I'd like to take a moment for some shameless self-promotion. I write for a new Utah news publication called The Regal Seagull. It focuses on Utah-related culture, events, and politics. If you care about me or about orphans who have had to fight through life the hard way, pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps (bootstrap bootstrap), battling hunger, hatred, and loneliness, then you will please take a quick second to jump over to RegalSeagull.com and check it out. As I write this, the site isn't completely finished, but it's functional enough to navigate, and it doesn't look half bad.
I don’t want to mention any names, but Wells Fargo Bank sucks. I’m signed up for overdraft protection in case I spend more than I have—I mean, does anyone really keep absolute track of all their spending when they always use their debit card? Please, that’s for suckers who still use check books. The problem is that when I do overdraw, the amount comes in from my credit card—all fine and good, that’s the whole point of the thing—but I still get charged around $15 for every overdrawn transaction. And I’m already paying for overdraft protection. So my question to you, Smells Fartgo, is WHERE THE HELL IS THE OVERDRAFT PROTECTION!? I posed the polite question to a banker at the unspecified bank (it’s Wells Fargo) and his response was, “Well at least you’re not paying the $30 fee those without overdraft protection are paying.” I asked another banker at another branch of the same bank which shall go nameless as to not deface any institution’s reputation (it’s Wells Fargo, they suck…I hope every single branch simultaneously burns down, but all the workers safely escape because they are just trying to earn a living, and they are too weak or scared or desperate for cash to tell their evil money-guzzling employer beast to shove it) and he told me the exact thing, almost verbatim. It immediately became apparent that they had been coached by a standardized higher authority on how to deflect potentially hostile questions like mine and quickly divert my attention to another topic, like “Would you like to sign up for a platinum credit card?”
At that moment I leapt across the counter, grabbed Chad by the tie, and shoved the end of his silky neck knot into the paper shredder. He screamed in terror as it pulled his face closer and closer to the spinning blades. Despite his best efforts to escape, his face was pulled in and shredded into tiny strips, leaving a headless teller. I was amazed that he didn’t die, though. At that point I realized that he was a robot. He stood up and went about his teller duties with a mess of blood and wires pouring out the stump where his head used to be.
Ann and CJ had another awesome party last night. Ann is, dare I say, obsessed with all things Irish. Her family hails from the Isle of Man, and she also loves Lord of the Rings, which was filmed in Ireland. Everyone had to bring a song or poem or story connected to Ireland. I hurriedly wrote and presented this limerick. Beau recited in spoken word the first verse of The Cranberries' Do You Have to Let it Linger. When you get to the singing parts (in italics), you'll need to come up with your own slow and pretty Irish-sounding tune, otherwise you'll lose the effect that the music is supposed to have. Now, without any further ado:
I once knew a man named Farney
Worked double time as a Carney
He painted sheep
To help him sleep
‘n sang songs ‘bout the legend of Blarney
A woman named Jenny O’Swill
Fell near death and stormily ill
Red spots on her face
And all over the place
Made her cry “’f God don’t take me, who will?”
Both lived alone, alone, alone
Both lived alone, alone
One day at the Carnival camp
Old Farney lit up his oil lamp
He said with a chuckle
As he tightened his buckle
“With a woman, I’d be a new man”
Sweet Jenny was lyin’ in bed
So white that she could’ve been dead
Her mother came in
Reaking of gin
“I’ll take you to doctor” she said
So she hoisted Jen up on the cart
Grunting away from the start
Wheeled ‘er through town
And spotted a clown
Who was buying a Guiness and tart
“What’s that clown doing here?” Jenny asked
Her mum took a chug from the flask
And replied with a whine
“It’s carnival time,
Now I’ve got to move you, and fast”
And Jenny felt so alone alone
Yes Jenny felt all alone
As they wheeled past the carnival camp
Jenny, she spotted the lamp
And from inside the tent
Came a tune, and it went
Just like this, in the voice of a man:
It went:
The stars they are reminders of
The people of the land
Their flashing is a hand that waves
The sky is like a man
If no one tilts their head to look
The stars they flash in vain
And man is left without a friend
To call him by his name
And man is left without a friend
To call him by his name
Now Jenny, she heard every word
Of the song that was sung like a bird
Tears filled her eyes
And to mother’s surprise
She stood up and walked ‘cross the yard
And sitting alone by the flame
Was a man, and she asked him his name
"I’m Farney, sweet miss”
Then she gave him a kiss
Said “I was sick, now I’m better again”
“There never was doctor nor nurse
Held medicine inside their purse
That healed who was sick
As whole or as quick
As your voice when it sang out in verse”
Sing:
Now time has rolled on like a fog
The days and years have past
And Farney’s love grows more and more
For Jenny, his sweet lass
And Jen loves Farney in return
He saved her in her cart
He healed her sickness with his song
She healed his lonely heart
He healed her sickness with his song
She healed his lonely heart
When I was a kid, I used to play basketball obsessively. Every day. In the summer, at least twice a day, sometimes three times a day, sometimes just once but it lasted all day. It was all I ever wanted to do…well, that and try to see down girls’ shirts. I remember my first time playing basketball. I was in the sixth grade and had just transferred to a new school where I hardly knew anybody. I was quickly adopted by the nerds (which is very typical of my life—don’t get me wrong, the nerds are great, it’s just that when you’re in elementary school your worst dream is either to poop your pants in the middle of gym class, or to be a nerd). We went outside for recess and someone had a basketball, so we started playing. I had never played before—I come from Texas where kids play football or just stand around punching each other—but I seemed to pick it up pretty quick. I soon became one of the best players among the nerds. That’s not very hard, because the whole reason they were nerds is because they weren’t very good at playing sports. Some people think the easiest way to climb the social ladder is to be good-looking. Wrong—it’s to be good at sports, at least in elementary school and if you are a boy. In elementary school none of the girls are “hot” yet, and most of the boys and girls look the same anyway, except for hair length. So the way to be a popular boy is to be good at sports.
And another thing—I never considered myself a nerd. I always considered myself cool, but I just had to hang out with the nerds because none of the other cool kids knew that I was cool yet. It was just a matter of time until they found out, and then I would assume my deserved place in the social hierarchy of the public school system. I always felt that I was on the verge of breaking into coolness. I felt that way in 6th grade, 7th, and 8th. By 9th I realized that I had made it all the way through middle school without getting into the cool group, so I started to give up, but then I went to a new high school in a different area and my “I’m cool, they just don’t know it yet, but when they find out…oh baby” theory came back full force. 10th, 11th, and 12th grades passed with no change in status.
But from 6th grade all the way through 12th, basketball was the most important thing in my life. Once I graduated high school and moved away, I no longer hung out with kids that played ball. My new friends were skiers and granolas and hippies and musicians and other non-hoopsters, so I basically dropped my obsession. I had no one to share it with...
...Until 2 days ago. Beau and I spontaneously decided to go play with his church basketball team. The team hadn’t won a single game all year. We walked into the gym and saw them. They were a sorry-looking bunch of ragamatags, droopy and beaten down by life’s hardships. Especially one of the guys was really droopy, and he was pretty tall so it made him look even droopier. Beau and I arrived with fresh energy and optimism. We were Tornado and Goose (though we never figured out which one of us was Tornado and which one was Goose), the dynamic duo come to resurrect the dead and breathe the hot and heavy (and slightly beef stewy—I had just eaten dinner before going over there) breath of life into these sweaty, shiny, droopy potato-looking players.
The game was incredible. We juked, we jived, we ran, we slid, we pushed ourselves and our team, we came out after three minutes because we were so tired and out of shape. But when it was all over and we had won, I felt as if a part of me had returned. My love for the game was back. My purpose in life restored. I am a new man, a basketball man. I am Tornado…or Goose, I’m still not sure.
So a good friend of mine from work, we’ll just call him Sterling Silver, has been inviting me to come dancing at Club Try Angles, the local gay bar, for a while now. There are two things you should know about me: 1—I love to dance, and 2—I have a dark birthmark on my right thigh that doctors call a nevis. While the birthmark has nothing to do with this story, the dancing does. I’ve heard on several occasions that there are few better places to dance than a gay bar. The music is always fun, and you don’t have to worry about looking like a sissy in front of other dudes when you start pulling out your spinny moves. An added bonus is that the very fact that you are at the place makes women trust you, no matter if you are gay or straight (which you are probably at least one of those). If a woman trusts you, she will oftentimes approach you and strike up conversation! Can you believe that? I thought that only happened in Imaginaryland!
So my roommate Barnaby and I drove down to Try Angles and I purchased a temporary membership (you have to be a member to go in). As we were going in, I got a text message from Sterling Silver, who we were supposed to meet there, that he wouldn’t be able to make it. So it would just be Barnaby and I swimming in a sea of men. I’m glad we brought our swim suits. We went in and found a small table along the wall and observed for a few minutes. I had to go to the restroom, and when I came back Barnaby was gone. “Your friend went in the other room,” a neighboring table of two huge Polynesian guys informed me. I followed their direction and indeed found my Czech roommate in the billiards room, chatting it up with three young men. I joined the conversation and after a few minutes we were all having a grand old time. But the time to leave had come—we had a pirate poetry party to get to. As I got up to leave, one of the gents we had been hanging out with also stood up, “Hey, do you have a phone?” “Ya.” “Let me get your number.” Inside I froze, though on the outside I was as cool as a jazzman at The Birdhouse. I didn’t know if I should tell him I was straight, if I should give him a fake number, or if I should fake sudden illness and run to the bathroom as I made really loud throw up sounds. Oh, who cares, I thought to myself, just give the young chap your number. You could use some friends in this big new scary city. So I willingly recited my phone number, laughing hysterically inside at the fact that on the numeric keypad my digits spell SO GAY 41. If only my new friend knew.
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