I went to a wedding this weekend and the question of the evening was,
"Kimmy got married... when is it your turn?" I tried to be creative
with my answers, "when hell freezes over." I would say, then, "Umm, how
about never?" Or simply, "not in a million years, oh, how's uncle
George these days?"
After the 300th time of being asked this
question, I decided to try a new approach. When it was the wife of the
brother of the father of the bride's turn, I leaned forward and
whispered, "Never. My dreams of ever getting married came to a crashing
halt today when Kimmy married David. I was in love with her, you
know?"
"I had no IDEA, Patrick... I'm soooo sorry." The wife of
the brother of the father of the bride slurred, as she sucked down her
twelfth glass of champagne.
"I know! Even though she's several
years older than me, it took every ounce of restraint to not disrupt the
ceremony today. My heart was breaking. Could you hear it?"
The
wife of the brother of the father of the bride shook her head, "I
didn't hear your heart breaking. But I feel sooooo awful for you!"
"As you should. This is very sad. Can I ask you a question?"
She
nodded while I reached over to light her cigarette. "Do you think it's
too late for me? I mean, if I went back in and marched up to her table
and professed my undying love for her, well, do you think she would
reconsider?"
The wife of the brother of the father of the bride
watched thoughtfully as the waiter refilled her champagne glass. "I
don't know, Patrick... They did just kind of just get married, you
know?"
"Yes, I do know this," I replied. "I was at the wedding
ceremony, and now I'm here at their wedding reception. I'm fully aware
of exactly what's happening here. I just thought..."
The wife of
the brother of the father of the bride interrupted, "Patrick, there's
Kimmy's little sister, Michelle. You guys would make a darling couple!"
"True,"
I replied, "but then I'd have to see Kimmy at all of the major family
functions and besides, it just wouldn't seem right thinking of her older
sister while kissing Michelle."
"You are SUCH a dear... maybe
you should go say something." The wife of the brother of the father of
the bride stated, before taking three large gulps from her champagne
glass."
"I think you're right!" I agreed. "Should I use the microphone?"
"That's a wonderful idea, Patrick! Now go. I'll keep my fingers crossed for you."
"You're not going to come watch me make a spectacle of myself?" I asked.
"I
would, but John only allows me to smoke at special functions." She
reached for another cigarette. "I really liked it better when I could
smoke all the time."
"I completely understand." I turned and walked back into the reception.
I
walked up to Kimmy's table and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm really
happy for you." I turned to David, "You too... congratulations." I
shook his hand.
I walked back out to the patio and sat next to the wife of the brother of the father of the bride.
"How did it go?" She asked.
I sat there for a moment before answering. "She said no." I reached for my drink.
The wife of the brother of the father of the bride shook her head with disgust. "B*tch."
I smiled at her, "I know."
Friday, May 4, 2012
I hate cilantro. So much
in fact that I just got out of jail last month for burning down a
cilantro farm in the small Mexican town of Tierra del Fuego. Well I
didn't actually burn it down, but when I was accosted by the Mexican
Federalis I was holding a lit match, which was deemed to be enough
damning evidence on its own.
At first, I did what any respectable American would do, I started pleading and begging. When that didn't work, I offered them the contents of my pockets with hope that in return they would let me go free. The head federali, Hector, laughed at me and said, "You stupeeed gringo... we get to keep the money anyways! HA!" This was when I heard an audible gulp coming from my throat, because I realized at that moment I was going to spend the rest of my life in a small Mexican jail being someones bitch, or "Perra", as I would soon discover.
As it would turn out, Mexican jail really wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, seeing how much I love to eat Mexican food. The downside: everyone constantly had really bad gas, especially the cook Miguel Conterroshky, a half Jewish, half mexican male who never married, but loved his refried beans.
Fortunately for me, cilantro is thought of in Mexico as a novelty food found unfit for prisoners -- a luxury so-to-speak, so rarely did they serve it with the huevos rancheros, unless it was some kind of National Mexican Holiday. In fact, my first Cinco de Mayo in prison, I silently cursed Miguel when I saw they had loaded my carne asada with cilantro. Why would he do that? He knows I HATE it.
When I moved it to the side of my plate, I happened to be sitting across from the prison bully/rapist/movie projectionist, Muchacho Guerrero, who was ogling my cilantro with lusting eyes. As I moved it with my wooden fork, I checked his face for feedback... yep, his eyes were glued to my cilantro. I said, "Hey mister Muchacho Guerrero, would you like to have my cilantro?" He replied, "Si senior Perra, and eeen return you can marry my seeeester, Maria Muchacha Guerrera, AND I promeeese not to sneak up on you in the shower if you drop the soap."
"Muchas Gracias, Mister Muchacho Guerrero!" I exclaimed.
I didn't actually end up marrying Maria Muchacha Guerrera, but the next several years in prison were quite lovely, except they don't give you margaritas or any kind of Mexican beer.
At first, I did what any respectable American would do, I started pleading and begging. When that didn't work, I offered them the contents of my pockets with hope that in return they would let me go free. The head federali, Hector, laughed at me and said, "You stupeeed gringo... we get to keep the money anyways! HA!" This was when I heard an audible gulp coming from my throat, because I realized at that moment I was going to spend the rest of my life in a small Mexican jail being someones bitch, or "Perra", as I would soon discover.
As it would turn out, Mexican jail really wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, seeing how much I love to eat Mexican food. The downside: everyone constantly had really bad gas, especially the cook Miguel Conterroshky, a half Jewish, half mexican male who never married, but loved his refried beans.
Fortunately for me, cilantro is thought of in Mexico as a novelty food found unfit for prisoners -- a luxury so-to-speak, so rarely did they serve it with the huevos rancheros, unless it was some kind of National Mexican Holiday. In fact, my first Cinco de Mayo in prison, I silently cursed Miguel when I saw they had loaded my carne asada with cilantro. Why would he do that? He knows I HATE it.
When I moved it to the side of my plate, I happened to be sitting across from the prison bully/rapist/movie projectionist, Muchacho Guerrero, who was ogling my cilantro with lusting eyes. As I moved it with my wooden fork, I checked his face for feedback... yep, his eyes were glued to my cilantro. I said, "Hey mister Muchacho Guerrero, would you like to have my cilantro?" He replied, "Si senior Perra, and eeen return you can marry my seeeester, Maria Muchacha Guerrera, AND I promeeese not to sneak up on you in the shower if you drop the soap."
"Muchas Gracias, Mister Muchacho Guerrero!" I exclaimed.
I didn't actually end up marrying Maria Muchacha Guerrera, but the next several years in prison were quite lovely, except they don't give you margaritas or any kind of Mexican beer.
nothing compares 2 me
I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a Sinead O' Connor fan, but one
night I was out bar-hopping and I ran into her at this Kareoke bar
called "Sing it again." It was a dumpy little hole-in-the-wall with an
uneven pool table and an ugly bartender named Roofie.
Sinead was sitting in the corner with her friends and we immediately made eye contact. She wasn't bald yet, but this was before we began dating. Our eyes never left each other, not even as I made my way past the broken-down jukebox.
When I arrived at her table, her friends all sneered at me and even she gave me a hard look. She casually mixed her cocktail before breaking the silence with a not-so-tender, "Did you need something there, butthole?"
I stared her down for a solid thirty seconds before barking out my "go-to-line" : "Just a piece of your ARSE!"
I spent the rest of the night serenading her with Wham! songs. I'm pretty sure Careless Whisper was the straw that broke the camel's back. She walked up to me as I was midway through the, "we could have been sooo good togethaah... we should have lived this dance forevaaah..." and kissed me long and hard while her friends all cheered and clapped.
From that day on we were inseparable, well, until the following day when I ran into this girl named Alanis Morrisette and instantly decided she was the one for me. I guess I like girls that can sing.
So a few hours later I'm crawling down the 405 on my way to see Alanis and I'm listening to the radio. This song, "Nothing compares 2 U" comes on and the whole time I'm thinking, 'man, this voice sounds SO familiar and the topic of the song brought back a familiar loss I experience on a nightly basis whenever I'm not going to see myself for eight hours. What can I say? I miss me when I'm sleeping. But yeah, turns out that song made her a gazillionaire. So now I'm thinking yeah, Alanis is cool, but Sinead is loaded, so I'm outta here. Adios Alanis!
As luck would have it, this would be my biggest mistake, because when I tried to get back with Sinead she said, "too f'n bad, you f'n loser!"
"Such language for a pretty girl!" I cooed, while moving in closer for a little TLC. Let me tell you, money buys you bouncers and I'm not sure where she got these guys from but they were MEAN. The goons picked me up and threw me butt-backward into the street, while Sinead laughed with the same friends who once adored me.
Naturally, this hurt more than anyone could ever imagine, but I figured I still had Alanis. Right? Wrong. Because meanwhile Alanis had been secretly writing her own songs about me leaving her, one which was titled, "You oughta know."
I met her out front of the coffee dump where we first fell madly in love. When she saw me approaching she irritably rolled her eyes and turned to leave. As she began walking away, I called after her.
"Wait! Alanis-baby... where are you going?" She stopped and stood there for what seemed like three million years before turning around.
"Where do you think I'm going?"
"B-b-b-b-but I bought you those Police tickets for our 48-hour anniversary!" I pleaded.
She coldly replied, "Well PC," her nickname for me, "you can consider yourself uninvited."
I said, "Uninvited?! Isn't that ironic? Maybe you should write a song called that someday."
Before walking away forever, she smiled and said, "Maybe I will!"
And so the story goes...
Sinead was sitting in the corner with her friends and we immediately made eye contact. She wasn't bald yet, but this was before we began dating. Our eyes never left each other, not even as I made my way past the broken-down jukebox.
When I arrived at her table, her friends all sneered at me and even she gave me a hard look. She casually mixed her cocktail before breaking the silence with a not-so-tender, "Did you need something there, butthole?"
I stared her down for a solid thirty seconds before barking out my "go-to-line" : "Just a piece of your ARSE!"
I spent the rest of the night serenading her with Wham! songs. I'm pretty sure Careless Whisper was the straw that broke the camel's back. She walked up to me as I was midway through the, "we could have been sooo good togethaah... we should have lived this dance forevaaah..." and kissed me long and hard while her friends all cheered and clapped.
From that day on we were inseparable, well, until the following day when I ran into this girl named Alanis Morrisette and instantly decided she was the one for me. I guess I like girls that can sing.
So a few hours later I'm crawling down the 405 on my way to see Alanis and I'm listening to the radio. This song, "Nothing compares 2 U" comes on and the whole time I'm thinking, 'man, this voice sounds SO familiar and the topic of the song brought back a familiar loss I experience on a nightly basis whenever I'm not going to see myself for eight hours. What can I say? I miss me when I'm sleeping. But yeah, turns out that song made her a gazillionaire. So now I'm thinking yeah, Alanis is cool, but Sinead is loaded, so I'm outta here. Adios Alanis!
As luck would have it, this would be my biggest mistake, because when I tried to get back with Sinead she said, "too f'n bad, you f'n loser!"
"Such language for a pretty girl!" I cooed, while moving in closer for a little TLC. Let me tell you, money buys you bouncers and I'm not sure where she got these guys from but they were MEAN. The goons picked me up and threw me butt-backward into the street, while Sinead laughed with the same friends who once adored me.
Naturally, this hurt more than anyone could ever imagine, but I figured I still had Alanis. Right? Wrong. Because meanwhile Alanis had been secretly writing her own songs about me leaving her, one which was titled, "You oughta know."
I met her out front of the coffee dump where we first fell madly in love. When she saw me approaching she irritably rolled her eyes and turned to leave. As she began walking away, I called after her.
"Wait! Alanis-baby... where are you going?" She stopped and stood there for what seemed like three million years before turning around.
"Where do you think I'm going?"
"B-b-b-b-but I bought you those Police tickets for our 48-hour anniversary!" I pleaded.
She coldly replied, "Well PC," her nickname for me, "you can consider yourself uninvited."
I said, "Uninvited?! Isn't that ironic? Maybe you should write a song called that someday."
Before walking away forever, she smiled and said, "Maybe I will!"
And so the story goes...
the bachelor
Everywhere I go, people are always asking me what it was like being on the reality television show, the Bachelor.
Random people, like my mailman who is in fact a woman. Or that nice lady up at Von's supermarket who'll ask me fifteen million times during check out if I found everything okay. I'm always thinking, 'nothing's changed since the last time you asked me 1.5 seconds ago,' but as usual, I'm always cordial.
"Yes, Veronica... every one's really nice here at Von's." I'll smile. "They made perfectly sure I found everything... perfectly!"
Veronica usually studies my face for sarcasm, or perhaps she's quietly wondering to herself if she's already asked me the question that's moments away from being asked: "You were on the Bachelor, weren't you? Wow! What was that like?"
"Well, kissing the girls was fun... and I kissed every-single-one of them." I'll casually say before winking, "and going on all of those trips was great too. And you know? I didn't have to pay for any of it."
"Wow!" She'll reply.
As always, I'll nod and say, "I know."
Satisfied, Veronica will smile and bid me farewell until next time, which I'm hoping will be later rather than sooner. In fact, I'll make a mental note to myself to avoid the "10 items or less" lane no matter how long the other lines are. Little do I know that next time (as usual) I'll forget.
On the way to the car I'll walk by a gorgeous blond. At first she'll shoot me a knowing smile, one probably reserved for an old friend, but then it will hit her (it always does). I know by now that even the coolest California natives who can casually walk by an A-list celebrity without even a second glance, will stop and glare when they see me coming. Like most of the others, this particular blond won't even remember my name, but strangely enough will find it fitting for her greeting to be, "God, you're such a FREAKIN' pig!"
As always, I'll smile and nod. After all, she does have a point.
Does it hurt? Naturally. But being an ex-"bachelor" isn't all bad. When I'm at the local bar I am considered to be a man among men. Guys will push past a hot girl just to buy me a drink. I've figured out in the past two years that a drink is roughly worth one kissing story and I'm a fast drinker. Regardless of their state of intoxication, the next question is almost always the same: "yeah, but did you..."
I always cut them short before saying, matter-of-factly, "you'd better believe I did." Then I'll lower my voice and lean in and wink. "I made out with very single one of 'em."
It has been quite the honeymoon since Marilyn and I broke up, roughly one hour after being reunited on national television. It never hits you when you're kissing every single one of the girls on the show that there's eventually going to be a winner, who then is unfortunately going to watch all 24 of the episodes during the "separation period." If I knew then what I told myself the bachelor before me should have known, things may have been different.
A few weeks after the "tell all" episode, Marilyn's ex-boyfriend, Duke, knocked on my front door at six in the morning. "I know yer in there, player boy!" He shouted. "You can either open the door. Or I'm gonna bust it down!"
I laid there for a moment, not sure if I was dreaming, but then it hit me: Marilyn's dad told me (when we did the "meet the parents" episode) that her ex-boyfriend Duke was, "one crazy son-of-a-gun" who liked to run over cats, back up, and run them over again, when such opportunity arose.
I nervously walked to the front door and looked through the peephole. Yep, it was Duke. It had to be, I mean how many people in southern California have a dip of copenhagen that takes up half the inside of their mouth?
"Can I help you?" I called through the door.
"You sure can pussy boy," Duke fired back. "You can bring yer scrawny, white-ASS out here for a goooood beatin'."
I was never a fighter, not since that one day my grand-pappy pulled me aside after a slight scuffle with a neighborhood boy named Timmy. His voice softened and he smiled, "kiddo, remember this always. A man who walks away, is a man who'll walk away another day." It took a few seconds for my young mind to register his wisdom, but when it finally did it made perfect sense. I shook my head and said, "yes grand-pappy."
Unfortunately Duke's relentless pounding on my front door brought me back to a lesser moment.
"Duke, is that you?" I asked.
"Maybe." He replied. I wasn't sure but his tone indicated he was down for a little guessing game. I personally wasn't in the mood, especially since I had to pee really bad.
"Duke, listen to me... none of it was real." I cleared my throat. "Kind of like when you go to the movies."
I glanced through the peephole as Duke weighed the weight of my words and judging from his shifty eye movement, my lie wasn't taking. I ducked as his eye moved in for the peephole.
"Huh?"
I took a deep breath. "Listen, all we were doing was acting for the cameras. In fact, when I kissed Marilyn, that wasn't even real." I looked through the door and from his expression I could tell Duke wanted to believe. "Take our final night together for example. Remember when they gave us the option of taking a suite at that five star hotel?"
"I shore do!" Duke's voice sounded cross. I knew I had to quickly do some damage control. Time was of the essence.
"Well, the producers, they told us to take it, and that afterward we could go to our own rooms, and that's exactly what we did!" I'd only recently started taking acting classes, and felt pretty comfortable that my tone of voice succeeded in sounding factual. I even threw in a bit of a Texas' drawl.
There was a pause on the other side. "But, they showed yer images. Kissin' through the window. Then them lights went out. I saw it. Don't tell me I didn't see it." Duke proved my theory that people from Arkansas can only speak long sentences by breaking them down in to small parts.
"Duke!" I protested. "Those were actors! When they shot those scenes I wasn't even in the same state. I swear!" It's funny how easy lying comes when your life's at stake.
"Oh, okay." Duke replied.
Afterward, Duke and I shared a nice breakfast by the beach. He'd never seen the Hollywood sign, so before dropping him off at the airport I did the duty nearly all southern Californians have been subjected to.
Strangely enough, I was sadder to see him go than our beloved ex, Marilyn.
People will also ask me what my favorite part of being on the Bachelor was. This answer always comes easy.
"Why, the rose ceremony of course!"
They'll usually reply, "Really?!"
"Of course," I'll state proudly. "The cameras don't show it, but those girls are sweating like pigs in heat." I'll pause. "It could be the coolest thing ever!"
They always seem to look at me like I'm crazy, but I'm really not. Deep down inside I'm just a hopeless romantic who's waiting for 'miss right' to come along.
Until then, I guess I'll just have to learn to live with being a bachelor.
Random people, like my mailman who is in fact a woman. Or that nice lady up at Von's supermarket who'll ask me fifteen million times during check out if I found everything okay. I'm always thinking, 'nothing's changed since the last time you asked me 1.5 seconds ago,' but as usual, I'm always cordial.
"Yes, Veronica... every one's really nice here at Von's." I'll smile. "They made perfectly sure I found everything... perfectly!"
Veronica usually studies my face for sarcasm, or perhaps she's quietly wondering to herself if she's already asked me the question that's moments away from being asked: "You were on the Bachelor, weren't you? Wow! What was that like?"
"Well, kissing the girls was fun... and I kissed every-single-one of them." I'll casually say before winking, "and going on all of those trips was great too. And you know? I didn't have to pay for any of it."
"Wow!" She'll reply.
As always, I'll nod and say, "I know."
Satisfied, Veronica will smile and bid me farewell until next time, which I'm hoping will be later rather than sooner. In fact, I'll make a mental note to myself to avoid the "10 items or less" lane no matter how long the other lines are. Little do I know that next time (as usual) I'll forget.
On the way to the car I'll walk by a gorgeous blond. At first she'll shoot me a knowing smile, one probably reserved for an old friend, but then it will hit her (it always does). I know by now that even the coolest California natives who can casually walk by an A-list celebrity without even a second glance, will stop and glare when they see me coming. Like most of the others, this particular blond won't even remember my name, but strangely enough will find it fitting for her greeting to be, "God, you're such a FREAKIN' pig!"
As always, I'll smile and nod. After all, she does have a point.
Does it hurt? Naturally. But being an ex-"bachelor" isn't all bad. When I'm at the local bar I am considered to be a man among men. Guys will push past a hot girl just to buy me a drink. I've figured out in the past two years that a drink is roughly worth one kissing story and I'm a fast drinker. Regardless of their state of intoxication, the next question is almost always the same: "yeah, but did you..."
I always cut them short before saying, matter-of-factly, "you'd better believe I did." Then I'll lower my voice and lean in and wink. "I made out with very single one of 'em."
It has been quite the honeymoon since Marilyn and I broke up, roughly one hour after being reunited on national television. It never hits you when you're kissing every single one of the girls on the show that there's eventually going to be a winner, who then is unfortunately going to watch all 24 of the episodes during the "separation period." If I knew then what I told myself the bachelor before me should have known, things may have been different.
A few weeks after the "tell all" episode, Marilyn's ex-boyfriend, Duke, knocked on my front door at six in the morning. "I know yer in there, player boy!" He shouted. "You can either open the door. Or I'm gonna bust it down!"
I laid there for a moment, not sure if I was dreaming, but then it hit me: Marilyn's dad told me (when we did the "meet the parents" episode) that her ex-boyfriend Duke was, "one crazy son-of-a-gun" who liked to run over cats, back up, and run them over again, when such opportunity arose.
I nervously walked to the front door and looked through the peephole. Yep, it was Duke. It had to be, I mean how many people in southern California have a dip of copenhagen that takes up half the inside of their mouth?
"Can I help you?" I called through the door.
"You sure can pussy boy," Duke fired back. "You can bring yer scrawny, white-ASS out here for a goooood beatin'."
I was never a fighter, not since that one day my grand-pappy pulled me aside after a slight scuffle with a neighborhood boy named Timmy. His voice softened and he smiled, "kiddo, remember this always. A man who walks away, is a man who'll walk away another day." It took a few seconds for my young mind to register his wisdom, but when it finally did it made perfect sense. I shook my head and said, "yes grand-pappy."
Unfortunately Duke's relentless pounding on my front door brought me back to a lesser moment.
"Duke, is that you?" I asked.
"Maybe." He replied. I wasn't sure but his tone indicated he was down for a little guessing game. I personally wasn't in the mood, especially since I had to pee really bad.
"Duke, listen to me... none of it was real." I cleared my throat. "Kind of like when you go to the movies."
I glanced through the peephole as Duke weighed the weight of my words and judging from his shifty eye movement, my lie wasn't taking. I ducked as his eye moved in for the peephole.
"Huh?"
I took a deep breath. "Listen, all we were doing was acting for the cameras. In fact, when I kissed Marilyn, that wasn't even real." I looked through the door and from his expression I could tell Duke wanted to believe. "Take our final night together for example. Remember when they gave us the option of taking a suite at that five star hotel?"
"I shore do!" Duke's voice sounded cross. I knew I had to quickly do some damage control. Time was of the essence.
"Well, the producers, they told us to take it, and that afterward we could go to our own rooms, and that's exactly what we did!" I'd only recently started taking acting classes, and felt pretty comfortable that my tone of voice succeeded in sounding factual. I even threw in a bit of a Texas' drawl.
There was a pause on the other side. "But, they showed yer images. Kissin' through the window. Then them lights went out. I saw it. Don't tell me I didn't see it." Duke proved my theory that people from Arkansas can only speak long sentences by breaking them down in to small parts.
"Duke!" I protested. "Those were actors! When they shot those scenes I wasn't even in the same state. I swear!" It's funny how easy lying comes when your life's at stake.
"Oh, okay." Duke replied.
Afterward, Duke and I shared a nice breakfast by the beach. He'd never seen the Hollywood sign, so before dropping him off at the airport I did the duty nearly all southern Californians have been subjected to.
Strangely enough, I was sadder to see him go than our beloved ex, Marilyn.
People will also ask me what my favorite part of being on the Bachelor was. This answer always comes easy.
"Why, the rose ceremony of course!"
They'll usually reply, "Really?!"
"Of course," I'll state proudly. "The cameras don't show it, but those girls are sweating like pigs in heat." I'll pause. "It could be the coolest thing ever!"
They always seem to look at me like I'm crazy, but I'm really not. Deep down inside I'm just a hopeless romantic who's waiting for 'miss right' to come along.
Until then, I guess I'll just have to learn to live with being a bachelor.
reality tv
based on a true story:
When Reality TV first reared its ugly head back in the 90's I decided immediately it was garbage. Friends would come to me and say, "oh did you see what happened on the Real World last ni..." I'd always cut them short, "blah-blah-blah -don't know, don't care." And I truly didn't.
Well something must have gone awry along the way, actually, if I'm to be accurate, the "something" isn't just a random shot in the dark at some unseen force, it actually has a name: Missy, and she is my sister.
From the very beginning it was apparent that I was her puppet, put on this earth for her mere entertainment. At just 6 months old she would dress me up in gowns and pile on massive amounts of make-up.
When I finally learned how to talk in the first or second grade, she began with her many psychological experiments. "You're really ugly." She would state, matter-of-factly, monitoring my facial expression for any kind of feedback she could use to render me powerless in the future. As far as I was concerned, I had no other option but to believe because she had the final say on all matters.
I remember walking into her room one morning as she was busy gazing into her mirror. "I am the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world." She'd say. "I have perfect eyes, a perfect nose, perfect lips..." Her reflection hypnotically nodded along in agreement with me. We were obviously both under the same spell.
So naturally when Missy told me several years back that Big Brother 3 was the best show on television, I had no other choice but to believe. I suddenly found myself having lengthy discussions with her about why we both thought Alison was a Trampy McTramperson, and what reasons she could possibly have for being so stupid. Sadly, reality tv was when I first began the healing process. I finally had a sense of belonging, because I was no longer the victim, but now the oppressor along side of my older sister.
"Doesn't Alison realize that her boyfriend back home is watching her sleep with all of the other guys?" Missy scoffed in disbelief. "Like when she said, 'my boyfriend is going to kill me when he sees what I've done'. What's she thinking?" I didn't dare say too much at first, I mostly just nodded and agreed. Saying something foolish would likely get me banned from our special club and the thought of this happening would be an unthinkable tragedy.
As time went on, we quickly became addicted to anything shot on Beta format. The Bachelor and Bachelorette moved into the arena of new favorite shows.
I even once made the near-fateful mistake of calling her during a pivotal point where Andrew Firestone was about to hand out the second rose of twenty three to one of the longing women of the first episode. "Patrick, are you out of your mind? Unless if you have bullet wounds in your chest, you are NEVER to call me until the commercial break." Click - the phone went dead. What was I thinking?! Here I'd finally come all this way, only to blow it by being a mindless idiot. I paced my apartment as I waited for the commercial break before nervously calling back.
"I'm so sorry!" I screamed. She paused then sighed for the full torturous effect. "It's okay, Patrick. We all make mistakes, just don't do it again, k?" I was ecstatic and swore over and over to myself to use more caution in the future.
Meanwhile, reality tv was evolving and even better shows started surfacing, like Extreme Makeover: The Home Edition, and more importantly, The Contender. A show hosted by Sylvester Stallone and boxing legend, Sugar Ray Leonard. "Reality tv has finally reached perfection." Missy proclaimed, as she signaled for me to refill her wine glass. The Contender was moments away from beginning when the phone rang. I went over a list in my head of people who would be foolish enough to call, but came up empty handed.
"Missy, it's ABCDEFG, listen, I've had one of the worst days in my life and I just really need a friend to talk to." The show was finally beginning. "I'm sorry, ABCDEFG, you kind of caught me at a bad time." Click. Missy rolled her eyes, "The nerve of some people."
I shook my head in disgust, "I know. Lame!"
So needless to say, I love reality tv for many reasons. Its ability to make us laugh and to cry. It's healing effect on past damaged relationships. But most importantly reality tv is great because it brings us closer to our loved ones.
When Reality TV first reared its ugly head back in the 90's I decided immediately it was garbage. Friends would come to me and say, "oh did you see what happened on the Real World last ni..." I'd always cut them short, "blah-blah-blah -don't know, don't care." And I truly didn't.
Well something must have gone awry along the way, actually, if I'm to be accurate, the "something" isn't just a random shot in the dark at some unseen force, it actually has a name: Missy, and she is my sister.
From the very beginning it was apparent that I was her puppet, put on this earth for her mere entertainment. At just 6 months old she would dress me up in gowns and pile on massive amounts of make-up.
When I finally learned how to talk in the first or second grade, she began with her many psychological experiments. "You're really ugly." She would state, matter-of-factly, monitoring my facial expression for any kind of feedback she could use to render me powerless in the future. As far as I was concerned, I had no other option but to believe because she had the final say on all matters.
I remember walking into her room one morning as she was busy gazing into her mirror. "I am the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world." She'd say. "I have perfect eyes, a perfect nose, perfect lips..." Her reflection hypnotically nodded along in agreement with me. We were obviously both under the same spell.
So naturally when Missy told me several years back that Big Brother 3 was the best show on television, I had no other choice but to believe. I suddenly found myself having lengthy discussions with her about why we both thought Alison was a Trampy McTramperson, and what reasons she could possibly have for being so stupid. Sadly, reality tv was when I first began the healing process. I finally had a sense of belonging, because I was no longer the victim, but now the oppressor along side of my older sister.
"Doesn't Alison realize that her boyfriend back home is watching her sleep with all of the other guys?" Missy scoffed in disbelief. "Like when she said, 'my boyfriend is going to kill me when he sees what I've done'. What's she thinking?" I didn't dare say too much at first, I mostly just nodded and agreed. Saying something foolish would likely get me banned from our special club and the thought of this happening would be an unthinkable tragedy.
As time went on, we quickly became addicted to anything shot on Beta format. The Bachelor and Bachelorette moved into the arena of new favorite shows.
I even once made the near-fateful mistake of calling her during a pivotal point where Andrew Firestone was about to hand out the second rose of twenty three to one of the longing women of the first episode. "Patrick, are you out of your mind? Unless if you have bullet wounds in your chest, you are NEVER to call me until the commercial break." Click - the phone went dead. What was I thinking?! Here I'd finally come all this way, only to blow it by being a mindless idiot. I paced my apartment as I waited for the commercial break before nervously calling back.
"I'm so sorry!" I screamed. She paused then sighed for the full torturous effect. "It's okay, Patrick. We all make mistakes, just don't do it again, k?" I was ecstatic and swore over and over to myself to use more caution in the future.
Meanwhile, reality tv was evolving and even better shows started surfacing, like Extreme Makeover: The Home Edition, and more importantly, The Contender. A show hosted by Sylvester Stallone and boxing legend, Sugar Ray Leonard. "Reality tv has finally reached perfection." Missy proclaimed, as she signaled for me to refill her wine glass. The Contender was moments away from beginning when the phone rang. I went over a list in my head of people who would be foolish enough to call, but came up empty handed.
"Missy, it's ABCDEFG, listen, I've had one of the worst days in my life and I just really need a friend to talk to." The show was finally beginning. "I'm sorry, ABCDEFG, you kind of caught me at a bad time." Click. Missy rolled her eyes, "The nerve of some people."
I shook my head in disgust, "I know. Lame!"
So needless to say, I love reality tv for many reasons. Its ability to make us laugh and to cry. It's healing effect on past damaged relationships. But most importantly reality tv is great because it brings us closer to our loved ones.
internet love
Tuesday, August 09, 1998
Love can hit you when you least expect it. When you're walking through a crowded room. While checking out the latest in lingerie at Ross. Stealthily running down the beach on a hot, sunny afternoon...
For me, love struck one particular morning in the mid-nineties as I was browsing the AOL chat rooms. I believe the particular room was "pretty young things". "This is way too easy!" I muttered to myself as I looked down the list of names on the members screen. That's when I saw her name for the first time: hotmodel4U. I knew I had finally found my soul mate, so I quickly messaged her.
"Hi, my name is Patrick," I typed. "I've spent my entire life looking for you... WHERE have you been???"
Seconds seemed like an eternity, as I waited for her response. My fingers were nervously tapping the desk when the familiar AOL chime sang out into the room.
"hI PaTrIcK... im doNNa!"
We sat there for hours chatting, taking only brief restroom breaks. Hours turned into days and as the weeks passed, our relationship quickly progressed. We spent hours talking on the phone about every aspect of our lives. Her last boyfriend, Pierre, was a runway model who had left her for the girl in Chris Isaak's, wicked game video. Helena Christensen's her name, I believe.
"She's a tramp." Donna stated matter-of-factly, as she munched on what I believed to be carrots, or some other kind of new trendy health food that maybe I hadn't even yet even heard of yet.
"I would never do that!" I spoke each word with conviction, "not in a million years, Donna. Never, never, never!!" She breathed a sigh of relief, "that's good, Patrick, because I don't think I could take it again. But I have a different feeling about you. You make me feel safe and wanted. You're not like the other guys." She paused. "I'm just so sick of people only liking me just for my beauty. I wish I could count the number of times rich men have offered to put me up in swank apartments but I don't need any of that crap. I've made my own money, you know? I just want someone who doesn't care about any of that stuff. Someone like you." The sound of what I was sure to be her eating celery shot through the receiver like a barrage of exclamation points.
I sat there, touched beyond words. "Donna, you listen to me right now. I don't care, nor will I ever, about how much prettier you are than the other girls, or how much more money you have OR what fancy trips you're going to take me on. I love who you are on the inside and that's all that matters to me. Are you listening to me??"
"Yes, honey bear," she softly replied. "Listen, I'm starving right now. I'm going to go grab some lunch. Would you mind if I called you later?"
"Not at all, sugar dumplings!"
"Mmmmm, dumplings are my favorite." She cooed.
Months of this had passed. My love for Donna was growing stronger by the day, and I knew if I didn't meet her soon I would simply die. So one day I finally threw it out there.
"Donna!" I begged, "I can't take it anymore I don't know what I'll do if I don't get to hold you soon." There was mostly silence on the other end, except for the sound of her eating again.
"Well, there is this new great restaurant I've been dying to try." She began, "I hear their food is to die for. What do you say?" I quickly went over a list in my head of new restaurants in town. "You pick the place and I'll be there."
"Well," she replied. "Have you heard of the Hungry Heffer?"
"Yes!" I lied. "I'll see you there at 7 pm, sharp!"
When I hung up the phone I was nervous, but there was a lot to do. I had to get a haircut, and go shopping for a new outfit, so I would be sure to knock her off her feet.
Before I knew it, seven pm was nearly at hand. My breathing had quickened, not completely unlike a pregnant woman practicing labored breaths. I climbed out of my car and then wiped the perspiration from my palms onto my pants. I was a nervous but excited... for I was about to meet my true love.
As I approached the entrance, my eyes quickly darted around for any and all model types, but turned up empty handed. In fact, the only person who even resembled a human being was a rather large woman I had passed on my way inside.
I quickly made my way past the all-you-can-eat, buffet line, then into the bar. This whole experience had given me a severe case of cottonmouth. "A shot of Cuervo, please." I said to the bartender, not really sure if my order sounded like a request or a plea for help. As the bartender set my shot glass down, I surveyed the people at the bar. No model types here either.
I glanced down at my watch; it was now five minutes past seven. Where could she be?
Then my cell phone rang.
"Patrick, its Donna. Where are you?"
"I'm at the bar! Where are you?" I looked around the room. Not a soul in this room even resembled anyone who had ever been to a fashion show. There certainly weren't any runway models here. My glance returned to the all-you-can-eat buffet and reality struck its vicious blow: models don't eat at the HUNGRY HEFFER!
Gasp.
"I'm standing over here by the door." She replied.
I quickly looked to the front door, but only saw the obese woman I had passed earlier, who was now talking on her cell phone. I surveyed the room for other doors. Nada.
"Are you standing at the back door or is is there some other kind of secret door?" I asked desperately. My face was burning to the point where sweat beads were forcing their way to the surface from every pore in my body.
"Over here, silly!" She laughed. Again, I looked to the front door where the four hundred pound woman was now waving at me. My eyes quickly passed her over and settled back to the bar. I longingly gazed at my shot of tequila, wishing I could trade places in life with the liquid substance inside of the shot glass. Being a living, breathing organism is for the birds.
I stood there for a moment before Donna's voice brought me back to reality, except this time it wasn't coming through my phone.
"Patrick?" Her sweet, angelic voice hung in the air. The same voice I had spent countless hours of my life plotting my future with.
I downed my shot of tequila and turned around to face her. "Excuse me?"
"Patrick, its me Donna!" Her smile beamed, displaying at least three missing teeth. This was when I spotted a large, thick hair coming from the massive mole on her chin. She moved in for a hug, but I froze. Tears of horror were now running down my face. I wanted to scream for help, but was much too terrified.
She pulled away. "Patrick, what's wrong?" Her large, man-hands wiped away my tears. As I stood there shuddering, I recalled the ending of the silver screen classic, The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy tapped her magic shoes together and began chanting, "There's no place like home, there's no place like..."
"Nothings wrong, sugar dumplings." I heard my voice croak. "Will you please excuse me for a second?"
She smiled. "Of course, honey bear."
I knew I could never love Donna like she deserved to be loved, so I did what any selfless man would do. I calmly walked to the front door and as soon as I was safely outside, I ran as fast as I possibly could to my car and sped away into the night.
Some would say I should have hung around and given love a chance - but "they" don't know what they're talking about.
Love can hit you when you least expect it. When you're walking through a crowded room. While checking out the latest in lingerie at Ross. Stealthily running down the beach on a hot, sunny afternoon...
For me, love struck one particular morning in the mid-nineties as I was browsing the AOL chat rooms. I believe the particular room was "pretty young things". "This is way too easy!" I muttered to myself as I looked down the list of names on the members screen. That's when I saw her name for the first time: hotmodel4U. I knew I had finally found my soul mate, so I quickly messaged her.
"Hi, my name is Patrick," I typed. "I've spent my entire life looking for you... WHERE have you been???"
Seconds seemed like an eternity, as I waited for her response. My fingers were nervously tapping the desk when the familiar AOL chime sang out into the room.
"hI PaTrIcK... im doNNa!"
We sat there for hours chatting, taking only brief restroom breaks. Hours turned into days and as the weeks passed, our relationship quickly progressed. We spent hours talking on the phone about every aspect of our lives. Her last boyfriend, Pierre, was a runway model who had left her for the girl in Chris Isaak's, wicked game video. Helena Christensen's her name, I believe.
"She's a tramp." Donna stated matter-of-factly, as she munched on what I believed to be carrots, or some other kind of new trendy health food that maybe I hadn't even yet even heard of yet.
"I would never do that!" I spoke each word with conviction, "not in a million years, Donna. Never, never, never!!" She breathed a sigh of relief, "that's good, Patrick, because I don't think I could take it again. But I have a different feeling about you. You make me feel safe and wanted. You're not like the other guys." She paused. "I'm just so sick of people only liking me just for my beauty. I wish I could count the number of times rich men have offered to put me up in swank apartments but I don't need any of that crap. I've made my own money, you know? I just want someone who doesn't care about any of that stuff. Someone like you." The sound of what I was sure to be her eating celery shot through the receiver like a barrage of exclamation points.
I sat there, touched beyond words. "Donna, you listen to me right now. I don't care, nor will I ever, about how much prettier you are than the other girls, or how much more money you have OR what fancy trips you're going to take me on. I love who you are on the inside and that's all that matters to me. Are you listening to me??"
"Yes, honey bear," she softly replied. "Listen, I'm starving right now. I'm going to go grab some lunch. Would you mind if I called you later?"
"Not at all, sugar dumplings!"
"Mmmmm, dumplings are my favorite." She cooed.
Months of this had passed. My love for Donna was growing stronger by the day, and I knew if I didn't meet her soon I would simply die. So one day I finally threw it out there.
"Donna!" I begged, "I can't take it anymore I don't know what I'll do if I don't get to hold you soon." There was mostly silence on the other end, except for the sound of her eating again.
"Well, there is this new great restaurant I've been dying to try." She began, "I hear their food is to die for. What do you say?" I quickly went over a list in my head of new restaurants in town. "You pick the place and I'll be there."
"Well," she replied. "Have you heard of the Hungry Heffer?"
"Yes!" I lied. "I'll see you there at 7 pm, sharp!"
When I hung up the phone I was nervous, but there was a lot to do. I had to get a haircut, and go shopping for a new outfit, so I would be sure to knock her off her feet.
Before I knew it, seven pm was nearly at hand. My breathing had quickened, not completely unlike a pregnant woman practicing labored breaths. I climbed out of my car and then wiped the perspiration from my palms onto my pants. I was a nervous but excited... for I was about to meet my true love.
As I approached the entrance, my eyes quickly darted around for any and all model types, but turned up empty handed. In fact, the only person who even resembled a human being was a rather large woman I had passed on my way inside.
I quickly made my way past the all-you-can-eat, buffet line, then into the bar. This whole experience had given me a severe case of cottonmouth. "A shot of Cuervo, please." I said to the bartender, not really sure if my order sounded like a request or a plea for help. As the bartender set my shot glass down, I surveyed the people at the bar. No model types here either.
I glanced down at my watch; it was now five minutes past seven. Where could she be?
Then my cell phone rang.
"Patrick, its Donna. Where are you?"
"I'm at the bar! Where are you?" I looked around the room. Not a soul in this room even resembled anyone who had ever been to a fashion show. There certainly weren't any runway models here. My glance returned to the all-you-can-eat buffet and reality struck its vicious blow: models don't eat at the HUNGRY HEFFER!
Gasp.
"I'm standing over here by the door." She replied.
I quickly looked to the front door, but only saw the obese woman I had passed earlier, who was now talking on her cell phone. I surveyed the room for other doors. Nada.
"Are you standing at the back door or is is there some other kind of secret door?" I asked desperately. My face was burning to the point where sweat beads were forcing their way to the surface from every pore in my body.
"Over here, silly!" She laughed. Again, I looked to the front door where the four hundred pound woman was now waving at me. My eyes quickly passed her over and settled back to the bar. I longingly gazed at my shot of tequila, wishing I could trade places in life with the liquid substance inside of the shot glass. Being a living, breathing organism is for the birds.
I stood there for a moment before Donna's voice brought me back to reality, except this time it wasn't coming through my phone.
"Patrick?" Her sweet, angelic voice hung in the air. The same voice I had spent countless hours of my life plotting my future with.
I downed my shot of tequila and turned around to face her. "Excuse me?"
"Patrick, its me Donna!" Her smile beamed, displaying at least three missing teeth. This was when I spotted a large, thick hair coming from the massive mole on her chin. She moved in for a hug, but I froze. Tears of horror were now running down my face. I wanted to scream for help, but was much too terrified.
She pulled away. "Patrick, what's wrong?" Her large, man-hands wiped away my tears. As I stood there shuddering, I recalled the ending of the silver screen classic, The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy tapped her magic shoes together and began chanting, "There's no place like home, there's no place like..."
"Nothings wrong, sugar dumplings." I heard my voice croak. "Will you please excuse me for a second?"
She smiled. "Of course, honey bear."
I knew I could never love Donna like she deserved to be loved, so I did what any selfless man would do. I calmly walked to the front door and as soon as I was safely outside, I ran as fast as I possibly could to my car and sped away into the night.
Some would say I should have hung around and given love a chance - but "they" don't know what they're talking about.
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