I Remember LeSean

I remember LeSean on those hot, lazy Dallas Sundays, when the wind disappears altogether, when, in those days, he would lay on the couch watching reruns of “Martin and sipping on his favorite beverage, strawberry lemonade.
    I remember him whenever I drive by a pickup basketball game at City Hall Park. No one on the high school basketball team had the sort of talent possessed by LeSean, a sort of God-given grace of movement that manifested itself in his play, his speed and quickness, and the stark ferocity of his dunks.
    I remember LeSean too on those cool Friday evenings each fall, when, if the wind is just right, the rhythmic chanting of brass and drums issues into my backyard from the high school football field, where LeSean once stymied defenders and mesmerized us all as an All-State running back (and All-Area corner) each weekend.
    I remember LeSean’s preference for menthol cigarettes and his oft-uttered catch phrase, “That’s what’s up.” I remember that time that he was pulled over in Highland Park for no apparent reason; his loud celebration of the O.J. Simpson verdict; his distrust for all things Republican.
   I remember vividly the image of him, dancing garishly under the smoky lights at Club Blue, his pale, white skin and shock of golden-blond hair shining ever-so-noticeably among a sea of revelers.

Women of Discriminating Taste

The sparks began flying through the chip aisle immediately,  as the stranger bent over to grab a bag of Ruffles and our eyes met. “Love those ridges, huh?” I said. She just smiled a little and said, “Yep.”
    There was a silence, and I knew, as I watched her try to decide between sour cream & onion and barbecue, I hadn’t much time. “Fucking bastards,” I exclaimed, flailing my arms as I do.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Oh nothing,” I said. “They don’t have any goldfish crackers.”
    “They’re right there,” she said, pointing over my shoulder.
    “Oh,” I said. “Nice eyes.”
    “Uh, thanks,” she said.
    “Are you a fan?”
    “Of what?”
    “Goldfish.”
    “The animal or the cracker?”
    “Either one.”
    The beautiful stranger stared at me, perplexed, and began to walk away.
    “Wait,” I blurted. “I have to show you something.”
    “Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I bet... What is it your snake? Or your cucumber? How about the old dick-in-the-pizza-box trick?”
    “No,” I said, pausing for effect. “It’s my sasquatch paw.”
    Her eyes grew wide as I produced the withered paw from my pocket.
    “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “It’s grotesque and strangely erotic.”
    As she ran her fingers over each finger, she bit her lip. “What do you say we get out of here,” she said. “Maybe go to my place and have some wine.”
    “And goldfish?”
    “And goldfish.”
    We hurried to the express line and, after a moment, a man in a zookeeper’s outfit filed in behind us. “Whatcha got there son,” the man said.
    “It’s my sasquatch paw,” I said. “I bought it from some guy in a Wendy’s parking lot.”
    “Hmmm--nice paw,” he said, caressing the lines of the palm with easy, knowing strokes. “But that’s no sasquatch paw--that’s your run-of-the-mill gorilla paw.” He cut a glance at me and, then, the beautiful stranger. “Yessiree, pure, one-hundred percent gorilla-paw.”
    The beautiful stranger’s eyes drew narrow. “You fucking asshole,” she said. “You’re just like all the rest.”
    She stomped out crying, leaving her Ruffles on the counter. The zookeeper handed me my sasquatch paw, and I stuffed it back in my pocket. “It’s still a pretty nice paw, son,” he said. I thanked him and walked out in time to see the Beautiful Stranger’s taillights disappearing into the foggy ether. Well, I thought to myself on the long walk home, when a girl wants sasquatch paw, gorilla paw just won’t do.

The Mysteries of Life

“One of life’s greatest pleasures is its inherent mysteries.” I read that on a fortune cookie the other day and immediately found truth in it: It’s like, whoa, where’d that come from? How’d they get that little piece of paper in a cookie like that?

I find that life’s mysteries go beyond fortune cookies. When I get tired of wearing my shirt, I usually just throw it on the ground, wherever. Then, without fail, it shows up the next day in the dirty clothes hamper. Is it Carol that’s picking up after me, or something more mysterious? I might ask her, but I think sometimes it’s more fun not to know.

Another great mystery I’ve been mulling is that of the Great Pyramids--where are they? What’s so special about them? Are they really over 100-years-old, as they say?

I don’t know and, frankly, that feels kind of nice.

Here’s a doozy: What’s all the hubbub in the Middle East about? Who’s this Bin Laden character, and what did he do to piss everyone off so much? According to CNN’s website, he’s some sort of terrorist, which brings me to another mystery: what’s a “terrorist?” I imagine it has something to do with terror, but, in this life, one can never be certain.

Last night, I spent several hours in a bar downtown, pounding shots of whiskey with my friend Bart. Then, this morning, the whole evening turned out to be one big mystery: why am I covered in blood? Who vomited in my bed? Why is Carol being such a bitch today? Remember at the beginning of this paragraph when I said I was drinking with my friend Bart. Well, that was a lie. But why would I lie about that? Oh, sounds like another mystery to me.

I’m not the only one who’s caught the mystery bug. I was down in the basement playing with my remote control cars when I overheard Carol speaking to her sister. “I swear,” her sister said, “I don’t know what you see in him. Why doesn’t he get his shit together and get a job?”

“It’s a mystery to me,” said Carol, sighing exhaustedly--I imagine because mysteries can be exhausting. That’s another thing.

My point is that mysteries surround us all, from the smallest--”Why can’t I find a studio to produce my screenplay ‘Sexbots In Space’--to the largest-- 'If God is really out there, why won’t he answer my constant prayers for ‘more bitches and money?’”

Maybe unanswered prayers are a good thing, but I can’t see why the Big Man has it in for me. It’s like, what’d I ever do to him, you know? I was thinking about that in my hammock the other day, and a mighty wind shook the trees in the back yard. It made me think: what is wind? Why is it here?

Maybe that particular gust was a sign that the Man Upstairs was ready to make good on the bitches and money thing, but one can never know--He’s quite mysterious, after all. By that time, I was pretty drunk off that wine I stole, so I went inside, sat in my beanbag chair and watched Carol vacuum up the crumbs I left on the floor from lunch--all the while, waiting for those bitches and money, and pondering the mysteries of life.

Fishing Trip

    “You know son,” I remember Dad telling me, “Fishing is a lot like life. You can cast a hundred times, and there’s no promise you’ll ever land anything. But that one time you do, boy is it sweet. That’s just like life, you see. You can’t just sit around cursing your luck--you have to be keep trying. You have to keep casting.”
    It was our first fishing trip, and, true to Dad’s words, we must have cast a hundred times by the time we caught anything. I remember my arm was sore, my head spinning from the beer, when I felt the slightest tug on the end of my line. “Dad, Dad, I caught something!” I yelled.
    Dad coached me on how to reel it in, and I listened to every word, sweating beneath the falling sun. “Wow,” Dad yelled, “It’s a big one!”
    I could hear the pride in his voice as this monster-fish became just so visible under the murky surface. “I’ll bet it’s a bass,” Dad said. “Or maybe a catfish, those things really fight.”
    Using all my might, I finally reeled it in. Only, what I thought was a fish later turned out to be nothing more than the corpse of that investment banker who had gone missing the week before. I still felt pretty proud as I looked my catch over, his bloated face, his dripping business suit, the boulder secured to his torso with a rope.
    Dad rubbed his eyes in frustration and looked skyward. “Oh,” he yelled sarcastically, pumping his fist in the air, “Thanks a lot, God!”

Jimmy

Everyone told Jimmy he’d never make it to the Major Leagues. “You’re too small,” they’d say. “You’re too slow.” “You’re blind in one eye.”
    But every day, Jimmy came home from school and practiced. He practiced until the sun had gone down, and begged his Mother, each night as she called him in for dinner, “Just a few more swings, Mom!” He practiced through the heat, the rain, the sleet and the pain, always telling himself silently, “I can do this.”
    In high school, the other guys laughed at Jimmy when he showed up after school for tryouts. “You’re too small,” one said. “You’re too slow,” said another. “You’re missing several fingers on your throwing hand.” But Jimmy didn’t need anyone else telling him who, or what, he was. “I can do it,” he told himself silently. “I can do it.”
    The following Tuesday, the players found a roster taped outside of Coach McCray’s office. There were no cuts at Baybridge Prep in those days, so it was really no surprise when Jimmy found his name. Still, he couldn’t help but feeling a little proud.
    The season started two weeks later, with a win over those filthy bastards at Friends of Christ Christian School. Bobby Ryan, a unanimous preseason selection for All-State, pitched seven innings of one-hit baseball striking out twelve. At the plate, he hit two home runs.
    Jimmy sat on the bench all through, cheering his teammates on, banging what was left of his right hand against his left, all the while preparing for his moment. Which is more or less how the season went--Bobby dominating the game to a chorus of a nub clashing with a palm--well that and the shrill encouragement of every girl in school.
    The team lost in the first round of the playoffs and, clearing out his locker the following Monday, Jimmy couldn’t help but feel that he’d accomplished something. He was only that much closer to his goal, after all. “I can do it,” he told himself. “I can do it.”
    On a hot Wednesday evening, the team held their banquet, where awards would be distributed among the players for their contributions to the team and the school. Bobby Ryan, who showed up with Wendy Mendez’s fine ass, won MVP, Best Pitcher and Best Hitter. All the while, Jimmy cheered him on.
    The ceremony was drawing to a close when Coach McCray took the podium. “This next award,” he said, “Is a special award, one that we’ve never done before. It’s called the Fighting Spirit Award, and goes to a player whose can-do attitude, whose courage in the face of adversity, serves as an inspiration to us all. Ladies and gentlemen, the recipient of the first annual Fighting Spirit Award--Bobby Ryan!"

My Trip To Ireland

We landed in Ireland around seven in the morning, local time. I took a long sip from my scotch, and elbowed Carol. “Carol, wake up,” I said. “We’re here.”
    Carol put her seat in the upright position and took a long sniff in my direction. “Have you been drinking?” she said.
    “No, I haven’t been drinking,” I shot back sarcastically, waving my arms so she knew I had been drinking. I explained to her that we’re going to Ireland, you clod--not Utah--and I want to fit in, you dingbat. Carol just looked at me with her “I’m mad about something” eyes, so I picked up my little plastic cup again.
    When we landed, I was shocked to find that everyone seemed sober. “Hey, what’s the big idea,” I slurred, grabbing a passerby by the collar. He escaped from my grasp using some form of martial arts though, and ran away. I wanted to chase him, but I was pretty drunk. “Ah, Ireland,” I said, elbowing Carol as if to say, “how about that?”
    Ireland was a lot less green than they say, too. It was mostly a metropolitan place, filled with skyscrapers and large, glistening billboards. But the greenness and drinking weren’t the only misconceptions I had about Ireland.
    I’d find out through my stay that most of what we Americans are taught about Ireland is untrue.
    For example, Irish people are portrayed in the media as a race of generally pale-skinned, redheaded people. In reality, I learned, Irish people look quite different than that gingery bunch we see on our televisions and cereal boxes. Like my friend Kai Zhu, a diminutive girl with long black hair and brown eyes. She looked a little like the woman from Charlie’s Angels. Cameron Diaz, I think her name is.
    Another thing was the language. Most Irish people, I read in my greatly erroneous guidebook, speak English. But when I got there, I could hardly understand a word, leaving me to yell whatever I had to say louder and louder until I got my point across. Whenever I met someone who did speak English, they seemed to confuse their “Rs” and “Ls.” “Oh, the old Irish Brogue,” I announced to Carol delightedly, elbowing her ribs like I do.
    Most Americans don’t even know what the Irish flag looks like. Oh, we think it’s a tricolored banner of orange, white and green, but that’s way off. It’s actually red, with yellow stars and some other things. Oh well, I thought, at least I know now.
    Not all things we think we know about Ireland are wrong, though.
    The Irish people’s love of noodles is quite authentic, as is their reverence for Chairman Mao. True to general thought, as well, the Irish people are quite fond of dragons. They’re simply everywhere. I even made a game, where every time you see a dragon, you punch the person next to you in the arm and say “dragon punch!” Carol got mad after a while, so I stopped. But I still think that’s a pretty good game to play if you find yourself in Ireland.
    Ireland wasn’t at all what I expected, but I learned so much about the culture that I can’t rightly complain. I had no idea, for instance, that the Irish loved fireworks so much. Nor was I aware that, in Ireland, New Year’s Day doesn’t fall on January 1, but on a given date anywhere from the 21st of January to the 20th of February. We happened to be in Beijing, which I think is in County Cork, for this year’s celebration. “Well, that’s Ireland for you!” I told Carol, as we stepped into the swollen, reveling crowd. “Dragon punch!”

Grandma's Quilt

I was strolling through that park where the high school girls hang out when my phone rang. “Grandma died,” said the voice on the other end. “Hey, who is this?” I said. Later, I’d find out it was my mother.

I was pretty sad when I found out Mom was being serious, and not just playing a joke on me, but not so much when the lawyer guy told me I got Grandma’s quilt in the will. She must have known how much I liked that quilt from the way I slept on it as a child, the way I’d nuzzle its cloth as a teenager, and that time I asked her, “Grandma, can I have your quilt when you die?”

It was her last gift to me, and I couldn’t help but feel warm as we packed up her things, stopping every once in a while to reminisce, or look at an old picture. It was during one of these breaks that Mom stood up, a weathered photograph in hand. “Uh, look at this honey,” she said.

“Is that--” Dad paused.

When I looked over my Dad’s shoulder, I saw a sepia tone version of Grandma smiling back at me, her arm draped around some guy that wasn’t grandpa. “Well look at that,” I said. “Grandma was quite the dish in her younger days, wasn’t she?”

“I think you’re missing the point,” said Dad. Mom was crying for some reason now, and Dad sat me down in Grandpa’s old recliner. “Look,” he said, pointing to the mustachioed  fellow with his arm around Grandma.

“Was that, like, Grandma’s boyfriend or something?”

“I don’t know,” said Dad, “But I sure hope not.”

He looked at me blankly, pointing still at the guy in the photo. “So--”

“So what?”

“Scott, that’s Adolf Hitler,” he said in an intense whisper.

“Oooooooh,” I said. “Who’s that.”

Dad just shook his head and told me to look him up. Turns out, he was a pretty bad guy, this Hitler. A real jerk. A bona fide turkey. And kind of a war criminal, too. It wouldn’t have bothered me as much if, upon further inspection, I hadn’t noticed that there, wrapped around my Grandma’s and Hitler’s shoulders, was Grandma’s quilt.

The next day, I was rooting through a box of Grandma’s things looking for money when I stumbled across a note. “Dear Enid,” it started. “As a token of my gratitude for your constant companionship over these last months, I’d like you to have my quilt. But this is no ordinary quilt, mein fraulein. “
Hitler explained that he had received the quilt from his Russian friend Josef something, and he had stolen it from a peasant farmer, who then froze to death. But the story doesn’t end there. As it happened, this peasant farmer traded his 12-year-old daughter’s hand in marriage for the quilt, along with some vodka and potatoes, to a 72-year-old British explorer named William Turlington. Turlington had gotten the quilt from his grandfather, the honorable Liam Turlington who, serving with the royal military at the Siege of Fort Pitt, was charged with inoculating the Ohio Valley Indians with small pox by means of several hundred infected quilts. Impressed by the beauty and comfort of the quilts, though, he thought it prudent to keep one for himself.

Now it was mine, and it would always be with me. Until the next day, when my apartment burned down, killing 34 people and several puppies not unlike the ones you see in calendars.

Interview With Platinum Recording Artist Scott Crisp

The voice of a generation; that guy with the calves; hey you, in the bushes.

These are just a few of the terms used of recent to describe controversial crooner Scott Crisp, whose latest album, “That’s What Your Mom Said Last Night” has now gone quadruple-quadrople platinum, a level of success previously matched only by 2Pac Shakur. Many music insiders wondered aloud whether Crisp would be able to match the gritty imagery of his last album, “You Have A Stupid Haircut,” on his latest offering, his first on a major label. With “Tomatoes Are Gross (Don’t Put Them on My Burger),” the first single off of “’Your Mom” they had their answer--and it couldn’t have been more resonant.

Crisp followed that up with the release of the single, “I Shit in Your Chili” a raw depiction of life in a decaying American suburb. These two singles have spent the last six months trading places at the top of the billboard charts, leaving every other recording artist to wonder, “Whoa, how’d this Crisp fellow get so awesome?”

Pretentious Record Store Employee Magazine recently had an opportunity to sit down with Crisp at his Burbank studio, and talk about his career, his budding relationship with Jennifer Aniston—which Ms. Aniston denies vehemently—and the true meaning of some of his more disputed works.

PRSEM: Thank you for sitting down with me today, Mr. Crisp. Or can I call you Scott?

SC: Mr. Crisp’ll be just fine.

PRSEM: Hey, fair enough. Let’s start with an easy one. Some music critics have argued that your song, “I Shit in Your Chili” is about nothing more than a man defecating in another man’s chili. Of course, these critics are only a small minority, but for clarity’s sake, would you talk a little about how that song came to be?

SC: That song is about my childhood. There was a lot going on with pro wrestling in its heyday, and they hadn’t canceled Wonder Years yet, so I was just busy all the time, you know, with the television.

PRSEM: Of course, it’s an indictment of the over-regimentation of children’s lives, as well as the deleterious effects of watching too much television—both practices that are prevalent in suburban America.

SC: No, no. My brother took the remote once and wouldn’t let me watch Wonder Years, so I shit in his chili-- the song just came naturally after that.

PRSEM: Oh…Okay. Well, let’s change gears. Your song “Ode to Robocop” concludes with a long scatting solo. Was this your homage to the Jazz pioneers of the early 20^th century?

SC: Oh, what happened was that when I got done talking about Robocop, they told me I needed some more words. When I couldn’t think of any words, I just started making noises with my mouth. So, that’s what that was. Hey, what’s scatting?

PRSEM: Never mind. Is it true that you’re dating Jennifer Aniston?

SC: [Inaudible noise]

PRSEM: What?

SC: Haha! You’re a loser! I said losers say what, and you said "what!" Haha!

PRSEM: Wha—Oh, yes, very impressive, Mr. Crisp.

SC: Why do you keep calling me “Mr. Crisp”? That’s weird, man.

PRSEM: But you told me… Never mind.

SC [pointing out the window]: Holy shit, look at the size of that dog!

[At this point in the interview, Crisp sprints wildly outside and begins playing with a Great Dane.]

PRSEM [15 minutes later]: Welcome back. Now, you have been criticized widely for the song “If Your Girlfriend Leaves You (Cut Yourself).” Many parents have gone so far as to blame you for their kids’ cutting themselves, in many cases, after their girlfriends have left them, as they’re listening to your song.

SC [out of breath]: Man, that dog was something. Did you see him?

PRSEM: Yes, very good. Let me just read you some lyrics from the song in question: “She’s gone and she is never coming back / Your heart is in your balls and she kicked you in the sac / You miss her smile, her laugh and her hair / It’s time to pick up that knife kid, and show her you care.” How do you respond to this?

SC: Wait but, no, that’s a metaphor.

PRSEM: A metaphor for what?

SC [pointing]: Hey, look over there!

[I turn to see what Crisp was pointing at. When I turn back around, the studio door is swinging shut.]

How To Play Championship Air Hockey

By Dick "Tiger Eyes" Barlow, City Champion '91-'92

Back in ’83, when I was just getting started, I asked one of the older players, a wheelchair-bound old curmudgeon named Lefty, “Lefty, how’d you get so good at air hockey?”
   
Old Lefty shifted in his chair and looked at me. “I’ll tell you what Ragsdale told me,” he said. “Italians are not to be trusted.”
  
Later, I found out that Ragsdale was Lefty’s bloodhound. Legendary as he was around the circuit, I sometimes can’t help but wonder if Lefty was a little crazy.
   
The point is that anyone can play championship air hockey. (Except, according to Lefty, Norwegians.) If you have the right mental attitude, discipline, and a physique that will allow you to enter most door frames (and are not Norwegian), you too can achieve air hockey greatness.
   
When you’re just starting out, you’ll want to build up some confidence by playing small children and the elderly. Unfortunately, very few nursing homes have air hockey tables in them, so it’s best to hang out in Chuck E. Cheese a lot. I remember when I was in that stage at my career, Chuck E. himself and I were on a first name basis. Of course, when you so thoroughly dominate your competition in any given sport, someone’s going to try to blackball you at some point--the media, the owners, a large rodent. So one day in '96, I was sternly asked to leave. They said it was because I was cheating at skee-ball, which I was. But we all know the real reason: I got too good. Too dominant. But if you want to be a great air hockey player, you have to be persistent in the face of adversity.

After the mouse and his teenage henchman told me to leave, I noticed a costume shop across the street. Persistent as I am, I told the guy at the counter that the candy bar in my pocket was a gun, and asked for his uniform.
   
The guys at the arcade didn’t buy my costume store employee costume, so I gave up and went home. I still think that’s a pretty good example of persistence, though. Oh, that and Wile E. Coyote, but I’m not sure if he plays air hockey.
   
Then there are those kids who come in and think they’re so good, just because they take a 6-0 lead. Things are looking grim, sure, but that brings us to another key to success: mental fortitude. You can’t just flail your arms and curse, and give that know-it-all ten-year-old the finger. You have to stay focused on the game, and grab the puck off the table. That way, he can’t hit it and embarrass you in front of everyone. Once you have the puck, run to the other side and overpower your opponent. When he’s on the ground or running away to tell on you, slide the puck in the goal six times. Bam, tie ballgame. Now, if you want, you can flail and curse and gesture at your opponent, or his angry parent.
   
Of course, they’re probably already on their way, asking what’s wrong with you and doing their own little flailing-cursing-gesturing thing. Run away at this point, unless the parents look smaller or weaker or more handicapped than you.
   
Hey, here’s a handy trick: I like to keep a pocket full of salt when I play, which is good for throwing at opponents. If you find yourself in a pinch, you could use Parmesan cheese, pepper, or hot butter.
   
To this point, you might be asking yourself, is playing championship air hockey just throwing condiments and accosting children? That other stuff is crucial, sure, but the answer is no.
   
More important than how many games you win, or how many children you attack is how you conduct yourself off the floor near the rink thing--do you act like a champion?
   
We’re not talking about helping old ladies across the street here (though you could, if you were in need of an opponent and on the other side of the street was an arcade). Dress so people know you’re a great air hockey player. I suggest tee-shirts with funny slogans on them. My favorite shirt says, “It’s not a bald spot, it’s a solar panel for a sex machine.” Ha! Pretty good, right? Coupled with my wristbands and paddle--a custom MacKay Gold Series, which stays constantly tethered to my wrist--there’s no doubt that I’m the cock of the walk, at least as far as hitting a plastic puck across the little air rink thing is concerned. Plus, in this example, girls might think I’m good at sex.
  
Once you’re pretty good, you’ll want to invest in a tattoo that reads something like “Air Hockey Master” or, “Go puck yourself.” Mine says, “Suck it, slow hands,” because it extends beyond air hockey, to antagonize sluggish barbers and Asian bathhouse employees. These tattoos let everyone know that you’re really serious about air hockey. “Whoa,” you’ll hear people say, “That guy’s like, really into air hockey.”
   
When in public, it's always a good idea to steer the conversation toward air hockey. At a PTA meeting the other day, some guy was talking about how his dog or his son or something was run over by a car. “Speaking of sad things,” I interrupted, “this guy I was playing today--oh, I’m a revered air hockey player--his game was just sad.” Then, after a thoughtful pause, “Skunked his bitch ass.”
   
I could tell the guy wanted to hear more, the way his mouth hung agape, his eyes sullen and worried that I might not continue. But a championship air hockey player always leaves them wanting more.