Day Walker Talker

*Disclaimer*

I was told this story by my roommate a few days ago, and while we both question its truth it is way to good not to share with all of you.

The story starts on a road. A road engulfed in the shadows of vast evergreens, stretching as far as the eye can see. From the tree tops you can barely see the winding asphalt as it disappears into the sprawling Washington State landscape.

Dom, a 19 year old college student looking for part time work, has just found a job at a local wildlife sight seeing tour. A tour that deploys a coach bus to explore this very road multiple times a day. His boss has owned and operated the company for a few years, and takes pride in giving his costumers the wildlife experience at any cost. Today is Dom’s first day, it is also his last. 

When Dom arrives, first thing Monday morning, he’s approached by his superior who’s gearing up for the first excursion of the day. Business has been steady but, as Dom finds out this very moment, wildlife has not exactly been cooperating with the plights of the tour guide over the past couple weeks.

Boss: These people pay good money to see the animals and wildlife Washington State has to offer. We simply can’t afford to embark on another hour long tour that ends with no animal sightings. I’m going to need you to help us out today.

Dom: What do you need me to do?

He leads Dom to a closet around the back of the office, inside lays a full sized moose costume. His boss explains that every so often, when wildlife sightings are scarce, employees have to don the suit and pretend to graze in the grass while the bus drives by.

Boss: The bus drives by so quickly that it’s almost impossible to blow our cover. All you have to do is stand there, cool?

Dom: You want me to do what???

Two hours later he’s dropped off in the middle of a gravel parking lot that serves as entry to a local camp ground. Two or three cars are parked in the lot, but other then Dom stepping out onto the gravel, all is quiet and peaceful. Dom’s ride leaves, he takes a deep breath and puts on the moose head. On all fours he walks to the nearest tree and tries standing as motionless as possible. In a matter of minutes the bus should cruise by and he can take this ridiculous costume off and return to the office. He begins thinking if he really needs a part time job, how important is buying beer at college anyway? Before he can answer his own question there’s the sound of a branch snapping behind him. The moose turns toward where the cars are parked, a large black bear saunters out of the woods behind them and walks out onto the gravel.

Dom: Oh shit.

The moose looks up the road and sees the bus a mere two miles away. He doesn’t want to blow his bosses cover so he convinces himself the campers must have left food in their cars and the bear is simply after that. He stays in character, taking a few small steps closer to the road. Only the bear isn’t interested in the cars, he’s interested in the moose and he’s headed directly at Dom. Without giving it another moment of thought he stands up on his two feet and starts sprinting up toward the road, the bear rapidly approaching.

The tour guide is doing his routine, prepping his costumers for the wildlife they can expect to see during their hour together, when suddenly he sees a moose standing upright and sprinting toward the road.

Boss: (whispering) Jesus. Driver just speed up, keep driving!

Dom hits the asphalt as the bus blows right by him and continues down the winding road. Dom screams for it to stop, then turns to meet his certain demise. The bear stands up on its hind legs and a husky man removes the bear mask from his face.

Man: Dude what the fuck? You’re going to blow our cover!

Alright, so some of you have emailed me asking why I stopped writing and when could they expect their next post? I’ve been so swamped with work and a personal project I didn’t even realize I began neglecting you faithful followers. So for that I apologize. There has been a lull in my blog material because I’m working on directing and producing a short film that I wrote back in the summer. I will post it on the blog once it’s completed in April, but in the mean time since you’re hungry for humor…I’ll blog the script idea for you now:

____________________________________________________________________

Josh sits at a crowded Manhattan bar, he’s well dressed but uncomfortable in his own skin. He pensively looks around the bar at the other patrons, every so often shifting his gaze toward the front door. He’s waiting for someone. After the bartender, who’s a friend of Josh’s, comes over we learn he’s on his first blind date. Pete, our bartender, offers Josh some typical chauvinistic advice on how to handle the pressure cooker of dating. Regardless of how bad this advice is, Josh has little time to act on it because his date walks through the door like a goddess. She’s way out of Josh’s league and now his nerves have shot from a 6 to about an 11 in a matter of seconds. He even contemplates leaving the restaurant all together. But she is way to beautiful to walk out on.  

Laura, a stunning blonde sits at a table by herself sipping chardonnay. After a few minutes elapse, Josh musters up the courage to approach her. He’s like conversational quicksand though and fumbles over most of his words making for a very awkward first impression. Laura senses this, and begins having fun with him by dropping sexual innuendos and taking control of the conversation. Josh’s innocence somehow is attractive to Laura and, once they’ve gotten past the pleasantries of the introductions, the date is going quite well. Almost to well. Josh senses he may have a shot at a second date, and is nervous that he’ll blow it. His stomach begins emitting inhuman sounds. He tries to subdue them by drinking faster. Eventually it’s gotten to unbearable that he has to excuse himself and head to the mens room.

When he’s standing at the urinal, and is confident there is nobody in ear shot, he decides it’s fair game to release some of the gas he’s been fighting most of the night. He lets out a thunderous fart that ends with a rather disconcerting sound. He has accidentally shit himself. Upon inspection of his suit pants it has leaked through his boxers and a brown stain compliments the charcoal gray material. In a panic he locks that bathroom door and begins scrubbing his pants feverishly, afterward holding them under the hand drier to quickly get back to Laura who’s probably thinking of leaving at this point. The wash and dry didn’t do much, and Josh is about to cry. Suddenly a light-bulb goes off in his head…There is a J.Crew on the corner. If he can somehow sneak out of the restaurant, he can dart down the street and buy new pants making Laura none the wiser. So he sets his plan in motion, creeping out into the dining room, cautiously watching his table. Once Laura is distracted he darts out of the restaurant and sprints to the J. Crew on the corner.

Bells chime as he barrels through the door. The salesman behind the counter can’t even greet him before Josh grabs the nearest charcoal suit and throws it on the counter. “Would you like to try that on first sir?” asks the smarmy salesman. “No, I’m in a hurry just ring it up please,” Josh says. The salesman rings up the suit and starts bagging it. He tells Josh the total, and Josh realizes he hasn’t got the cash to pay for this whole suit and dinner. He tells the salesman that he’s a little short on cash right now but why doesn’t he pay for the pants now, and he’ll return tomorrow for the jacket. “Very well,” the salesman says. He beings rebagging while Josh hands the man his money. “Do you have a bathroom? or a fitting room?” The salesman informs Josh that the bathroom is strictly for employees only but the fitting room is in the back and is occupied. Josh grabs the bag and hurries out the door back toward the restaurant.

Once he’s snuck past Laura for a second time he locks the bathroom door behind him and channels his inner Clark Kent. He tears away at his pants, quickly removing both his slacks and his boxer shorts. He stares at the soiled clothing in disgust. He survey’s the bathroom, plotting his next move. A window! He opens it wide and tosses the pants and boxers out onto the streets below. He’s almost out of this…He’s calmed down and knows he’s gonna make it now. He smiles for the first time all night.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Josh, are you okay?” Laura asks from beyond the door. “Yeah, be out in a sec!” he yells. He tears away at the J. Crew bag removing the garment inside. His eyes widen in horror…

The salesman gave him the jacket.

I sat behind the desk of an absent co-worker inquisitively scanning his office walls. Somewhere deep down I knew what had just transpired could only happen to me. The week had been miserable, but somehow here in the aftermath of absurdity I found myself at home. Maybe there is a reason these bizarre things happen to me. Maybe I was put here to navigate through life’s shits storms only to come out on the other side unscathed, ready to take on the next bizarre hurdle thrown in front of me. Or maybe I’m just an unlucky son of a bitch.

* * * * * * * *

3 hours earlier

It was a typical morning. I arrived at my office about 5 minutes late because the barista at my regular Starbucks refuses to have my order ready—despite the fact I’ve ordered the same drink everyday for 3 years—and I refuse to show up five minutes earlier to ensure I get to work on time. Once I settled into my cubicle I went through my morning routine, first tearing away the previous days page on my “2012 quotation calendar” and queuing up today’s inspiration which came in the form of one of my favorite people, Bill Watterson:

              “I find my life is a lot easier the lower I keep my expectations.”

I pondered it for a moment. Did I expect today to be any different than yesterday? Did I expect the annoying woman to my right to not break a bottle of perfume over her head before she arrived completely polluting the atmosphere of my well kept cubicle? The answer to my queries was obviously, no, and the bitch walked in reeking of patchouli blossoms and lavender accents a few minutes later to solidify this notion.

A quick tangent for a moment. Like most people, my cubicle is a manifestation of my passions and interests. It’s a universal interior design commonality that people design their cubicles/offices to embody the things most important to them (photos of family and loved ones, sports memorabilia, humorous anecdotes, etc). So when I escape into a birds eye view photo of Yankee Stadium, envisioning the atmosphere of a ball game to escape work only to be brought crashing back by the smell of ten dollar flea market perfume applied by a garden hose you can imagine how destructive it can be to cubicle feng shui.

Next I look at my computer itinerary, I’ve got to interview a prospective intern at 11am. I look at my clock, it reads 8:15. I grab the NY post and read whatever salacious bullshit it’s printed today while I drink my coffee. Once the clock strikes 9 I dial my interviewee’s number. We’ve spoken via phone 3 times already and have a fairly good repertoire, I’m not at all concerned she won’t show but I”ll give her a reminder none the less. I’ve got an extremely deep voice, so she has no problem discerning who has called. We speak briefly, I tell her where the office is located and we both are looking forward to meeting each other (only one of us is being honest and it’s not me). 

Despite my love for my 7x7 foot work space, it’s not ideal for 2 people. I cannot conduct this interview here. So I dip into my bosses office, informing her of my situation. My colleague A.J. is out of town and I’m given access to his office at the other end of the building. A.J. is one of the nicest African American’s I know and his office is beautiful. The mischievous side of me now wants to pretend the office is mine. After all, the prospective interns are all within my grasp age range, and being that they’re fresh out of college would probably be more attracted to a working man with a corner office in a Manhattan high rise then the normal drunk frat boys they’re used to. It doesn’t take me long to convince myself that I’m telling this girl the office is mine and I begin actually looking forward to meeting this girl.

At 10:55 on the dot my telephone rings. It’s the receptionist informing me that Kelly has arrived and is ready for our interview. “Keep her in the lobby for a minute, I’ll be right out,” I say authoritatively. I keep her on ice a few minutes, I remember going on interviews when I first got out of college and began thinking to myself how many of the assholes I’d met had actually done what I’m doing now?

I walked into the lobby a few minutes later to see an attractive young woman sitting on one of the couches. She’s wearing a puffy Eskimo jacket and has large hoop earrings. She looks very “thuglife.” I make eye contact with her as I walk across the room. She looks at me pensively as I extend my hand.

DayWalker: Hey Kelly?

Kelly: Yes, hello I’m here for an interview with DayWalker.

DayWalker: Yeah that’s me. You ready to head back?

Kelly: Oh…

DayWalker: Everything okay?

Kelly: yeah, yeah it’s fine. You’re just not what I was expecting that’s all.

DayWalker: Well what were you expecting?

Kelly: Well to be honest…I thought you’d be black. You have a real deep voice on the phone and I thought you’d be a black guy.

The receptionist spits her water out in shock. I don’t know what they’re teaching kids in college these days but this has to be commonsense in the interview process. I laugh though, I mean how often will you hear something like this? Plus I can tell she’s very uncomfortable and I feel bad. “Oh don’t worry, I get that all the time,” I say. “I was actually Denzel’s stunt double in Man on Fire.” She laughs as we walk around the office exchanging pleasantries. As we approach A.J.’s office door I realize I’ve forgotten her resume at my real desk. Being the quick thinker I am, I open the office door and let her in. “Make yourself comfortable,” I say, “I’m just gonna grab a coffee, can I get you anything?” She declines.

I run back around the office to my desk and grab her resume laughing at the audacity of this chick to tell me she thought I was black. I take another look at my quote calendar, I guess I should lower my expectations for the youth of America. When I open the office door, Kelly is sitting there looking at the office walls. I sit down behind the desk.

Kelly: This is a nice office.

DayWalker: Thanks.

Kelly: Is this autographed Bob Marley album real?

A.J. much like myself, has designed his office in a state that’s representative of his passions. His African American heritage. I begin scanning the walls as Kelly does. An Obama “Hope” poster, a Martin Luther King Jr. “I Have A Dream” plaque, African Masks, Muhammad Ali fight cards, an autographed photograph of Oprah, and a signed Bob Marley and the Wailers album. Kelly is now staring at me with a very incriminating gaze. A gaze that says she thinks I pretend to be black on purpose. I get back to her resume and try and navigate through this.

                                             * * * * * * * *

There I sat, staring at the walls taking in the African culture. The interview had ended…it didn’t go well. But then again, what the hell was I expecting? The phone began to ring…I thought for a minute..Should I?…No Daywalker, no you shouldn’t. I got up and walked out of the office, laughing to myself as I exited. 

Back when bed bugs were coursing their way through Manhattan apartments like an unstoppable rebel force (about a year ago), there was no feeling worse than waking up to a few itchy red blemishes on your body. Or at least that’s what I thought….

There I stood, staring at myself in the mirror one fateful August morning. I had a terrible toothache but more disconcerting I had what looked like bug bites all over my chest and neck. Immediately I ripped all the sheets and bedding from my room and threw them in the washing machine. Like the cunning sleuth I fancy myself to be, I inspected the mattress to find and destroy my adversary. I saw nothing…had they moved on? Perhaps the sweet taste of ginger blood had caused them to spontaneously combust? I began getting dressed for work battling with the feeling that bugs were crawling all over my skin. Since the sight of a bed bug bite to an outside party was liken to having leprosy I decided to cover my skin entirely. It was August and I was wearing jeans and a blazer…I began thinking of myself as one of those characters in every zombie movie that gets bit and tries to hide his infection from the rest of the crew as not to be cast out.

I got to the office and was sweating like a whore at Easter Sunday mass. The itching was getting unbearable. I went to the men’s room to inspect the bites, they had doubled in numbers and spread to my arms. What was happening! Were the beasts in my clothing? I started googling “bed bug bites.” A co-worker came by and said, “Daywalker you’ve got hives on your neck.” Hives? I was having an allergic reaction? I was revealed that I didn’t have to fumigate my apartment but vexed by what the hell I could have possibly been allergic to. I had introduced nothing new to my diet, and as far as I know my sheets and bedding were all of respectable enough thread count to not irritate my delicate milky skin.  I left work and went to my doctors office to have some blood work done. Much to my surprise there was a new doctor in house…and it was a lady. A sexy lady. As she drew my blood I thought about those porno’s where patients seduce their physicians into office intercourse. Since I looked like I had slept on a bee hive the night before I knew my chances of wooing her were slim. I kept my charm in the holster. Doctor Sexy told me that ninety percent of the time these things are food allergies, but that she wouldn’t have a definite answer until the blood-work came back in 5 days.

My tooth was still killing me and had now began giving me migraines. There are 3 things I hate: Mushrooms, Liars, and the Dentist. Since migraine headaches were shooting up the hatred charts at an unrelenting pace I knew I had to make an appointment with the only dentist I’ve ever gone to. His office was back on Long Island, where I grew up. I couldn’t get an appointment until…

Fast Forward 5 days: Saturday

I lay in the dentist chair, listening to the dentist and his assistant talk about a company picnic as they look at my x-rays. There mundane conversation allowed me to drift away into the ocean landscape painted on the wall. The news of a double root canal brought me back to reality. Since I was going back to Manhattan later that day, I told him to take care of them while I was there. He obliged…for a hefty fee of course. His assistant armed him with 2 gigantic needles, filled with Novocaine. They were both dispensed into my gum line. In 5 minutes I couldn’t feel my face, could barely form a sentence and when asked to “rinse” completely missed the porcelain landing pad provided. Accenting the white tile with blood red saliva and mouth wash. Hell of a weekend so far. I drove home, and when I walked in the door was greeted by my parents, my sister and 2 of my sisters friends. They were eating pizza, which I couldn’t enjoy because of the “don’t eat for 45 minutes” after a dental appointment routine (Did I mention I hate the dentist?). The phone rang and my mother answered. She was giving me the “it’s for you look,” it was sexy doctor. The results of my blood work had arrived.

Sexy Doctor: Good afternoon Mr. Daywalker, hope you’re doing well.

Daywalker: I’m good…thanks (struggled to get those words out of a completely numb mouth)

Sexy Doctor: Just wanted to inform you that your bloodwork came back, and as I suspected it was a food allergy. You’re allergic to peanuts.

I loved peanuts and had eaten them all my life. The news was shocking to me…but not as shocking as I’m sure my response was to sexy doctor. I learned that moment that trying to say the word “peanuts” with 200 milligrams of Novacaine in your mouth is a bad idea.

Daywalker: PENUSSSS? (eyes widened in horror)

Sexy Doctor: Pardon?

Daywalker: PEA NUSSS? PEANUSS…PEA…

frustrated I gave my mother the phone to finish the conversation. I hate the fucking dentist.

It’s a shitty, rainy day here in Manhattan and for the first time in a while I decided to stay shacked up in my office and have my lunch delivered to me. Little did I know that a mere 83 minutes later I’d feel terrible about myself and ultimately my decision making.

12:55- My stomach emits a sound alerting me that I need nourishment. I’ve only had a banana thus far in the day, and gauge my hunger level at about an 8 out of 10.

1:00- Being as famished as I am I decide the best bet is to order from the establishment with the closest proximity to my mouth. China Gourmet. I call and speak to a very kind, inarticulate woman who sounds as if she’s in the midst of a riot. She can’t understand me, I can’t understand her. But we power through and I have my order of General Tso’s Chicken with fried rice in by 1:05.

1:06- I hang up the phone, as the thought of impending food spikes my hunger level to a 9. I worry the guy won’t get here in time and I’ll have to resort to cannibalism. I look around the office for possible candidates.

1:45- No food has arrived. This is unacceptable, I begin salting my arm. Hunger level 9.5. 

1:55- my telephone rings, and Asian man I can barely understand screams into the receiver on the other end. Transcript:

• “Hello?” I say.
• “Herro, I’m in robby, herro.”
• “Okay I’ll be right down,”
• “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Robby.”

1:57- I’m in the lobby. I see no delivery guy. I walk to the opposite entrance, there is nobody here. I feel a vibration in my side, my stomach must have collapsed and began eating away at itself. I realize it is my phone.

• “Hey man I’m here, where are you?”
• “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
• “What?”
• “Herro? You orda food?”
• “Yes, WHERE ARE YOU? I’m in the lobby.”
• “Yeah, yeah, robby.”

2:01- He hangs up on me. I inhale deeply, meditatively. The guy won’t be able to understand me so how can I make sure he’s at the right building? I call the restaurant again, tell them I’m lost in translation and that the delivery guy is lost. They apologize and instruct me to stay put. They’ll call him now.

2:02- I utter the word “fuck.” Hunger level 10.

2:03- The security guard in the lobby sparks idle chatter. “You know I never understood when people say pardon my French when they say fuck. It’s actually old English.” I search for a blunt implement to strike him with.

2:10- I call this schmohawk again. This time I figure if I sound angry he’ll understand the language I speak. He does not. All he says is “yeah, yeah, yeah.” People that work in the building are entering with their bags of lunch, I strongly consider stealing a bag from a passerby and just jetting down the street. Meditative inhale. Hunger level 11.

2:13- The restaurant calls my phone, ensuring me the delivery guy is in the lobby. I am blown away by their refusal to believe me when I tell them he’s lost.

2:15- FINALLY. An Asian walks through the revolving doors holding a white plastic bag. I rush him like an Olympic sprinter.

• “He man sorry for all the confusion. How much?”
• The gentleman stares at me blankly. I’m furious he can’t understand even the most simple consumerism lingo of the English language.
• “China Gourmet, right?” I ask.
• “No…My name is David…I work on the 28th floor. This is my sandwich”

2:17-  I walk through the rain to the nearest deli. That awkward moment when you realize you’ve just displayed a grotesque form of unintentional racism. Meditative inhale.

Valentine’s day is a little over a month away, and for the first time in a few years I’ll be spending it single. I’m stoked, not with the idea of going out to a bar with some of my single friends and preying on depressed, vulnerable females but more because I won’t have to buy some lame gift to illustrate just how “romantic” I am to someone I’ve been involved with. Out of all the consumer created holiday’s this one is by far the most unbearable for me. I won’t pretend to understand the female psyche or why receiving a vase of flowers at the office is such a necessity, but it most certainly is. I work in a hen house, and the women in my office all have husbands. Every year they’ll receive some form of floral artistry that will without fail prompt the question, “Ohhhhh they’re beautiful…Are they from “enter husbands name here”?” As the other women all run over and huddle around said woman’s desk to inspect the arrangement. Of course they’re from her husband shit for brains, do you think they’re from some side piece or from her senior citizen father? Stop with the asinine inquisition, it’s not fooling me. What these woman are really running over to see is if their husband sent over a better arrangement, and god help the sorry son of a bitch who sent over a dozen white roses to his wife only to have her coworker receive two dozen Gerber daises. That will cause utter malice between the sheets that evening. So every year, these husbands one up themselves in an attempt to keep their wives vase in a dominant position within the office hierarchy.

Despite my contempt for Hallmarks favorite holiday, when I have a girlfriend or date I have always participated. Because apparently not doing Valentines day right, is the mark of an emotionless partner. Which brings me to Valentines day 2011, and the tipping point of my hatred for the commemoration of Saint Valentine. My girlfriend at the time was lactose intolerant, so the fall back of Godiva chocolates was out of the question. Instead I decided I’d do something more sentimental. I’d go out and buy her one of those Pandora charm bracelets that the television had been raving about since before Christmas. She did have 4 sisters after all, and now she’d have the opportunity to say, “he went to Jared!” When asked what I got her this year.

So off I went, armed with my credit card and my best intentions. When I arrived at Jared, I was overwhelmed with smarmy salesman all eager to help me find that perfect gift for their perfect commission. “I’m interested in purchasing a Pandora bracelet for my girlfriend,” I said with fleeting desire. I could tell just by the demeanor of the employees they thrived on stripping men clean of funds this time of year. The gentleman, who I’ll refer to as Douchelord from here on out, showed me a collection of bands to choose from. Like any salesman he started with the least desirable and worked his way up the price chart sounding more enthusiastic as he climbed. I purchased the white gold band, and took pride in the fact I’d known the exact size from doing some investigatory research the week prior. “Alright, now I just need some charms,” I said to Douchelord. A question that is easily answered by any man who understands the plight of a boyfriend going out to find a gift on Valentines day. But Douchelord wasn’t letting me off that easy. “we don’t sell charms sir…did you mean moments?” When he said this I looked him in the eyes and genuinely wanted to smash his face through the glass countertop that separated us. “We sell moments here at Jared, so you can look through this book and choose a few unforgettable moments in your relationship that you want to be represented on the Pandora.” So I chose a few, Doucelord put them on the bracelet and I paid. He earned his commission and ensured me how many more unforgettable moments were to come now that I had “gone to Jared.” The thing looked so damn tacky, like something you would find as a cereal box prize in Donald Trumps house. Like I said, I don’t pretend to understand the female psyche. I gave it to my ex, she was floored…She showed it off to everyone and she genuinely loved it. Months later I’d catch her staring longingly at the bracelet, clearly “in the moment.” Thinking about the events her bracelet portrayed. She was happy, so I guess I did my job, which felt good.

In the fall of this year I decided to end my relationship, a moment I’d not like to be memorable as it was brutal for both of us…but two days later I came back to my apartment to find a shiny Pandora bracelet sitting on my coffee table. Now I have a token of the breakup, and can dwell on how I destroyed all these happy memories for my ex. Thank you Jared! Here’s to unforgettable moments. Dick.

So I was watching this documentary last night called, “The Thin Blue Line.” It documents the murder of a Texas police officer in 1976 and the conviction of the man accused of shooting said lawman. The plot of this movie is irrelevant to this post, so I’ll keep my details about the story sparse.

This sorry son of a bitch, Randall Adams, runs out of gas on some backwoods Texas road. Remember this is the seventies, so he’s got no cell phone or “OnStar” to bail him out here. He grabs the empty gas can from the trunk and begins walking into the unknown looking for fuel. Next thing he knows a 16 year old kid in a stolen car, unbeknownst to poor Randall , offers assistance. David Harris and Adams proceed to drink, smoke weed and catch a drive in movie all before going to a gas station later in the evening (at first it struck me as strange that these two schmohawks would just gallivant together all night, but then I thought such randomness may have been par for the course in the seventies Texas landscape). This is where their stories diverge, and really the substance of the documentary sparks to life. A police officer pulls over the vehicle shortly after it pulls out of the gas station around midnight. The cop walks to the drivers window and is shot multiple times, point blank range, by the unknown gunman. After this, the film provides detailed interviews with the few eye witnesses who were there that dreary night. A couple driving by who saw the cop pull them over, a man leaving work and heading in the opposite direction of the idling vehicle, and the officers female partner who was still in the squad car behind them when he was gunned down.

So there I am watching this investigation unfold. These 3 eyewitnesses (the partner doesn’t count since she was drinking a strawberry shake instead of backing her partner up) are all giving detailed accounts of what the vehicle looked like, what the shooter looked like, what the passenger looked like, etc. Then, perhaps because of my altered state of mind, I began thinking about the entire police sketch process and how utterly useless I would be as an eyewitness. I would have no clue how to describe somebody outside of their obvious distinctive facial features such as hair color, cleft chin, etc.

“What did the gunman look like Mr. Day Walker?”

“Well he had brown spikey hair, he had eyes…maybe brown?” I’d say.

“what about a nose, what did that look like?”

“it had nostrils…”

What on earth do you say about a face to make an artist accurately sketch the person in question? Especially if the guys life is in the hands of your description. It’s not even the notion that in a situation where a gun is being fired I wouldn’t be focused on anything but not getting shot. Maybe I’m just not attentive to detail like these three were…Because even if someone were to ask me what my friends look like, I’d have the same seemingly useless descriptions. For me, the gunman would most certainly look like the above assailant and the case would go unsolved.

Turns out these three weren’t attentive either, because they convinced the jury that the wrong guy committed the crime and sent him to prison, sentenced to death,  for 12 years. He came a mere 72 hours before execution before law officials realized they made the wrong arrest. Poor fucking Randall Adams.

It was Saturday night; I was sitting at a local pub enjoying the illustriousness of conversation and Pabst Blue Ribbon with a buddy of mine when I caught a tantalizing gaze from a neighboring female. She was in the midst of her own conversation and due to the allure of her low cut v-neck blouse had the attention of a few other potential suitors. We locked eyes for a fleeting moment and one thing became apparent, it was on. 

I began running through my check list. What was she drinking? Was she wearing a wedding/engagement ring? What would my opener be? Perhaps something clever like “is that a fox on your shoulder or am I seeing double?” Regardless of my approach, breaching the 10 breasted circle (she was with 4 friends) to woo her was going to be an exercise in unrelenting charm. I ordered another drink while I continued my reconnaissance, when suddenly, as if Moses himself stood on the beat up mahogany bar and parted the waters like the red sea, her friends had a mass exodus to the women’s room. What we have here ladies and gentleman is something I like to call a “double dutch situation.”

The Double Dutch Situation: verb

1. Of or belonging to a situation in which you have bided your time and there is now a small window of opportunity to capitalize.

What I should have done was order a pair of shots from the bartender, tell my wingman to watch my six and head into enemy territory. Instead I finished my beer and headed to the latrine, plotting my next maneuver. When I returned, ready to strike, the girl had already been talking to another guy. My window had closed and now I’d go back to the college football game and PBR’s asking myself why I didn’t jump in when I saw the opening. Double dutch situations aren’t only applicable in the moments you’re trying to hit on a member of the opposite sex though, they’re everywhere you just have to look for them. The moment you’re on line for popcorn at the movies and you see a second register open up for example, you have to pounce otherwise be left in the dust.

Over the weekend I was installing my grandmothers VHS player (her refusal to adapt to any time period past 1975 is infuriating) when she asked me, “so my handsome guy what do you want for Christmas this year?” I usually tell my sweet old grandma that I don’t want anything and am happy to just hang with her for the weekend, but since that answer has prompted her to buy me the same cologne I asked for in 6th grade (which I stopped wearing in 7th)  every year since 1994 I decided I’d better compile my first Christmas list in awhile so I don’t end up with any of these:

1. The Sweater: You get one every year and the only thing worse then the thought of actually wearing it is asking for a receipt to return it. Since I can’t bring myself to pop that question I have a box in my attic filled with sweaters that appear to have been designed by Ray Charles. Crayola doesn’t even have as many colors as this box does.        
2. Video Poker: Grandma I have an I-phone. I can get satellite imagery, stock tickers, shop online and as you recently discovered instantly pull up any Paul Anka music video your sweet heart desires. Guess what else I can do? Play freaking video poker, ONLINE with actual money. Stop buying these. 
3. Winter’s coming: A cornucopia of cold weather survival gear. A winter hat, gloves, thermal socks, hand/ feet warmers all crammed into one clothing box that she’s had stored in a closet since the Reagan administration. I tolerated it until last year, when she added the “ice shoe covers.” I live in Manhattan grandma, and no not the Manhattan in “The Day After Tomorrow.”
4. The HSN gift of the year: It can come in the form of any gadget grandma thinks is actually enhancing her knowledge of technology that year. Last year I received a “you can’t lose it” universal television remote that beeps when you press the “locate” button on a separate smaller remote. I lost both (perhaps intentionally). The year before I stared in wonderment at an “extendable panoramic rear-view mirror” for the car I sold a year before when I moved into Manhattan. This year I suspect something liken to this manscaping must have, the electrical back hair shaver. 

I love you Grandma but I’m running out of room to store all this useless shit I can never use. A list is on the way, handwritten of course since you still haven’t embraced email.

There was a time, and John Cusack can attest to this, when you could break up with a chick and experience a very therapeutic reinvention. Regardless of whether you were the “dumper” or “dumpee” there was a timeline of events that would eventually lead you to this reinvention. At least that’s what John Hughes and most of late eighties “rom-coms” would have us believe, but Mark Zuckerberg changed that forever. Here’s a list of often necessary “break-up” stages that Facebook has forever changed.

1. The Going Public Stage: The moment after the “we need to talk” meeting has concluded, both parties are left with a void inside. If you were the dumper, and plotted this break-up weeks in advance, you don’t feel as relieved as you’d thought during the planning phase. Instead you are filled with an unrelenting guilt ridden nausea, as your former counterpart probably likens you to Mola Ram from “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBIdcUxdgo0). If you’re the dumpee, you feel like a kid who knows he’s about to get a shitty report card. Right now it hasn’t hit, you know once it does it will suck but you still go about as if you’re aloof to it’s reality. This numb feeling can sometimes last for days but always ends the same, one day the mailman will have that report card and once your parents know your immediate response will be “I have no idea how that happened! It must be a mistake!” Facebook has erased the luxury of gradually going public with the break up and allowing the numbness and guilty feelings to subside before telling loved ones. Because immediately after the relationship ends, both parties now have to part ways with their partners online persona, changing their relationship status to “single” or “it’s complicated.” Which is always met with a slew of commentary from friends ranging from “sorry hun, hope you’re okay” to “:(.”
2. Wish You Were Here Montage: The next stage in the film is that scene where Cusack and his love interest (in whatever movie you’re watching) both go through a “heartache montage.” The ones where the guy stares longingly out the window on an empty rain soaked street bathing in self pity while simultaneously shots of his girl hugging teddy bears and staring at photographs of them when they were together are juxtaposed to the soothing vocal styling of Alanis Morissette. You think “if only they could each see each other in such brutal anguish! They’d definitely be able to reconcile.” Well Zuckerberg sucked all the intrigue from this stage, now you log onto an ex’s facebook page after a breakup and see Adele’s “Someone Like You” music video accompanied with similar “he doesn’t deserve you” and “stay strong” comments. 
3. Is He/she Still Thinking About Me Stage: this is when John reaches out, much to the behest of his guy friends, to his ex’s best friend. He claims he “needs closure” but in reality all he wants is to know who she’s been screwing while he cries himself to sleep. This is perhaps the only stage Zuckerberg has abolished that serves as a betterment to mankind. Because now you can sign on Facebook and see photographs of your ex, if she dumped you she’ll have photos of her with all her friends at some expensive night club, or if you dumped her there will be photos of her in a scantily clad dress with a caption about how much weight she’s lost. Regardless the person on the other end will over analyze the photograph and most likely it’s meaning, because that’s what you do when you’re going through this. You constantly over analyze.
4. Purging Stage: At a certain point in the arch of Cusack he comes to a realization that life isn’t stopping for his heart break. He needs to turn off Billy Joel’s “She’s Always a Woman,” and go out with the friends he’s been ignoring whilst waiting for a text or phone call from her. But before he can do this he needs to purge her from his life. Normally in the film his best friend will arrive to John’s musty, hasn’t been cleaned in weeks, apartment. They’ll gather all the photographs, gifts, cards, trinkets and what have you that serve as memory to the relationship, throw them all in a trash can and light it on fire. This is usually done best with a bottle of hard liquor that both men ceremoniously pass back and forth while they stare at the final remnants of a love that once was. Then they’ll hit the strip club. There’s no purging memories on Facebook, nope, those memories will always be somewhere in cyber space, forever embedded in our online lives. We can “detag” ourselves, but they’ll always be there. ALWAYS.
5. Can’t Go On Without You Stage: Sometimes months later. She’s got a new man, she doesn’t love you anymore and your attempts to stand outside her house with a boombox have fallen flat. It’s time to push the big red button in your arsenal and issue a cry for help. “I don’t think I can go on living without you,” Cusack will utter trying to garner any fleeting pity from his ex. He’s not serious about suicide, but he figures something this drastic will at least get her thinking about him again. I’m sure that this stage is still practiced by some, but with social media you’re able to actually follow through. John doesn’t have to kill himself with Facebook, he can defreind her…or perhaps even more dramatic, scroll to the top right of his page and click “DEACTIVATE YOUR ACCOUNT.” John’s dead to the Facebook world now, he’s off the grid. Is he happy about it? Probably not, because now he’s thinking about whether she realizes he’s dead or not.
6. Vindication Stage: Cusack now has found another girl, she may be just a rebound who he’ll throw to the curb once he’s fully healed but nevertheless she serves a critical purpose in his reinvention. One day he’ll be out with said female, and who will walk into the same bar/restaurant? His soulless ex of course, she’ll see him and then see the new girl. This is a moment of triumph for John because whether she’s still into him or not, this new girl will become an idol of jealousy for her. This is perhaps the worst thing Zuckerberg has robbed us of, because now the moment our new relationship blossoms we’re back on Facebook. We’re posting candid photos of ourselves hugging at the Rockefeller Center tree lighting, and updating our statuses to imply our utter happiness (whether real or not). Our exes will see this, she’ll be able to keep tabs on who we’re seeing. They’ll know them by name, by occupation, they’ll even know when you met. Then when you run into said ex on that fateful random night of vindication, she’ll already have judged everything about this person and realized she’s better than her. So much for Johnny’s vindication. (There’s also something very pathetic about posing for photographs with a new girl/guy and posting them on your Facebook as a social media bear trap)

In conclusion, John Cusack is dead to rights in Zuckerberg’s world…He doesn’t even have a chance. In the 80’s he was a hopeless romantic, in 2011…He’s a stalker.