Touched By an Angel: The College Years

So I'm incredibly busy with readings, papers, problems, musicals, and presentations. Thus, I'm gonna recycle a great story from last year. If you've read it before, relive the memories. If not, make some new ones.

This story, like most stories, centers on something very dear to our hearts: a thong.

On arriving back to our room one night, my roommate and I were greeted by an unexpected visitor. There, hanging from our doorknob, was a pink and white striped thong. A message was scribbled on our white board, reading "I'll be by later boys..." with the “o” in boys being heart-shaped.

The silence was frightening; questions filled the still, prison-like air. “Whose butt floss is this?” “Are they really coming back or is this just a prank?” “What if my RA sees this?” “Is this mine?” I opened the door carefully, making sure not to touch the hanging cloth. We decided to leave it there and see who came by.

Sure enough, people did stop by, but none of them were the owners of the garment. To pass the time, we discussed how many STDs the thong could have. We had no idea where it had been or how many times it had been there so the decision was made to play it safe and not disturb the mysterious artifact. It remained on the doorknob overnight.

After a grueling night in which I dreamt hordes of unmentionables were performing deviant sex acts on my paralyzed body, I awoke to check on the potential biohazard just outside my dorm room. My worst fears were fulfilled with a glance out the door: the teensy cloth of death remained.

From when I took a shower in the morning to when I returned from dinner in the evening, the thong remained, taunting me constantly. “I've touched girls in places you've only dreamed about.” This only added to my distress. Not only did I have a thong on my doorknob, I had a mind-reading thong on my doorknob.

Later that night, after brushing my teeth, I walked back across the hall to my humble abode and, without thinking, grabbed the doorknob, receiving a large handful of cotton along with it. The gravity of my situation set in like a train wreck, propelling me to use my already contaminated right hand to throw the cursed underwear down the hall and out of my sight.

In the morning, it was gone. The floor was bare and there was no sign of the pink and white striped abomination. This discovery lifted a heavy burden from my heart and I felt as giddy as a school boy. I sang show tunes in the shower, much to the dismay of my floormates, and skipped down Commonwealth Avenue to class, much to the dismay of the Catholic Church.

I returned to Floor 17B after my morning class and was stopped dead in my tracks by an old nemesis. There, taped to the rafter on the ceiling of the corridor, was the thong, its pink and white bands a pastel warning of the evil to come.

But this time I noticed a change in the thong's appearance. It seemed happy, almost regal. Gone was the slumped posture that characterized our former relationship; the bad aura it had reeked of departed as well. This was a thong reborn. It was no longer a vessel for Genital Herpes, but instead a bearer of good faith and inspiration. A sign taped next to the hallway halo proclaimed the deity's new found wisdom: “Yes my son, there will always be better days.”

This thong has become a guardian goddess for the men of the 17th floor. Her Grace remains there, affixed to a rafter, showering us with love and Chlamydia as we head out into the world at large.

A Bite Size Problem

I was kidnapped.

That’s the only way to explain why there was no story last week. People kidnapped me. They grabbed me from my bed on Wednesday morning and forced me onto a plane bound for Chicago. Then they called my parents to pick me up at the airport and made me spend a whole weekend at home. Horrid, I know.

I think this had something to do with what happened earlier that week.

Let’s face it: I don’t eat very much or weigh enough. I tell myself to eat better, but I don’t. I remind myself to work out, and then forget. I write myself letters of concern, yet end up using the paper to draw pictures of dancing vegetables.

Making a list of all the things that weigh more than one hundred and twenty pounds proved too costly; the list was enormous. Look at it this way: when you go to the zoo, everything not living in the small mammal house is heavier than me.

So food isn’t something I’m a real expert on. When people ask me to recommend a nice place to eat, I tell them my percent body fat and they run away in tears. Skinniness: thou art me.

This is a touchy subject, I know. Believe me, I’m not trying to gloat or offend anyone. All of this is necessary to establish my character. Everything has relevance and I’m in complete control here. This story will go somewhere because I am completely focu-oh, look a chipmunk!

So that week prior to Thanksgiving had been a nightmare for me. Everyone was talking about food all the time; it was unnerving. I couldn’t escape the gluttony no matter where I went. The dorm, the classroom, the ghetto, Seattle Sutton’s Healthy Eating: they were all full of people fantasizing about the holiday and the amount of calories that came with it.

I tried talking to one of my more petite friends about this. She was smaller than me so I thought she would understand what I was going through.

“Isn’t all this talk about Thanksgiving getting on your nerves?”
“THANKSGIVING!?!?!”

She then proceeded to devour my notebook and began working on my forearm before I fled the scene.

There is one comfort food I will always retreat to in times of panic: cereal. It’s the chink in my armor, so to speak. I bought a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats at City Convenience and holed up in my room, away from all the ravenous mouths.

But upon pouring myself a bowl of this personal ambrosia, I was taken aback. The mini-wheats were not mini at all; they were large.

“What? Is Wayne Szalinski working for Kellogg’s now? Honey, they blew up the mini-wheats!”
“Don’t ever call me ‘honey,’” my roommate responded.
“Sorry.”

What was going on? Why was the world inflicting larger portions of food and larger quantities of food-related conversation on me? Closer inspection revealed the box to contain Frosted Mini-Wheats: Big Bite.

I’m not going to lie; this pissed me off. I didn’t want Big Bite; I wanted Mini-Wheats. Plus, the title is paradoxical. How can they be Mini-Wheats if they’re Big? Technically, it should be titled Frosted Wheats because the mini and big would cancel each other out. If the world was going to try and force its inflated consumption and bad grammar on everyone, it was going to have to go through me first.

That’s why I scheduled an appointment with the president of Kellogg’s. We met the Tuesday before break in his office and I immediately launched into my argument.

“Well, Mr. Kellogg, I suppose you are wondering why I needed to meet with you.”
“I’m not Mr. Kellogg.”
“You’re not a Kellogg?”
“No. I’m a Finkelstein.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Finkelstein, I wanted to meet with you to discuss the irritating error in the title of one of your cereals.”
“Oh, phew. I thought you were going to tell me that Special K is the title of a narcotic and I was going to have to explain that we had it first.”
“No, I mean Frosted Mini-Wheats: Big Bite. How can they be mini if they’re big?”
“What are you doing? You’re putting your nose where it don’t belong, buddy. You mess with the ‘llogg, it’ll mess right back.”
“The ‘llogg?”
“Shut up! Don’t make me call my mafia.”
“Oh, so now there’s a Kellogg’s mafia.”
“Of course. What do you think Tony the Tiger’s brothers do for a living?”
“This is stupid. You’re threatening to have a cartoon character’s blood relatives whack me for recognizing a paradox.”
“I’m going to grind your bones to make my new Scooby Doo Berry Bones.”
“This meeting is over.”
“You watch your back, English Man! Because I’m going to be Fruit Snacking on it!”

And so I left. My abductors must have been the ‘Llogg Mafia, Tony’s relatives. They made me go home, where my family forced me to eat for 25 people and their pets. And you know what, it wasn’t half bad.

Maybe I’ll try this eating phenomenon. It can’t be all bad right. I mean, everyone else is doing it. Peer pressure is always so hard to resist, and I’ve resisted so long. But what has it gotten me? Nothing really, just a waist size that’s impossible to find. I’ll try it, but I may need some time.

You can’t just jump into this kind of thing; there’s got to be repercussions, like The Bends. I don’t want to end up a Paranoid Android in My Iron Lung, wandering High and Dry around some Fake Plastic Trees because then I’ll just Sulk and blame it on a Black Star. I do it to myself, I do, and that’s what really hurts. And I don’t want to fade out again.

I’m just going to take things one Saltine at a time...

Unstuck

Dear Sticky Tack,

I’m not entirely sure how to say this, or what it is I’m going to say. I just know that something needs to be said, and every time I try to tell you it never comes out right or you don’t understand me.

I know we haven’t been together that long. It was about a month ago today when I picked you up at the campus bookstore. You were by yourself on the third floor and I worked up the courage to come over next to you. We ended up coming back to my place; I took off your wrapping. You were so beautiful and soft, so blue. The way I could squeeze and knead you in my hands was exhilarating. We spent many hours together that first night, intimately entwined in each other’s presence. I was stuck on you.

But reality had to set in. I was a student and you were a mounting agent. While I read King Lear, wrote film reviews, and participated in theatrical productions, you stayed at home, quietly holding up pictures of friends, family, and a guinea pig named Sigmund. The rift was vast, but I always hoped we’d hold onto that raw energy that characterized the early stages of our relationship.

Lately, I’ve put a great deal of strain on you, I know. It takes quite a bit of strength to hold up large posters of Radiohead and The Muppets. Don’t get me wrong; I greatly admire your courage in undertaking a task of this magnitude. It made me realize how much you really did care for me, how badly you wanted to please me.

But I can tell something is wrong. You’re not holding things up with as much flair as you once did. The pictures are drooping a bit and the whole collage looks a lot less perky than it once had. What’s wrong? What happened? Did I do something? I wish you’d tell me because I can’t figure it out myself.

Take the other night for example. Some people might relish the experience of waking up to John Cusack right up in their face, staring at them; however, it freaked me out and I broke a lamp. That High Fidelity poster was supposed to stay up on the wall for decoration, not end up lying on top of me while I slept like in some sick late 80’s fantasy.

Today, things were dropping like crazy. Posters, pictures, cards, croquet mallets: everything landing squarely on my head. I’m not going to lie; it pissed me off. You have no right to abuse me like that. And don’t give me any of that crap about gravity. You could have held them if you tried, or at least given some sort of warning. But no, you let them drop right on me.

I don’t understand where this hostility comes from. Never have I cheated on you; I’m not experimenting with push pins or anything like that. I swore to you that the roll of double-sided scotch tape you found was not mine. How long will this relationship last if you never learn to trust me?

Sometimes I think this just isn’t going to work. We’re too different, and you’re not as young as you used to be. The allure of your elasticity has worn off. Plus, one day I want to have children, and I can’t risk you having a temper tantrum and inflicting multiple lesions on their silky-smooth skin. That’s why I’ve decided to buy some more sticky tack. Don’t look at this as rejection; it’s just support, emotionally and physically, like an intelligent bra. You need someone to help you hold up everything on the wall and who understands the perks of being a wallflower.

I know what you’re like. This could be the last conversation we ever have. Think about what I’m saying and try to see things from my point of view because I don’t want to come home to a blank wall with faint blue marks that’ll never wash off.

I wish things didn’t have to change between us, but they have. We need to accept that and decide what we’re going to do now. Recapturing that former excitement is probably out of the question. We know each other too well now for that kind of naivety. The infatuation has worn off and it’s time to look around and see what we have: a sticky situation.

I hope we can always be friends. It’s hard for me to imagine the rest of the year without you here to help give my abode a sense of style. Hanging out with you was always a delight, even if you never said very much. If you think otherwise though, I’ll understand. Can’t get stuck in the past; the future is one big blank slate waiting to be covered with someone else’s pictures of Johnny Depp.

Good luck in whatever you choose to apply yourself to, be it a dorm wall, classroom ceiling, apartment window, or prison cell. I know you’ll hold your own.

Your friend,

Bobby

InCOMpetence

This is it. I’ve finally made it. Nothing can stop me now. The road has been a long one, littered with bad decisions, challenging obstacles, and Capri Suns; nevertheless, it’s over. I’m going to be in COM.

The journey began when I applied to college. I was under the spell of a very powerful drug, ignorance, and didn’t really think about what I wanted to do with my life. So I chose Pre-Med because ER was a quality show at the time. It’s not that bad if you think about it; at least I didn’t use Charmed for career inspiration.

This path of science was populated by people who enjoy wearing goggles and celebrate a holiday dedicated to the mole. Clearly, I was in the wrong concentration. I tried English, but it still lacked something. I wanted to create something new to contribute to the world, not just critique what other people had already made.

Then I found the College of Communication. Here was a place I could let my creativity run wild and put up a façade of intellectual achievement at the same time. I made a solemn vow to get myself transferred.

My first step towards moving to COM was to enroll in Introduction to Communications Writing. I thought it would be fun: write some stuff, meet some people in the same boat as me, good times. But class operated a little differently than I expected.

“Do you know what a ‘verb’ is?” my teacher asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, great, here’s a sticker. Ooh, a scratch ‘n’ sniff one!”

The real tragedy lay in me being one of only a handful of people to leave class smelling like blueberries. Yet I endured the course and made my public school writing teachers proud.

Now the only obstacle in my way was a 3.00 grade point average. I decided to load up on easy courses, ones in which I could sleep, draw bunnies all over my assignments, and never take off my ipod while still getting A’s. Statistics 115, Intro to Computers, Seduction 101 (okay, fine, I got a C in that): these blessings from the Registrar brought me closer to my desired future than I had ever been. The time had come for transfer paperwork.

And that brings us up to date. I’m about to enter a meeting with a representative from the College of Communication to discuss my transfer application. In a few minutes, I will be a Film major and finally have a sense of belonging. The door opens and a man appears.

“Bobby Kennedy?” he asks. “Hey, that’s a pretty famous name. Do people ever tell you that?”
“No, never, you’re the first one.”
“Really? Well, come in.”

I enter the room and sit down across the desk from the man. He opens a folder and looks at what I assume is my paperwork.

“We’ve reviewed your application. It seems you have most things in order: a GPA of 3.00 and an A in CO201.”
“Yes, those are all the requirements, right?”
“Well, officially, yes. But this is a very prestigious institution. We have a number of other pre-requisites that do not get publicized.”
“Like what?”
“Well, our intensive background search has revealed to us that in the fifth grade you wrote a historically inaccurate story about the American Revolution in which one of your characters was a Hessian named Chad. Chad is not a German name, and therefore is an incorrect use of diction. We just cannot allow someone into this college who makes an error of that degree.”
“But-“
“I’m sorry. The decision is final. I’ve passed this information on to your advisor in the English Department. They may be suggesting Mathematics to you as a major within the next few days.”
“But that’s stu-“
“Well, it was nice meeting you. Watch out for Sirhan Sirhan on your way out. Ha ha. Get it?”

Why is this so hard? It’s not like I’m trying to cheat the system. I didn’t know I wanted to be in COM and now I do. College is supposed to be a place where you can find yourself and be educated accordingly. I know it’s my fault for applying to CAS instead of COM, but why should I be punished now for the follies of my youth? I just don’t see how forcing me to earn a degree in something I don’t want makes any philosophical, economical, or moral sense.

Alas, there’s only one thing an intelligent and composed person can do in this situation of unbearable loss and unreasonable rejection: make fun of it in the Freep. At least I can’t face any fall-out from the University over this piece. Everyone knows the administration doesn’t read The Daily Free Press; they just do the crossword.

Halloween Hardships

Halloween has never been my favorite holiday. It’s not that I have any moral objections to demanding candy from people; that would be a bit overly principled, even for Baptists. No, I think it stems from my timid demeanor as a child.

I was always a shy kid around people I didn’t know. Thus, the idea of walking around and asking complete strangers to give me sugar seemed completely ludicrous. I made my parents come with me (not just with, up to the door) until I was 13 years old.

The goal of most kids was to look as scary as possible. Not me. I tried to dress as cute as possible, that way my neighbors would just say, “Awww,” and give me the candy without me having to utter a word. Other kids started at dogs and progressed to Scream masks. I went from Mickey Mouse to an M&M in eight moves.

I mean, it’s only three words: Trick or Treat. I could say other phrases only three words long no problem: “I am hungry,” “Hippos are fat,” “Gym is stupid,” “That’s my pipe.” I suppose it's kind of ironic then that I ended up a writer. I couldn’t even beg for food the one day people are dying (wham! Halloween pun) to give it away. How am I supposed to do it as part of my living?

But that’s the past. Here in college the object is not to look scary and get candy. It’s to look like a slut and get laid. Nurses, witches, cats, police: all with cleavage and most certainly wearing stockings. If not one of the top four, your costume is designed around what would look absolutely ridiculous when you’re completely trashed at the end of the night. Let’s just say there was definitely a Winnie the Pooh stumbling its way around the World Series riots last year in Kenmore Square.

Yet old habits die hard and I’m still going with the cute angle today. For the party tonight, I’m dressed as someone protesting how Mother Nature decided to skip fall and go straight to winter this year. So yes, that means I don’t have a costume. However, it also means I’m always cute. Result!

I arrived twenty minutes late, like usual. Someone buzzed me in and I climbed the stairs to apartment 3. The door was open and I walked right in. The apartment was dark but I could not see any sign of a party.

“Hello?” I asked.
“Salutations,” a voice responded, a voice I’d heard somewhere before.
“Is this the No Dressing Up party?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where is everyone?”
“This is everyone.”
“Are you trying to be difficult?”
“Sorry. Wait, why am I apologizing? I’m the killer.”

And then I remembered where I’d heard that voice before. It was Jigsaw from the movie Saw.

“What do you want from me?” I pleaded.
“To kill you, of course.”
“But I haven’t done anything. Don’t you normally kill people who are leading their lives wrongly? What’s your name, anyhow?”
“Todd.”
“Well, Todd, I think you’ve made a mistake. I’m an angel.”
“I was too. But then I went to a doctor who was also a veterinarian. He got confused between animals and humans one day. I was spayed.”
“That’s awful!”
“I got off lucky. He put my brother down.”
“I’m sorry, but what do I have to do with this?”
“You are a Pre-Med student.”
“Were. I dropped it within a month of starting freshman year.”
“Oh. Bugger.”

By this time I had found a light switch and discovered the door and windows to be locked. There was a Mr. Potato Head doll lying on a couch with a knife through it’s, er, skull, I guess you would call it.

“I’m such a failure. Now they’ll never let me star in the Saw spin-off, Chisel.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel too bad about it, Todd. The Horror genre is so creatively bankrupt anyway. Showing your emotional side is sure to garner you some buzz.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ve always dreamed of being a respectable dramatic actor like Val Kilmer.”

Silence ensued. I felt the minutes tick by as I waited for my mystery host to release me.

“So what do we do now?” I questioned after awhile.
“I don’t know, have a party I suppose.”
“Will there be balloons?”
“Oh yes, there will be balloons.”
“Great.”
“You want some Candy Corn?”

At the mention of this, Candy Corn shot out of the walls and pelted my non-costumed frame.

“Ow, fuck, man. That hurts.”
“Sorry.”
“Besides, nobody actually eats Candy Corn. It’s an element, like Phosphorus or Titanium. There was a certain amount of it here on Earth when time began and people just keeps offering it to everyone else. It never gets eaten, just passed around.”
“I see. Sorry I ruined your holiday.”
“Don’t worry about it. I always wanted to be tops at the box office.”

Soap Wars: The Phantom Playoff

It’s been a few days. Reality is starting to set in and I can see things have changed. These next few weeks will be different. How frighteningly different they would be I could never have imagined

It’s mid October and the Red Sox are not playing the Yankees in the American League Championship Series. Worse than that, neither team is playing at all. They’ve both gone home, destined to “wait ‘til next year.”

At first, I thought maybe neither team advancing was a good thing. I’m rather busy with schoolwork right now so the added distraction of a playoff race was not helping my grades. Now if only America’s Next Top Model would go off the air.

In addition to that, people’s feelings got hurt last year. When the Yankees were up 3-0, their fans were rubbing it in the Sox fans’ faces. Then the Sox fans returned the favor after each of the next eight games. I told myself that Boston University and the northeast corridor of the United States in general will be a much happier and less confrontational place than it had been the past two Octobers.

But things haven’t been that peachy, nor have they been peary, orangey, or appley either. No fruit-related adjective could describe the situation. Grapefruity might be the closest you can get because it’s sour, but I am quite partial to grapefruit thus ruining the necessary negative connotation.

Everyone here has this pent up aggression needing to be released. They’ve stockpiled all this vindictive energy for precisely this time of year, but now there is nowhere for it to go. Instead of yelling at televisions and denying our opponents service at respectable institutions like Jamba Juice, the fans are arguing vehemently over petty differences. This scene erupted on my floor just the other day:

“Hey, guys, look at this kid. He’s gonna shower using Irish Spring soap. That’s so lame.”
“Irish Spring has been the classiest soap since it was introduced in 1972. It’s much better than your worthless Lever 2000.”
“Irish Spring hasn’t won the National Soap Award since 2000.”
“But it has won more National Soap Awards than any other bar.”
“Yeah, well, when you’re owned by the Evil Empire, Colgate, you can afford to buy off those judges.”
“There you go with that Evil Empire crap again. Just because we’re good businessmen and are part of a mega conglomerate that will rake in more profits, our soap is somehow tainted. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that No Doubt’s best CD was Return of Saturn.”
“It was a big step forward for them.”
“Everybody knows that Tragic Kingdom was, is, and forever will be the best thing No Doubt have ever done.”

And on and on it went until a full-scale gang war ensued. It had it all: choreography, snapping, a Puerto Rican named Bernardo, everything. I tried to play it cool, but it was just too hard.

Now commissioner Selig, I know you are reading your copy of The Daily Free Press while digesting your morning dose of Fruity Pebbles and Ensure, and I implore you to do something.

The Northeast cannot survive the winter without some sort of playoff between these two teams. Why don’t we have a losers’ bracket? There’s no clear third or fourth in the American League now. The White Sox are first and the Angels are second, but how do we know who is third and who is fourth? The Red Sox and Yankees can’t tie for anything. Even when they both had the exact same regular season record, the Yanks were given the AL East title.

It may seem insignificant now, but this crisis will escalate. Folgers versus Maxwell House, Sesame Street versus Fraggle Rock, Reuben versus Clay, shirts versus skins (ok maybe that one wouldn’t be all bad): life as we know it will crumble in the face of unending competition.

And why is it that competition is so important to us? Why do we raise our children to embrace these rivalries and hold prejudices against people who cheer differently? I am afraid to bring a life into this world if he’ll be persecuted for the Triceratops being his favorite dinosaur or she’ll be ridiculed for not wanting to say Hello to Kitty. Things need to change before I produce someone that will perpetuate this system.

So, please, hear my plea, Bud. The well-being of millions of people relies on what you choose to do in this hour of dire need, especially me because I happen to prefer Zest.

*Published in The Daily Free Press on Friday, October 21st, 2005*

The Dropping of the Eaves

I’m sitting at dinner, eating what the dining hall has labeled “Sweet & Sour Chicken” and which I would use an entirely different S-word to describe. The hall is crowded; I’m alone and that can only mean one thing: eavesdropping.

Call it childish. Call it inconsiderate. Call it what you will. It’s entertaining. Eating alone can be incredibly pressuring. There may be people there you know but not well enough to invite yourself to eat with. So then you have to deal with those people you slightly know seeing you eat by yourself.

Suppose there are people there you could sit with but you don’t see them and sit alone. Then they think you chose not to sit with them on purpose. This gets blown way out of proportion, with boycotts and demonstrations, so that before you know it, you’ve lost a friend on thefacebook.

And for those of you out there who think eavesdropping is an invasion of privacy, you’re right, it is. It absolutely is. But if you’re going to talk openly – not to mention loudly – in public about your crush on turquoise warthogs, I deserve to have that extra information when you make a pass at me during a party in the distant future.

So I’m at dinner, facing the wall, enjoying the solitude, when someone else’s conversation starts to drift in.

“I’m so sick. I sound like a 13 year-old boy.”

Now, I apologize if this was you. I just overheard it. It’s not like I can put it back. There’s no undo on hearing. It’s like giving a bum your sandal, realizing that was a bad move, and then trying to take it back. It can’t be done.

I’m not going to turn around and stare right at this person after they said they sound like a 13 year-old boy. I play it cool and wait for the appropriate moment to sneak a glance at this gender-bending diner.

I’ve gotten rather good at this. You nonchalantly drop your napkin and take a peek. Or even better, pretend you’re looking for someone who’s supposed to join you. Once I even pretended to crack my back. There’s a million ways to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. My knowledge of at least forty doesn’t seem so bad in the great scheme of things now, does it?

The best part about eavesdropping is not picking up interesting gossip and information to blackmail people with. That actually gets old after about the 4^th person you blackmail and the authorities start getting involved, forcing you to spend a few months down in Nicaragua with the geckos while avoiding Interpol agents with Nerf guns.

No, the best part is that you can make up histories and faces from these characters and the snippets of their life you’ve picked up. I’ve given this girl jet black hair, glasses, and a music collection centered around the shoegaze movement of the late 80’s and early 90’s. She wears clothing that’s not too revealing, but flattering nonetheless. Her father is a stock broker and her mother runs the arts and crafts camp for the local park district back home in Maine. This cold came on suddenly, almost as if someone wanted her to lose her voice so that she couldn’t audition for the part of Belle in an up-and-coming production of Beauty and the Beast. Foul play is afoot. I’ll figure out who sabotaged your stage career, Audrey, if it’s the last thing I do.

But my chance never came with the sex-changing, age-defying cold sufferer. Before I knew it, that gravely voice had disappeared, and when I turned to look, the table was empty. My vocally challenged friend was gone. Never will I know whose face spoke with that voice of a 13 year-old boy named Gene. Such is life in the eavesdropping movement sweeping dining halls all over New England. Wait, what’s this I hear?

“Apple Cinnamon Cheerios should be put on a pedestal and worshipped.”

Really? That’s interesting, Sadie….

Mr. Talkedy Returns

I woke up with a cold today. Maybe this could have been avoided if I had been taking my daily multivitamin instead of whipping them at cars that drove past my window on Bay State Road. But we all get lonely sometimes.

Then I lost my voice.

Losing one’s voice is like being transformed into a tapir. You can no longer speak to people, they gape at you like you’re in a zoo, and for some reason your nose grows longer and you’re using it to eat. Seriously, you know it’s true.

I always took speech for granted. Not once did I realize how vital it was until I lost it and was completely cut off from the world. When I did try to speak, my voice sounded like a cross between a respirator and a Nickelback CD. Needless to say, it took some strong persuasion to start breathing again.

Since I was unable to do much else, I began to reflect back on other times I was without language. Of course as an infant I couldn’t talk. But, then again, I couldn’t control my bowels either so I wasn’t really winning ribbons anywhere.

The most memorable time I lost my voice was in the 4^th grade. It was the first day of our creative writing unit. I don’t really remember what I wrote, probably some stupid mystery/thriller about coral reefs. The Catholic Church was probably involved somehow, trying to cover up that Jesus went wakeboarding there with Mary Magdalene. Even at such a young age, American writers were trying to be Dan Brown.

My friend Bryan was much more aware of his surroundings. He used my voiceless condition to inspire his story. In it, there was a man named Mr. Bogedy who would steal people’s voice boxes in order to talk nonsense with their voices. The main character, Bobby, had a voice box named Mr. Talkedy that was stolen, fought back, defeated Mr. Bogedy, and freed all the abducted organs of speech.

I wanted to go out and see if anybody would write any stories about me this time. But first I needed to buy some Bic pens. After hitting up the bookstore, I headed down to the Commons to people listen.

“I love Dashboard Confessional!”
“…so I said to him, ‘You can’t suggest that I have some ice cream. That’s saying I’m fat, which is harassment.’ And he said…”
“Yo, dude, you want to make some S’mores? Shit, G, I could really go for one right now. Will the man let us build a fire right here?”
“I love you more than words can express. You are my one and only forever more. Will you go to Prom with me?”
“Yo quiero comer tus gatos.”
“Isn’t this skirt just perfect? I was going to donate the last $100 daddy gave me to Hurricane Katrina relief but then I saw this little baby for only 80 dollars and couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass. I mean, hurricanes happen every year…”

I couldn’t take it any longer. All these people were blessed with the power of speech, a blessing I had been temporarily deprived of, and they were wasting it, wasting the gift. Any one of them could have used the vernacular in a remarkable way, to say something truly insightful and laced with beauty, but all that came out was nonsense. Mr. Bogedy had returned and multiplied.

This overwhelmed me and I started running away as fast as I could. I wanted to be back in my room where I could hide my mute body under a blanket and shut out this ranting world of irrelevance.

But when I got back to my dorm I met with a new obstacle. Boston University with its ever evolving quest to make life difficult had upgraded its cock blocking dorm security once again. Now voice recognition was required for entry into its residences. I walked away without trying.

Spending a night outside was not going to damper my spirits any further. I walked over to the highway underpass to stake out my claim. It was still light out but I didn’t care. The sooner I fell asleep, the sooner this would all be put on pause. I drifted off in no time.

I awoke in the arms of my new friend Greasy Jeremiah and thought, “What time is it?” But I didn’t just think it; I spoke it. Mr. Talkedy had returned. With whoops of elation regarding my reintroduction to audible life, I galloped back to my dorm and triumphantly shouted my name into the security speaker.

I felt so unbelievably happy while I flew up the stairs to my room. Right then and there, I made myself a promise that along with Mr. Talkedy I would rid the world of Mr. Bogedys by always speaking and writing with passion and eloquence. Now if thou wouldst excuse me, I find myself in dire need of some multivitamins.

*published in The Daily Free Press on Friday, October 7th, 2005*

Morning Sickness

I woke up feeling like an asshole today. Well, at first I wasn't sure what I felt like. I hadn't eaten Taco Bell recently nor had I read any Ann Coulter, so it wasn't the usual. This was different, yet familiar.

I slipped on my Teletubbies footies and walked over to the mirror. I look like crap. That must be it, I thought. My body's feeling like crap to remind me that I look like crap. Thanks buddy. I love you too.

As I lay back down to hopefully sleep off my ugliness, the feeling began to take on a more acute throb, centered in my chest. Feeling like crap doesn't throb; it just exists. This was something else.

Whatever it was, it would have to wait since I was late for class. I make lots of things wait when late for class: eating, getting dressed, posting messages on Lindsay Lohan's forum about why she shouldn't be so thin. There's a hierarchy to life and that hierarchy says girls I have no chance with place second to passing college, unless they have green eyes and think The Muppets should be on the $50 bill. I'll miss class for them.

So the feeling continues to occupy my senses during British Literature. I've felt this before, I know I have. It's usually accompanied by a sharp pain in one of my cheeks and the word "bastard" hanging in the air. And then it hit me.

"I'm an asshole!" I exclaimed out loud.
"Thank you for that, Bobby," responded my teacher, "but I believe I asked you what Chaucer meant by making the Wife of Bath change Ovid's story of King Midas."
"Oh."

I spent the next few minutes trying to weasel my way out of this predicament by arguing "I'm an asshole!" was what Chaucer meant. That failed and I resorted to what usually works for any modern song lyric: it's about drugs.

I left class feeling less confident about my Middle English paper, but satisfied in knowing what was wrong with me. I was an asshole. The satisfaction of discovering my feelings washed away faster than the government's plan to deal with Katrina and I was left to wonder why I felt this way.

Why am I an asshole? I don't recall doing anything wrong lately. I've been good. I haven't forgotten any birthdays, anniversaries, bar mitzvahs, or funerals. Nobody's been stood-up or unfairly poked on thefacebook by me as far as I can tell. There's only one answer then: I've forgotten.

You know when you forget something important and your mother says, "You have the memory of a gnat," and you respond, "Mother, do you have any idea how small a gnat is?" I forgot to respond. I can remember almost every lyric, every line, and every quote from every song I've ever heard, film I've ever seen, and book I've ever read, but not remember that I have a Statistics discussion once a week, which reminds me, I'm late for discussion.

Okay, so I did something worthy of the title of asshole. What was it? I put up an away message saying, "Sorry whoever you are. I'm sure I didn't mean it, whatever it is. And if I did, I was probably justified in meaning it if you look at it from my perspective." Not the most personal thing I've ever written, so to fix that I added one of those sad-faced smileys, a blue one.

I also checked the call history on my cell phone. The last person I talked to: my mother. I called her back.

"Hi, Mumsy."
"Don't you have papers to write?"
"I just wanted to ask if I did anything wrong lately."
"You mean besides take 40 grand a year from your father and me and run halfway across the country to that liberal hell?"
"Yeah, besides that."
"You're on smack, aren't you?"
"I'll talk to ya later, Mom."

Phew. At least things hadn't changed on the home front. I was in the clear there. So who was I an asshole to?

No girlfriend, no enemies, nothing: I'm an angel. I was beginning to think I should just down some Tums and get over it. But no, this was one feeling I could distinctly put a label on and I wouldn't let myself be wrong.

I called all the ex-girlfriends (okay, okay, ex-girlfriend, singular) and IMed all my friends, but still no crime. Being a pacifist, I usually try to avoid confrontation and, being a guy, I usually try to avoid any blame at all. Nevertheless, I actively pursed a fault like a Paparazzi member. There had to be a reason.

As leads fizzled out, the situation became dire. This wasn't happening. Feelings are so inconsistent and unreliable that losing even one, an unfavorable one at that, was unthinkable. Why was this happening? Being an asshole and regretting it afterwards was one of very few constants in my life at this time of confusion and discovery. It couldn't leave me here alone to drift in the winds of social interaction unaided; it just couldn't. Standing up in my room, I affirmed in my best Ed Harris impersonation that "failure was not an option."

In the end, I failed. I evidently had done nothing to make me feel like an asshole. However, that didn't comfort my manic condition at the time. Instead it drove me to create an asshole image to satisfy myself and I called the girl down the hall a "fugly slut."

So now I am an asshole and am internally at peace. But it did come at a high price to bear. The floor is watching Lost in one of the rooms down the hall and I have been exiled until further notice. As I sit and write this in my banishment, I can't help but wish that emotion was as apparent as the note on my hand saying, "Crew Meeting @ 9 PM." Crap, I forgot.