been looking forward to her birth for months now, obviously. I was to be an “uncle” and John, finally a daddy. Ms. Lee had some of the biggest cheeks I had ever seen on a baby, and oddly when I looked into her eyes I felt… paternal. As we walked, the hospital was at my back, the heavy grey car garage looming straight ahead in the horizon and a tiny fence on my left that forced people leaving the hospital this late to walk through that creepy grey box.

But right now that beer had my name on it, it had Bonnies name on it, Johns name on it and if I didn’t beat Matthew to the car he’d beat me to the beer. If I didn’t beat him to the beer then he’d beat me to “drunk” and last time Matthew beat me to drunk I ended up having to talk his ex girlfriend out of from coming over to stab him. If you’ve ever met Maddie, the ex, then you’ve seen the reason why the biker bar stopped doing “ladies night”. 

Matthews blonde fo-hawk bobbed up and down like the arm of an old teddy bear as we neared the entrance to the car garage. I could see my car; it was below us parked all alone in the lot. As I investigated the lay out of how to get to my car it dawned on me how pointless it was to have walk all the way through this dungeon.  I heard Matthew, as if he was in my head “You know man, I kind of want to be a da…” but his sentence suddenly became unintelligible due to sound of branches breaking and bushes wobbling. He was poking around where the fence had connected to garage in the bushes.

"Wha...what did you say? Mathew?” I couldn’t see him anywhere. The bushes were moving to the flow of the night breeze and apparently Matthew trudging around at their roots.

Matthew poked his head from behind the fence; apparently he had the same idea as me, just jump the fence. “I saaaaaid! It kind of made me want to be a Dad,” he sang in his “jazz” voice as he plucked twigs and leafs from his perfectly disheveled hawk. I couldn’t disagree with him; I kind of wanted to be a Dad too. “What are you doing back there man? You know we could just walk along through the car garage?”

He just shook his finger at me. “You’re such a lame-ass Brady.”
We were now walking side by side, separated by a two foot thick, three foot high and twelve-foot long “ego” walk to the chain link fence ahead of me. I leaned over and punched him in the shoulder. “You can’t do that! Stay on your side,” he scoffed, “If you don’t jump that fence, the Wild Things and Max are going to cry alone tonight... jerking it.”

I had to laugh at that one, but still…way to far.
That’s totally my favorite ‘pretend’ childhood book.

"Ok!, what do you want me to do now, stroke face?" I retorted. He hated that name. I didn’t even have to look at him to feel his vile and strikingly similar Steven Seagal angry face pungently thinking of comebacks. Matthew pointed at the fence and mouthed at me, “Global Guts!” then sprinted off past the fence towards the car. He was always so impatient. I never understood it either; he was like a child with ADHD that got bored after “AD…”

"Hey man!" I screamed, "Wait up dude. It’s not like we are in a hurry…" But his only response was "Mike O’Malley here introducing the lime pink pussssssssys!!!" and it was on repeat. Fuck it.

I started to climb the fence. As I got higher I couldn’t see him anywhere. I saw my car, but no Matthew. It was silent, narrator was gone and I was all-alone at the top of the fence. I tried yelling his name again, but still nothing.

"Matthew?"

He must have gotten distract by some bird or a puddle. So I started to climb down. I was never meant to be an urban ninja. I sucked at climbing. I placed one foot on what felt like a open link on the fence but it was still wet from the rain. My sneaker slipped and it let out a rubbery squeak. For a spilt second I lost my footing and my whole body went numb I was probably only four feet off the ground, but it felt like a mile.
My rubber sneakers skirted over the metal rung like wet jellyfish over an even wetter jellyfish. My fingers wrapped between two chain rungs and pop, my shoe caught on the fence.
I caught my self about three feet before I hit the bottom. 

"Matthew!!"

"Matthew! Did you see tha…"

But before my words had finished their meal my foot slipped again and I fell. My right heel slipped into a hole in the dirt with what seemed to be full of twigs and mud. Something cracked as my foot entered the hole and my side went fuzzy like a freshly shaved head. My body flopped onto the wet dirt; palms in the mud, ass wet and leaves were in the folded cuffs of my jeans. As I looked down at the hole, there should have been twigs that snapped or branches that would have cracked, but there were none and my side was still numb. I leaned back, just a few inches further and saw the moon. I saw my friends’ faces and I cried out in pain...

"John?"

"Blake?"

"Ryan?"

"Rob?"

            “Dad...?”

The next day the doctor came into my room. I was lying on a sterile bed with several needles imbedded into my flesh, two in the forearms and one deep torn in the neck that was gurgling morphine into my system. She asked sternly what I was doing leaping over a fence. I told her I got bored chasing my shadow, that I was kind of tipsy and just wanted to get home after a long day. “Well Mr Effler, there’s no real easy way to tell you this...” She closed the curtain behind her, peered over her glasses and held my hand. “Can I call you Brady, is that okay?” My hand had never been held like this before. She shook like the change in my pocket on a roller coaster.

“You... You fractured your pelvis...

And there’s a growth... about the size of a soft ball that has been eating away at the bone...

You have cancer Brady"

My thoughts clipped like an old reel of film.

I called all their names one by one. Hours later each name that I called looked at me through damp eyes and held my hand.

Penelope Lion

        

When someone says to me, “[that] just came full circle” I often think of karma. You know, that mysterious force that seems to bounce back like a medicine ball and calculatingly reprimands that inner asshole. (Oh, I also think of that Radiohead song and how it was on repeat for about a year when I first heard it. My poor vehicular passengers) It so happens that we live in a world where superstition and the facts of life clash head on, like a serpent eating it’s tail. Whether it is how you treated that girl back in high school or perhaps you lied to a friend about what you “didn't do”, most likely there is that friend or stranger close by to say these fabled words “what goes around comes around”. Being slightly superstitious and religious I often picture myself being mutilated by a meteorite, it breaks through the clouds and pierces some random gas vein by my car, causing it explode. Or maybe I accidently knock down a can of spray paint off the top shelf seconds before a big a date. The aerosol explosion swarms my suit and I become a newly colored man. But these are all just in my imagination and hopefully will never happen (fingers crossed). As of recently though, I experienced a full circle, or a “happening” -- so to speak. There was no space stone or exploding can of gold paint though. This time “karma” involved a box of cereal that was almost a decade old.

            Back in 2004 I met a young lady, like most boys do in high school (it’s often hard to escape them). I fell for her abrasive sense of humor and also the fact that she talked to me. Ladies and gentlemen may I introduce you to one of my few high school crushes, Penelope Lion. If I were to paint a picture of Penelope I’d say that she was the typical girl next door. She had shoulder length dirty blonde hair, a healthy amount of freckles and a boisterous personality that harbored a flamboyant laugh. She liked to joke around the guys and even rolled with the punches. Penelope was a year below me and was infectious the second she made fun of me.

Here are the things that matter about Penelope and I, number one: I took her to my senior prom. I can't remember when I asked her but I do recall the inner back flips I did when she said, “sure”. I'm fairly certain that she said yes because I'm awkwardly charming and promised not to dress up as Darth Vader, again... Junior prom was real interesting. Number two; I had once prevented her from touching a car handle laced with human piss. Yes, I was once the defender of evil and perversion, the pale white nerdy Batman. A boy named Juan, to whom I later found out she had a crush on had urinated all over her car. I saw the hedonist in action and instantly felt conflicted. Juan was one of the cool kids and I was well, just one of those bizarre forces of nature. Penelope had come over the hill that overlooked the student parking lot and before I could rationally think about it I blurted out in a shriek, 

“Oh my god! Don't touch your car handle because Juan peed allllllllll over it.” 

Somehow, according to high school logic, she got mad at me for interfering with her crushes idea of a well-placed gag. Go figure. 

            Number three: One time I was trying to woe her over through witty conversation and she told me (in a private confessional sort of way, obviously) about her favorite kind of cereal. It was an off brand marshmallow cereal that could only be found at the hole-in-the-wall discount grocery store on the opposite side of town. The “grocery store” was built like a warehouse and the clerk could pass for a cave troll; either gender of course. I think most cave trolls are gender blind anyways, but that's not relevant. There was no question in my mind at the time that I would retrieve the cereal for Penelope. So I got in the Batmobile, or aka my 1994 Chevy "P.O.S" and sped off into the night. I fought through the shady market, cleared the cave troll’s gaze and successfully found my ladies treat. Once I returned from Mordor and got back to school the next day I had decided to make this a stealth mission of saccharine pasion. I believed that being sneaky and sweet about presenting her with the box of cereal was a good idea, I mean don't most girls love surprises? And isn't that whole point of getting engaged to, catching them off their guard like a ninja? I decided to put the cereal in her locker and waited from a distance. In retrospect I was no ninja and performed two very creepy tasks: One, technically I broke into her locker, which in most places in America is a "No-No". Secondly I waited for her like a creeper in a van outside of an elementary school. I’ve definitely taken mental notes since then. Trust me. 

The bell rang and Penelope walked up to her locker accompanied by another dude in my class, Sean Watkins. Sean played baseball, was tall and wore colored bro-polos, even his name was cool; I was no competition. Penelope popped open her locker and squealed instantly. The joy on her face was perfect. I could see it in her whole body. She threw her books down, grabbed the cardboard box and crinkled it an excited tremble. Penelope turned to Sean and howled, “Did you get this for me?!” Sean looked confused. My mouth dropped. He straightened out, broadened his shoulders and said, “Yes.”

Defeated. I imagine that if there was a soundtrack to this movie moment Sam Cooke would be crooning to Summertime. 

"so hush, little baby, don't you cry

don't you cry, no no, don't cry..."

I don't recall ever trying to correct the wrong. Prom didn't go as planned either. By the end of the night I realized that I would have gotten more action if I had actually dressed up as Vader... again. After I graduated Penelope became a distant memory.

            Queue the montage of the years passing, snow falling, the sun rising and setting, my beard growing and my contact list of women multiplying. By 2014 I had almost completely forgotten Penelope Lion. There was no reason to remember her. I never had to go back to the cave trolls shopping den, and we never kept in contact. Penelope, like many other women in life by now had become a ghost story. But like all ghost stories, something weird happens. 

Several months ago I went out with my little sister Kelly and her friends. I have been doing that more recently since I've been living back at home. Most of the time I'd just want to sit quietly and drink a PBR but since they are four to five years younger than me all they want to do is go to annoyingly loud clubs and gay bars. This night in particular was Kelly’s friend Molly’s birthday. Kelly begged me to come out and party with them and I reluctantly agreed. Surprisingly we didn't go to any super loud joints or gay bars and stuck with what I liked, a few quiet pints. But since we didn't get “turnt up” Kelly begged me to come over to Molly’s apartment to play beer pong. Beer pong is one of my favorite past times and I had to show these kids up.

            When I arrived at the apartment Kelly, Molly and her roommate Jenna set up the beer pong table and something was immediately amiss. First of all the cups weren't in a triangle, they were just spread out across the table. Secondly, they were filling the cups up with water from a coffee pot. They were playing with water! Without delay I voiced my grievance but was told to calm down. Their rules were that whenever the ball landed in a cup you would have to take a sip of beer. Ridiculous. These girls did not know how to properly participate in an offical game of pong. I was upset, so upset in fact that instead of calling Jenna by her real name I just referred to her as Pete for the remainder of the evening (and now also this blog post). I just walked around that dirty, cat-infested apartment drinking their left over PBRs and making fun of Pete. At one point we all stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and Molly said, “Oh Jenna, Brady went to school with your older sister.” 

“Oh you went to CSAS?” said Pete.

“Yeah, well who’s your sister?” I retorted

With smoke billowing from her mouth Pete softly replied,  “Penelope.”

I about choked on my own spit and caught my self. Instead of blurting out “What?!” I delicately said, “Wait, you're fucking Penelope Lion’s sister?” The beer had taken its toll. Pete nodded. I asked Pete, “Well... Where is she now?” Pete told me that “Uh, well Penelope is living in Ireland...” which was followed up by her explaining to me that she was doing really well for herself and loving life abroad. A flood of memories came back to me and I immediately started complaining to Pete and who ever else would listen about her sister. I told Pete all about the cereal, the pee and prom. I can only imagine that these poor girls were witnessing a man having one of his quarter life crises’; it wasn't pretty. Finding out that Penelope was doing well upset me even more than that poor game of pong. I think at one point the word “bitch” had even left my mouth. I studied in England and ever since then I've wanted to go back. I wanted to be there and not here! I wanted to be living abroad and enjoying life, not be a 25-year-old failure living at his parent’s house. (I wonder if Sean is better off too!?) 

Before I left Molly told me that Pete was going to see Penelope in Ireland soon. The thought didn't occur to me then, nor had it occurred to me since then that girls talk.  Side note: I often say that I'm a story-teller, but after this experience I've come to the conclusion that it’s just a less gloomy way of saying, “I live in the past”. Since then I've learned not to have quarter life breakdown in front of younger girls.

            Fast forward to today. Earlier this upon waking up from a nice slumber I checked my phone to find that I had one new friend request.

“Penelope Lion would like to be your friend!

Click Yes to accept.”

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts. I rubbed my eyes several times and rechecked my phone. Yes, it was she. Penelope Lion, living in Ireland and looking like... well an older and hotter Penelope Lion. I accepted the friend request. Moments later the speakers on my computer emitted a little “ding” to alert me that I had one new notification, Penelope had written on my wall. She said, “Hello friend”. I sat on my bed looking at my screen, do I respond right now? Should I wait a couple hours? I don’t want to sound weird, but what I’m doing right now is weird. Just write something. I responded with, “Well hello there... It’s been what, 8 years?” I thought I was being coy and smart. Maybe perhaps my use of ellipsis would reveal that a brooding response was waiting for her in the dark recesses of the universe.

            An hour passed, which felt like an eternity but then, finally my computer “dinged” again. It was a paragraph. I gulped. Penelope’s response began with, “Yessir it has. I hear you’ve seen my little sister kinda recently!” I swallowed hard and whispered, “dammmmmn it.” I had to keep on reading, she continued, 

“She updated me on the Amazing Brady’s life :) I just want you to know I’m sending you love and positive vibes.

And thanks for the cereal :)”

I sat on my bed and laughed. I also felt slightly guilty, but for the most part I laughed. I had been redeemed. She thanked me for the cereal and that was all I could ask for; it had come full circle. Now this isn't your typical story about karma. I mean, a gas vein didn't explode and I technically didn't get caught with my hands in the cookie jar but I did see and feel the aftermath of an interesting life story. She finally knew that it was me!!! I no longer have “high schooly” feelings for Penelope (you'd think that I'd lose interest after a decade, right?) but what she gave me with that one short sentence, “and thanks for cereal” was just as fun and meaningful as a pop kiss. It was random, quick and sobered me up.

Its moments like that make me believe that there is something incredible for me, for all of us. Those interactions, these memories, I have so many and they are all precious. Even though months, maybe even years might have passed me by there will always be a moment waiting to come full circle. I feel like a rubber band ball these days, constantly bouncing and losing layers. With each layer that slingshots off I learn more about what has kept me together all these years. These people, they come back like a long lost Frisbee and I can't say it doesn't feel incredible to hear from them again. I don’t know why she decided to contact me. Maybe she was looking for friends from the past, or perhaps what her sister said moved her or maybe it was just random, but I don't think that really matters. What matters to me is that those who I have interacted with in my past have been affected by me and that is a humbling feeling. You just never know who or what is around the corner, and the surprise of life is very enjoyable. And before I end this, Penelope, if you read this I do apologize for my drunken rant, I was having a bad night. We all have one shot in life and I'm fortunate to have spent it with some incredible people.

I have no idea what is in store for me, but I’m curious to see what else happens. Who else will come out the woodwork and remind me that I’m not dead, not yet.

Oh, yeah. I still hate being bald.

           

            

Recycled Memoirs

Appendix A Cont.
29/03/2012
Pg. 9 – 11. Pt. 1

(The following is an excerpt from the journal that I kept for two weeks while I traveled around Western Europe. I specifically wanted two journals while I was studied abroad; in the end I had three. A handicapped schoolmate gave me the first about ten days before I departed, his name was Caleb and we remained close friends during my undergraduate despite my irrational fear of disabilities and prosthetic limbs. The journal Caleb gifted me was Star Wars moleskin that could fit into my pocket. It was my favorite as soon as I laid eyes on it and I declared that it would collect my misgivings and adventures while I studied in Cambridge. Its contents still haven’t seen the light of day. The second was more of a “myth” or rather what I considered to be, controlled entries. The entries themselves were “homework” assignments that I would email to my professor periodically; ninety percent of the time I wrote them the night prior and still cannot recall what was written inside them. I received high marks. As for the third, well the day I purchased I told myself that it would only consist of my tales from Europe.

 

I often felt irritated whenever I left a journal empty, but as for this one – it’s remaining pages shall stay blank. The journal itself is made from recycled materials, not chosen on purpose so don’t believe for a second that I was or still am considerate of Mother Nature’s feelings. The cover is made of a light brown cardboard and as for the pages themselves, well they feel like silky leaflets that one would tear from miniature bibles for rolling papers – how fitting. Most of the time these entries were made on board a train, so if I were to make Xerox copy of the actual pages the term ‘legible’ would be most hazardous. The following entry below was made on a train somewhere between the quaint city of Bruges and what I would later consider a complete blackout in memory, “the-blank-page”, Amsterdam. For kids my age, or of my generation Bruges has been famously made known for it’s dreamy atmosphere and the cult-classic action/drama “In Bruges” with actor Colin Farrel. Bruges is tucked close to the English Channel, northwest of the capital of Belgium, Brussels. It is about a three-hour railroad tour from Brussels with a nice stop in between at Ghent. If you do decided to go, don’t be afraid to linger at the train stations, they have great coffee.) 

And so the sun rises.

It was remarkably foggy in Bruges as I walked to the rail station this morning. I remembered as I walked past the river, the low-lying clouds covered the riverbank -- a puffed grey pastry, it was a crust that cushioned the water. The shallow murk had some sense of warmth beneath its cool nature, perhaps like those molten “lava” desserts; with a scoop of vanilla on top of brooding delicious goo. As I walked I felt it’s crisp breeze beneath my sweater. Clouds exited my lungs without any inhalation. It was a good cold; one that awakened the body and spirit.

Bruges was quiet and kept remarkably clean. The city workers were out in the bracing cool breeze collecting waste, whisking the cobble streets with thick bristled stalks and polishing glass storefronts. I had not had the pleasure of seeing this yesterday when I first arrived in the city, but now I’d almost wake up every morning just to see this; the refrigeration of this remarkable city. I hardly remember yesterday morning; it seems like an eternity ago... but just like yesterday I’m on this rattling carpet again.

If all morning were like this then call me a convert and sign me up for next one. I’m surprisingly in a good mood as well. Let’s see if I can remember the important details: I drank to much (again), flirted with the house management, might have gotten a resident at the hostel arrested and was violently woken up to what sounded like my “roommate” butchering a wooden box with a baseball bat.

Scenery, it changes a man.

I am truly on my own as I write this. I’m on the train to Antwerp, destination Amsterdam and not a damn person knows where I am right now . . . The childlike thrill of making up a name to go by is no longer in the deck. For I remember when I'd travel in the states, each airplane ride I was a new name, new job and depending on the level hotness’ I sat next to... a new crisis that I was “managing all on my own”. In fact, now there is even a thrill in saying my own name. No one has heard Brady Matthew Effler, or has seen this smug face. I do not have a partner, no proverbial cock-block, nor do I have a professor guiding me like toddlers rudder. I am moving by my own inhibitions and it’s terrifying. I might as well be a dream, passing by each city as a friendly wisp.

I liked Bruges.
And before I forget I should probably write this down.
But God this morning...
That riverbank ...


When I first arrived yesterday in Bruges I stepped off the platform still in a daze. I had not eaten with in hours and I was still hungover from night prior. It had took me longer than I had hoped to find my hostel, the Snuffel Backpacker Hostel, located in the old part of town. All the streets felt the same as they spider-webbed throughout the town. I must have passed at least eight canals. But then I found her, the Snuffel Backpacker House. It looked like a small tenant building in San Francisco, nuzzled in-between two businesses. It felt like home instantly.

I walked into the hostel through it's open door, which provided about 70 percent of it's lighting. A rosey "Hiya" ponytailed around my ears as my eyes adjusted to what appeared to be an oak tiled room. It was the first english greeting I've heard in two days, but it really has felt like it's been a week. Turning to the counter on my left I saw a mid-sized red head beaming at me from behind her computer. I later learned that her name was Elizabeth; she was a natural ginger, had a French accent and her laughter was like a pot of boiling water – European hotness’, it’s like I never saw it coming. Upon my checking in I made several friendly passes at this cutey. I don't believe any word of what I said to her sounded sensual or proactive. I felt keenly aware of my bankrupt lingo when Elizabeth told me to relax and have a beer at the bar while she finished checking me in. 

“It’s a good place to start,” she said nodding towards bar, “unless you're dying to get with that movie tour like everybody else.” She nodded to the poster behind her, “If ya are, it just left...” 

Elizabeth might as well have been wiping the counter down as if I was in some speakeasy, dishing out juicy info for the hung over white tourist. She was referring the movie In Bruges with Colin Farrel but as I lament in retrospect I was too exhausted to keep up and snidely replied, “A movie about this city?” She pointed at the large poster once more; it had Colin’s eyes cutting me deep. She pecked at her computer and muttered, “Yeah, you’re ... In Bruges.” I’m convinced that if she were a bank teller she would've slide the glass right down in front of me just then.

“Right... I’ve seen it...” I mumbled the last part to which demanded a “What?” on her behalf. Elizabeth’s “what?” sounded much more like “wet” so I just pointed at the bar, took her advice and sat down. I was too tired to do anything else; I also didn't feel like taking the metallic spiral staircase to my room, it looked like death felt like instant defeat. The bar was in the same room as the dining area, lounge and check-in. It had large wooden signs and a few beers taps protruding like stray thorns. The bar was the largest piece of furniture, it was wooden and stoat. You could tell it’s seen years of colorful patrons. I grabbed a stool next to a larger fellow, balding and layered in khaki colors. For the story we'll just call him Toffee...

(to be cont...)

You Already Know How I Feel: The Five Songs We Use Not To Talk. Pt. 4

The Best Taste.

Several months ago more than a few of my friends got onto a Big Star kick. It was hard to shake and it was an addiction. Unlike a drug addiction a music addiction has the oddest “tells”. You might be at dinner with one of them and not even notice. But if you pay attention you’ll see. They might pause or interrupt the conversation, no matter how serious it is and say something like “Hey! This is great song”, or “Did you ever hear that crazy rumor about Rod Stewart”. Before you know it you might find yourself in a conversation about how the Deftones self-titled was their best record or how Flannery O’Conner could have been the best folk artist of her time. Finding their drug of choice to is just a matter of asking the right questions, such as: What were you listening to in your car on the way here or What do you want played at your wedding/funeral. These questions will help you out and possibly them as well because I guarantee it that are really wanting to talk about it, but back to Big Star.

If you don’t know anything about Big Star then don’t feel left out. Big Star is a musical treasure that only a few people have actually discovered. They were an American rock/power pop group from Memphis Tennessee back in the 1970’s. The Big Star story is not only a heart warming tale but it also totally pulls on your heart strings and makes miss authentic musicians. They never became a huge success until after the band had been disbanded for decades. Now with only one of the founding members still alive their music has only kept alive by musicians covering their songs or referencing them as a musical influence. Our addiction, well it all started with the documentary that was made in 2012 called, “Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me.” The documentary was showing at a local indie theatre downtown and it was all we could talk about in the weeks leading up to the screening. The three largest campaign managers of the Big Star addiction was Rob, Chris and I. Now Chris had a good reason for being on the sonic crack, he was throwing the event but for Rob it was painfully obvious. He has been addicted ever since he discovered the G chord. How do I even begin to describe this man?

Imagine that you are at a dive bar in a small southern town that you’ve never been to. The wind is blowing, the rain is falling in sheets and the sun won’t be back for hours. You sit alone at the bar, destitute and questioning if the person you are waiting for is really worth the awkward stares. You might have asked the bar keep for another brew and then suddenly felt that it was to late to recall your order. Then it happens. Crash! The front door bursts open with the wind howling and the rain sneaking in like a herd of cats. A tall figure looms in the doorway. His shoulders are broad, chest built like a whiskey barrel and his beady eyes are hidden by a prickly red and orange beard. The figure saunters towards you in a holiday pace and places his large mitt on the table top right by your beer. He looks you straight in the face and smiles.

“Dude, you straight up look like John Rzeznik! It’s uncanny! You smoke? Okay good. So do I. Want this expensive cigar, well to bad. Now let me tell you something, Broadway... not the most solid rock/pop song of the 90’s but damn, it was so much better than Iris. Are you drinking a Guinness? That’s my favorite. Irish, couldn’t you tell. Can I ask you something, have you ever listened to Carmen? Let me tell you something man... that song the Champion, doesn’t matter if you are an atheist, that song will save you. So what do you think of that cigar?”  

You can’t even get a word in. His cadence is like a freight train but his demeanor is that of a liturgical father. You feel comforted but yet at risk of learning to much. You softly sip your soothing juice as the night ages on. You have met Rob.

Mecca

That’s Rob in a nut shell, well besides the fly fishing of course. Rob has been a close friend and father figure in my life since I was 16. I met him at a small church plant and I quickly fell under his wing of musical guidance. Mainly thanks to people like him I was never able to let go of the 90’s and I am eternally grateful for that. Rob had a pension for all rock music and what I mean by rock music is Rock. Music. So when he heard about the Big Star documentary, he was in my face fast. We would pump each other by posting our favorite Big Star songs on each others social media sites and taking photos of CDs we found of theirs in used record stores. We’d talk about the passion it took to write such solid tunes for hours upon hours. Then it started, the music challenges.

I awoke one morning and decided to open my laptop before crawling out of bed. I could see that Rob had posted something on my wall and it said, “MUSIC CHALLENGE!!!!” He posted a play list for me to listen to and he “dared” me to have my mind melt by the power of rock. It was Big Star and Teenage Fan Club back to back to back and it was glorious. It was a perfect short compellation of their best tunes. I listened to it several times over and ever since then we have been dishing out Music Challenges. The Music Challenges range from “rock music for the sake of rock music” to “this is a serious tune that appropriately describes my soul.” To this day I open my laptop in the morning just to see if there is a Music Challenge waiting for me.

At the end of 2013 we had a celebratory get together at our favorite watering hole for Robs upcoming wedding. The bar was packed with all of my favorite people, but then their were the “locals”. What you have to know about this bar is that there is a jukebox in far corner. Cloaked in smoke and neon lights it sits, waiting for a suitor to bring it life. This jukebox is often abused by the locals. They braid it with songs by Creed, Shinedown and newest and latest pop travesty. When ever a good song is played it is swiftly followed by butt-rock. There was no winning. Imagine trying to train a puppy. You get him to shake for a tasty doggy treat but then, as soon as you turn you back he has turded all over the carpet and you are stuck with the stench for weeks. But that evening we had the Best Taste, Rob defeated the jukebox. Rob had dropped around 40 dollars in it and the whole evening was nothing but pure musical bliss. We heard Bush, Smashing Pumpkins, Sugar Ray, Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen, Weezer, Garbage, Blind Melon, Everclear, Our Lady Peace and much, much more. Our entire table was in sync. Every once in a while a random person at the table would be like, “Hey, hey! This song! This song right here...” and then they’d dive into story. The locals looked like lost and confused parrots. They’d strut around the pool tables and cock their head to the side trying to decipher what was playing. For them it was a different world, for us, it was the Best Taste.

We were lost in a world of nostalgia with the closest of comrades. Often when people in my generation have flashbacks of nostalgia it’s a haunting tale. We talk about the hard times, but also times when our best friends were there for us, with our arms wrapped around their shoulders. But the Best Taste is a dose of nostalgia with only the best of times being discussed. On this evening not a word had to be said, we were remembering the best moments in life where music had placed a song in our heart and smile on our face. When we use “The Best Taste” our soul connects to the fondest moments of our life and is uplifted through the power of music. The “Best Taste” can only be had though when we are surround by true friends. They understand our faults but see us for our strengths.  The friends that get us, know us and could pass for us on an electronic dating profile. That evening was the Best Taste in it’s purest form. We drank fine bourbon, smoked the best cigars, told the loudest of stories and listened to music that mattered. At the end of the night Rob turned to me and yelled, “Brady! I beat the jukebox! This better go on your website. I just completed the ultimate Music Challenge.” I raised my glass to him, saluted and said, “Yes Rob, you just played the Ultimate Music Challenge.” So maybe it’s time for you to gather your close friends, find a jukebox and partake in the Ultimate Music Challenge, defeat the beast and have the Best Taste. If I learned anything from the “Best Taste”, my friends and also Big Star it is this: The light that you have is the only light that you have. And you better put that shit on the line.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you... BIG STAR!

An enzymatic chimera

The other night I had vivid dream. 

As soon as I woke up I knew I had to write it down. 

Three hours later this was the result.

There I was, on the shoreline. My toes dug into the sand like a kitten’s paw and my hands felt as if they had just held their first cup of morning coffee. The sun was shining like a molten marble. Its surface was a tempered glass and it's dusty tangerine rays slipped into the water like molasses. The sky around the sun acted like angels stuck in a mural. The clouds swirled like a fog on a bed of roses creating a painting of damp apricot yellows, coral pinks and a tawny red. Like feathers, the clouds got close, but not to close to the marble sun. The scenery moved like an oil painting instead of setting naturally like a floor prop at the opera house. It just hung there, dangling in the sky.

The carrot, the stick and the horse.

I stood there perplexed in it's queer beauty, "this had to be a dream" for like Frost, I don't believe that anything gold can stay.

I may have stared at this sun for only minute, but it felt like hours. Then, over the crashes waves there was a plea. My name, it was being called. I turned around to see a massive ship that may have just been a large tugboat and people were boarding. Walking up a wooded gangplank all the people were dressed in elegant suits and diamond incrusted gowns; it was a royal wardrobe. I stood there on the shore watching them from a distance as they all walked up the ramp like giant birds. The sun made their faces perfect; their complexion -- it was perfect. Then it happened. A tan gown, hemmed with golden fur, spotted like a leopard with diamonds the size of paperweights shaped into teardrops shimmered like a ribbon in a vineyard. Her arms and legs were a noble cream pale and her face burned like a rose stovetop. She wore white gloves to her elbows and small golden crown as thin beret.

I watched her from the shore like a snake. She walked up the gangplank onto the vessel like peacock, shimmering from side to side. 

My eyes traced her body, predicting her steps and imagining that she walks like everywhere. She walked like she had walked on water. But then she stopped, as if frozen in time or someone had pressed pause on videotape. She stood there perfectly balanced and composed in mid air. She turned her head just enough for me to see her face and at that moment I recognized her immediately. She smiled at me like she had done before, before the beach, before this dream. She brought her hand close to her face; she waved at me. Just as still as her pause, she waved. Time stood as still as a man's heart could and my body was an earthquake. As she looked at me her hand fell from her face and drifted to her side. She clutched the arm of the man walking her and then kept on going.

My lungs boiled, my stomach croaked and my heart calloused. I could feel my hands constricting like a statue and my feet pulsing. I was moving. Closer and closer to the ship like a creeping best I walked. Each step felt thicker, but with each step I grew stronger. The sand wrapped it's self around my ankles and parasitically bore it's way into my flesh. In and out, in and out the sand tunneled its way under my skin like a worm. It was not trying to stop me, for I could not be stopped. It wanted to come with me. My paces quicken leaving craters of footprints. Disgusting, it was disgusting. My forearms were bursting open with sand like puss. Which each new cavity the sand would spiral inside my wounds, like the worm it was feeding off of me. I no felt no longer human, I felt disgusting. My legs had become the size of cannons, forearms contorted and ribbed like sea rusted rebar and my eyes were bullets that had buried them selves deep within the concrete of my face. I stood in front of the ship, ready to explode. 

I heaved my carcass up on to the gangplank, snapping little bits of wood and shell littered the ship. The ramp creaked like a thousand year groan and the steel of the ship found its voice, it's dead hallows echoed in my ears from the weight of my body. I was an intruder and I was ready to act as such. But there was no one. In anger I placed my mitts upon my head, grabbed my hair and ripped it from my scalp. Sand, like to the texture of dried vomit oozed from scalp and drooled over my face. As the sand perpetrated my vision I could feel the anger subsiding. The monster in me was being tamed. I could no longer see and could only assume that soon it would creep into my open mouth and sing me to an eternal sleep.

Every thing in a bright flash went hazel orange. I couldn't remember what the boat looked like or even what she looked like. I could only remember the sun. And like the dimming flash from a camera my eyesight returned to me and I had not moved an inch. I was still standing on the ship, the sun was still hanging like a stocking and as I looked around there they were. Every person was looking straight at me. They were staring with a powder gaze and jinxed twitch in their fingers. I looked my hands and they were normal. My legs, they felt normal. I felt my face and it felt normal. I saw my self, and I was normal. The only think out of order was that I was dressed. I had a suit on and sailor’s hat. But it wasn't just any normal sailors hat, it was the captain’s hat. The fast forward button somewhere had been pressed. I was carried off to a gallery room by a blur of cocktail attire. People circled around me as if to congratulate me, made lines past me as to thank me and even all together avoided me as if to leave me.

In this blur I saw faces, terribly bland and unoriginal faces. The suits were all black and white while the dresses brushed the deck with the same hollow scrape as an empty can. 

I was alone now, alone in a room to which I could not see anything; except for that sun poking it's head through a small circular window. It still hung there. I had to escape, so I walked out towards the bow. I was alone again, alone to what fate had next for me. 

As I looked down from the railing the waves crashed against the hull, smacking it like toddler handling a balloon. The seagulls yapped and cawed above; it was just like it should be. I turned around to find my self-staring at the gangplank. It was about twenty yards from me and the sun had positioned it's self behind the women who was now walking towards the gangplank. It was she.

I ran to her but my feet went nowhere. The sun was blinding and the air was thick. I was still twenty yards away and she was getting closer, getting closer to leaving. I ran again. Nothing. I ran again. Nothing. Was the sun pushing me back or was the air holding me down. I ran one more time. My foot moved forward like an oar, and then the next foot. I was getting closer but then my feet developed a poor quality. I collapsed on the ground, my hands splintered by bracing my fall. Blood had collected around my palms in a sticky puddle.  I looked up to see that she had just made it to the gangplank. My throat took my body and set it on fire. I screamed her name. She stopped. She turned and smiled again, like she had done before, but this time she whispered something. But I could not hear it, I could not taste it and I could not feel it. I could only feel what was happening and several pieces of wood were burying their tack heads into my palms, the sun was glowering and the girl was leaving. I screamed her name once more. She waved at me once more and then she kept going. She had heard me, I know. Into the rays of the sun and golden heart of sand she was gone.

I regained my strength and brushed my self off. I looked down and my hands and they were clean. The rage came back and my body began to quiver. I marched back inside of the ship to find the crowd still; they were lingering with drinks and d'œuvres on tiny plates. Mouths full of crushed eggs and ranch soaked carrots. I pushed my way through the crowd like a plow in the field and made my down below deck to the engine room. It was full of grey steam that stung my cheeks and bristled my beard. I was alone again. There was one small port window, and there it was the sun glistening. 

The sand entered my body once more as I began to punch a very large control panel. Flames and metal glazed my fists as each impact went deeper and deeper into the metal box. The gears popped and fizzled like eggs on a skillet. My face filled with blood. I screamed again and again and again with each strike. I feel the life the ship crumbling beneath my weight once more. The room began to fill with hot flames. The great pistons of the ship snapped and started to thimble holes through the floor.  I gazed upon the engines, as I knew I was about to take its last breath when a hand placed it's self upon my shoulder. As I turned to look to see who had touched me the hand spun me around and it was a close friend of mine. He peered into my eyes and said, "It's time to go Captain."

I awoke with this song stuck in my head.  

A Far Cry // We Were Promised Jetpacks.