“Uncle Mike?” My six-year-old nephew looked up at me from his racing car drawing. He lay belly-down on our thick white living room carpet.

“Yeah, Troy?” I set the book I was reading on my lap.

“Where do people go when they die?” he asked, his mouth shrinking and his eyebrows furrowing into an arch.

“Disneyland.”

“Really?” His eyes grew round.

“Yup.” I took a long drink of the root beer I had set on the nearby coffee table.

“What do they do there?” Troy got up from his sprawled-out position and sat cross-legged. His attention was fixed.

“Well, what do you do at Disneyland?”

He paused to consider. “I ride all the rides. Mr. Toad is my favorite.”

Troy was beaming. I could tell from his smile that he was thinking about Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at that very moment. I took another long sip of root beer, picked up the book from my lap, and returned to my reading. A few long minutes crawled by.

“Uncle Mike?”

I lowered my book but did not set it down. “Yes?”

“Is that what they do?”

“Huh?”

“Is that what the people do too, after they die?” Troy asked. “Ride the rides?” He twirled the pointy portion of his pencil somewhere within the mass of brown ringlets covering his head.

“Nope.”

“Why not?” He stopped twirling.

“They can’t.” I raised my book back up.

“Why?” Troy set down his pencil, put both hands on the carpet, and leaned his whole upper body in towards me. His eyes were wide with anticipation and his mouth agape. He was tilting so far forward that it looked as though he might fall over.

Each tick of the nearby grandfather clock became pronounced in the absence of competing sound.

I flipped to the next page of my novel.

“Because they’re dead.”

The zombies were almost into the living room and it was only a matter of time before they would break through our shoddy barricade at the kitchen doorway.

“Matt, I just want you to know…” The fingers on my left hand trembled as I loaded the explosive rounds into my shotgun. “…That I value our friendship, and you were a great roommate.” I snapped it shut. The moaning grew louder behind our paper-thin walls.

“They’re in the living room now,” Matt said as he wiped away sweat from his brow. “And thanks, man. I feel the same.” He picked up our two largest kitchen knives and began sharpening them against one another.

“There are more of them now.”

“I can hear them pouring in through the garage. We’re dead.”

“So are they.”

Matt stopped sharpening his knives and looked over at me. We stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. And then long, hard, exhausting, nervous laughter.

“I’m gonna miss you man,” I said, catching my breath.

“You too, bro. You too.”
(more…)

“Mike, can you come in here for a second?”

I walked into Mary’s office. The fluorescent light was crackling just enough for it to be annoying. I sat down.

“Mike, I think you’re doing a great job here. I just want you to know that first.”

“First?” My washcloths were balled up beneath my ass. I tried my best to inconspicuously re-adjust while pretending to tighten my apron.

She leaned forward. “Yeah, well, the thing is…”

“Excuse me, Mary?” Fernando appeared at the entrance to her office. The room was small and the door was now pushing against my shoulder.

“Yes, Fernando?”

“There’s a problem with the grill. It no working right. Umberto is going like, he going crazy.”

Mary’s eyelids were now at half-mast. She pursed her lips.

“Fernando.”

“Yes, Mary?”

“Handle it.”

Fernando’s eyes grew quite round, like our world-famous bacon-loaded! potato skins.

“Yes, yes, yes Mary. Yes.” He backpedaled out and shut the door behind him.

She waited for the door to *click*. She turned to me.

“You need to smile more.”

I let it soak in.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Mike, you’re a great employee. We love the work you do here. You’re up-selling our sizzling shrimp fajitas! like nobody’s business and your pre-bussing is second to none. But some customers have complained that you’re simply not smiling enough.”
(more…)

I fidget a bit with my tie. Even after two weeks it feels awkward.

“Excuse me, are you in line?” someone asks.

“What? Oh, yes, sorry. I’m in line.” I say, stepping to my left and aligning myself with the gentleman in front of me. I look over the notes I’d been given by my new coworkers. Beth’s order makes me squint. ‘Decaf tall four pump Valencia percent no whip latte’?

I look up and am suddenly face to face with a rather portly, smiling Starbucks cashier, her hair a wild, unkempt hedge of blue spikes.

“Hello sir, what can I get for you today?”

“Hi… yes, I’ll have a regular coffee, please.”

“Grande drip? Would you like our bold selection, or our milder breakfast blend?”

“I would just like a coffee, thanks. With a little room for cream.”

“Ok sir, one grande with-room drip. I’m sure you’ll enjoy our Sumatra.”

“Who?”

She smiles like I’m five.

“It’s a type of coffee.”

“Oh. Well, um… I would also like… let’s see…” I laugh nervously. “I apologize, my coworker’s handwriting is horrible.” An awkward smile spreads across my face.

The room feels warm. Somewhere behind me a woman coughs. The woman making drinks asks the next customer if he can get a drink started.

“Will that be all, sir?” asks Spiky Hair.

“No, like I said… I’ve got this list, so. One large –” Her blank expression hasn’t changed so I make a sweeping motion with my arms. “- mocha with vanilla, please, and a - ”

“Whip?”

“What?”

“Would you like whipped cream on that, sir?”

“I suppose not.”

She scribbles on a cup - “One venti vanilla no-whip mocha,” - and places it to the side. “Anything else?”

“Yes, can I have… ” I carefully recite Beth’s order.

She repeats it back in a cheery rapid-fire. “One decaf tall four pump Valencia percent no-whip latte! Would you like to try one of our raspberry scones?”

“No, thank you.”

“Perhaps a chocolate cream cheese muffin?”

“That’s fine.”
(more…)

Ah, the gym.

A place where I can escape to feel even uglier, fatter and more unappealing than I might feel at any particular moment on any given day anywhere in perpetually shallow Los Angeles.

It’s a marvelous getaway stuffed to the breaking point with people far more beautiful than I, whose immaculate physiques only serve to put my comparatively flabby build in far greater relief.

So why go? What drives me to subject myself to such subtle, sustained humiliation, day after day sporadic day?

A desire to get in shape?

No.

The allure of a healthy, active lifestyle?

Not particularly.

The distant promise of a longer, happier existence filled with greater energy, stamina and vitality?

Meh.

I’ll tell you what it is.

It’s the awesome early-nineties rock, the omnipresent smell of perspiration and CNN on every. single. television.

Nothing motivates me to “get my sweat on” like Anderson Cooper’s perfectly peppered silver coif bobbing along to Deep Blue Something while I’m basking in the scent of an unfortunately hairy dude manhandling the neighboring elliptical machine.

Back in college while I was working at the Campus Computer Shop, a chronically cute girl wearing a navy blue down-filled vest wandered in and asked me some questions about iPods. Her vest intrigued me, as I had not really seen anyone wear one outside of a Back to the Future movie. It was also nearly springtime, which made her clothing choice even more interesting. Yet strangely alluring. She browsed for a bit while I gazed longingly from a distance, and then she made with the vamoosing. Never to be seen again.

Well, until about a month later. She was still adorned in that same blue down vest. It was now mid-April and it was starting to get pretty warm, so The Vest caught me off guard. She still looked acutely adorable though, so I let it slide.

I saw her again two weeks later on my way to class. It was 80 degrees out.

But hey! look! a vest!

ATTENTION:

If you wear something “peculiar” every so often, like an Irish Tweed Hat or a Marmot Down Vest, it’s considered funny, or cute. If you wear it more often than you do your own freckles, and at particularly “peculiar” times… well you’ve ventured over into Eccentric Village. Population you.

And Howard Hughes.

And Tom Cruise.

I’ll admit, I’ve asked myself from time to time: Could I date a quirky girl?

The girl with the down-filled vest was cute, plucky, and dammit, precious as all hell. And her stubborn insistence to wear The Vest at all times was strangely endearing. Besides - women with quirks are always portrayed so generously in the movies! I developed a major crush on Meg Ryan after watching When Harry Met Sally, and Sally is the penultimate example of the quirk-filled girl-next-door. Heck, Meg Ryan has built her entire career on portraying heroines brimming with quirky traits. And Vest Girl kinda looked like an Asian Meg Ryan. So, bonus.

My initial infatuation with Vest Girl began to fade, and I started to wonder what our relationship would be like if we had actually dated. Would she insist on wearing the vest to fancy restaurants? Would it stay on in the jacuzzi? Funerals?

Vest Girl: “What exactly do you want from me, Mike?”

“I want you to take The Vest off.”

Vest Girl: “Don’t ask me to do something you know I can’t do.”

“But don’t you think it’s a tad ridiculous?”

Vest Girl: “Why?”

“It’s July.”

Vest Girl: “So I’m ridiculous now? Is that it?”

“No honey, that’s not it at all… You can wear The Vest as much as you’d like. But I have to be honest – it’s putting a bit of a damper on cuddle time.”

Vest Girl: “You don’t enjoy our cuddling?”

“It’s nice, but… it’s like I’m hugging the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters.”

Vest Girl: “Excuse me?”

“Or the Michelin Man.”

Vest Girl: “This is unbelievable. Remember how you used to tell me -

“Take off the damn vest!”

Excessively quirky girls are great to watch on the silver screen and they make wonderful daydream fodder, but they just don’t work in the real world. But such is life. Or as the French say, “Nous aimons le vin et fromage et nous combattons très mal.”

I can only wish you the best in life, Vest Girl, wherever you may be. May your every dream come true and your torso be perpetually warm.

I realized only in hindsight that going to the gym wearing a Kinky Friedman campaign t-shirt with GOVERNOR KINKY emblazoned across the front was a really, really bad idea. I’m still not sure what tipped me off.

My personal trainer awkwardly glancing at my chest when he thought I wasn’t looking?

Or when he awkwardly cleared his throat and said, “Man, what’s with the shirt? Governor Kinky?”

Maybe when he said he only noticed it because a fellow trainer pointed it out to him.

Or maybe, just maybe I was alerted to the BAD IDEA as I was on my way out and two youngish employees laughed and told me how “awesome!” it was.

“You guys like his campaign?” I asked, enthused.

Mistake number one was wearing the shirt. Mistake number two was asking that question.

“Campaign?” asked the African-American of the two.

“Well, I mean, this is a real shirt,” I said, clearing my throat. “There’s a guy named Kinky Friedman running for governor in Texas.”

Mike, stop. Stop right now and walk away.

“Well, that shirt is hilarious, man,” declared the Caucasian-American one.

You’d think I would’ve gotten the idea. Nope!

“He’s an independent candidate, actually. He was once part of a fairly well-known band called “Kinky Friedman & The Texas Jewboys“.”

The African-American employee laughed. “Jewboys? Right on man, right on.”

“You guys should check it out on the web if you don’t believe me.”

“Alright, bro,” said The Caucasian-American.

“Seriously, go Google it.”

“Sounds good.” The African-American nodded and glanced over at his coworker as if to say, “Dude, when the hell is this guy going to shut up?”

Finally the clouds parted, light shone down from the heavens and my brain clicked on. I said “See you guys!” turned around and briskly walked to my car.

Moral of the (Horrible) Story: If two twenty-something guys comment on how awesome your “Governor Kinky” shirt is, let them think it’s a joke.

I was a precocious three-years-old. My mom, my dad, my newborn sister and I were doing something in a gift shop. What we were doing there and what kind of gift shop it was I’m not entirely sure. It’s not really important. You’ll find out why.

Growing up, I loved the Transformers. Optimus Prime was a complete and total badass, and Megatron - let it be known to all - was a world-class douchebag. That was my world. I watched the cartoons, I played with the toys and – to my parents’ frustration - I constantly sang/whistled/hummed the theme song. To say I was a fan of the show is an understatement of grand proportions. I was obsessed.

So there I was, kicking it in Ye Olde Gift Shop, admiring with curiosity everything that was within my two-foot-high line of sight, when I saw something glimmering in my peripheral vision. Turning to investigate, what I then witnessed completely destroyed my three-year-old grasp of the world. Sitting right in front of my very eyes was what appeared to be a man fused to a machine. He possessed an entire human body, but seemed to move around on a large pair of metallic wheels.

It was somehow equal parts man and machine. It was…a man-machine. No…it was a machine disguised as a man. It was a Transformer! Never in my wildest toddler fantasies did I think I might one day see a Transformer in the synthesized flesh. My rambling, inarticulate, tangent-filled prayers must’ve finally been heard, for the Lord had delivered upon me my very own cyborg.

My eyes grew wide with wonder. My bottom lip trembled with exhilaration. My right hand raised slowly with index finger extended like an accusing Puritan on a Salem witness stand.

Much later my mom said that she and my dad watched helplessly as the entire scene seemed to play out in slow motion.

”Mommy, Daddy – look at the robot!”

Suddenly my father scooped me up and both of my parents went over to apologize to the cyborg for any embarrassment or emotional stress I may have caused by outing him. We left the gift shop posthaste, leaving me unable to ask the robot for a transformation demonstration or where I could get my very own pair of wheel legs.

I had my semi-yearly dentist appointment yesterday. Let me tell you - it was a blast.

Going to the dentist is like showing up for an exam you haven’t adequately studied for, except instead of getting the answers wrong, your mouth bleeds. And the test isn’t conducted with a pencil and paper, but with sharp, disinfected tools designed to induce pain and anguish.

The dentist’s office is what I imagine hell would look like if only Satan believed in antiseptics. My gums may have bled a bit when I was a kid but at least the dentist would give me a toy after we were through. Now my mouth still bleeds, but instead of a toy I get a toothbrush, a souveneir-sized tube of toothpaste, a small packet of dental floss and a scathing tongue lashing for exhibiting the early symptoms of Gingivitis.

When we go to see a doctor it’s usually because we are ill and want to feel better. The dentist is the only doctor you visit feeling well and leaving in a state of pain. It’s like if you went in for your yearly physical and the physician punched you in the face and smashed your groin with a metal bat. And made fun of your mother.

The dentist’s chair is a medieval torture device reincarnated. Instead of being physically strapped in, you are held down by an invisible sheath of fear, guilt and embarrassment. You lie there awkwardly while the sadistic pseudo-doctor pokes and prods you with his wide array of sharpened miniature scythes. You want very much to close your mouth but instead you squint your eyes. In a fleeting fit of faux sympathy, the devious dentist smarmily informs you that,

“You wouldn’t bleed so much if you just took better care of your teeth and gums.”

And you say,

“Perhaps I wouldn’t bleed so much if you weren’t dissecting my mouth with those shimmering silver scimitars, you torturous tyrant of teeth!”

But your mouth had just been sprayed by that omnipresent little water hose so it comes out as more of an extended gargle.

I hate people who drive 65 in the left lane of a two-lane highway. I mean I really, truly hate them with every fibrous strand of my very being. I hate them so much I want to burst out my front windshield and leap - gremlin style - onto the roof of their car and smash my hand through the metal, pull them up and out by their screaming hair and toss them onto the parched pavement.

It so would be worth the littering fine.

Also: there’s something I fancy doing while taking long road trips that makes the time just whiz on by. Sometimes while I’ll be driving in the fast lane at the speed of traffic I will witness the driver behind me leave our lane, proceed to speed up and then slide in front of me. I was already moving at the speed of traffic a few lengths back from the preceeding car, so this impatient instigator is not going even a tiny bit faster than he was while behind me. He has saved absolutely, positively no time whatsoever. But he has made a new mortal enemy for life.

It’s one thing to pass a person doing 60 in the fast lane a mile behind the next car. It is an entirely different pillowcase of marbles to haphazardly swerve in front of someone who is cruising along with the 85 mile-per-hour traffic.

So this filthy, no-good cutter becomes my new pet project.

It is now my singlular purpose in life - while completely disregarding all weather, fuel and bladder conditions - to get my automobile back in front of this Satan spawn. Using every opportunity at my disposal I will recklessly wedge my way into a position of silverback alpha male dominance, making sure that this person notices me do this so hopefully they’ll learn not to be such a terrifically huge Douche! in the future.

Is this practice of mine dangerous? Quite.

Reckless? Extremely.

Insanely, unbelievably rewarding? Oh, hell yes.