Johnny On the Spot

The Wait is Over...

2008-11-21T07:36:36Z

For years, our generation has been taught to be cynical and to not believe those in power. They made us promises that could not be kept, they put limitations on our ambitions and told us what could and could not be accomplished in life. Their attitudes have caused us to cast our eyes hopefully to the past, praying mightily that we could be saved by the ideals of a bygone era -- that maybe, somehow, their prosperity could defy the restraints of time and sweep triumphantly into the modern mind.

But now, their voices have been silenced. They have been turned into liars and cowards by none other than W. Axl Rose. That's right. Chinese Democracy, the long-awaited Guns N' Roses album, is on the precipice of worldwide release.

And the verdict?

See http://www.findingsleep.blogspot.com

Meditations on Milk Money

2008-06-17T17:42:00Z

I just finished watching Milk Money, which is a 1994 film about a prostitute who falls in love with an out-of-touch science teacher and moves to the suburbs. I am not giving away the ending, because the outcome of the movie becomes apparent about fifteen minutes in (it is what alleged screenwriting guru Syd Field would call Plot Point #1). Once you've seen the beginning, you know exactly how it will end. What happens in between, while somewhat less predictable, is utterly ridiculous.

Milk Money is billed as a romantic comedy, but that is just a catch-all term for remarkably unfunny movies involving an attraction between men and women with opposing personalities. This movie tries to be all things to all people, and as a result feels dense and strange. Basically, this is what happens: Three eleven-year-old boys pool their milk money (uh oh!) and ride their bikes to the city in search of a woman that will let them look at her naked. They do, but one of them, an emotional and somewhat aggravating boy with no eyelids named Frank, covers his eyes.

Afterward, the prostitute (who is named V) drives them home to the suburbs. It is never explained what happened to their bicycles. Her car breaks down in front of Frank's house so she stays the night in his treehouse, while Frank's father (the usually awesome Ed Harris playing a jovial science teacher) believes she is Frank's math tutor. The two flirt awkwardly for a few days and eventually go out. On the date, V's true profession is revealed and Frank's dad almost shits a kitten. They make up after what amounts to be the first of three scenes in which somebody cries for no reason, and realize that they are in love. This culminates in the most uncomfortable kissing scene I have ever witnessed.

All would be well, except for a nasty subplot in which an enraged pimp is after V for reasons that are never fully explained. He catches her at a school dance but Frank pulls a fire alarm and all hell breaks loose. There is an unbelievable car chase scene where two of the boys drive V's car while she sits screaming in the backseat. Shit just goes to pieces. The steering wheel inexplicably pops off and the car catches on fire for a reason that I don't remember. I don't remember what happened to the pimp, either. I am not interested, really. This is a movie where people communicate with tin cans and string and it fucking works. That doesn't fucking work. There is also a scene near the end of the movie where one of Frank's friends, for no reason whatsoever, announces that he no longer bathes.

The most amazing thing about this movie is that its screenplay sold for 1.1 million dollars while it was still in the speculative stage, a record at the time. The studio probably thought they were getting a hell of a deal, since this movie contains an attempt at ever genre but Kung Fu. Melanie Griffith (who plays the dirty filthy whore) is great-looking in the movie, but it is still rip-roarin' dumb.

roots_radicals @ 2008-04-30T04:07:00

2008-04-30T08:08:21Z

This is just about the funniest thing I've ever read. I thought I'd share it.

http://www.theonion.com/content/news/area_man_makes_it_through_day

roots_radicals @ 2008-03-17T16:39:00

2008-03-17T20:51:08Z

The following is a piece that I wrote a month or so ago for Helium.com, which is a "get-paid-to-write" website that specializes in rewarding marginally talented people with the feeling of being "published" and a small cut of their advertising revenue. Lately, the website has come under close scrutiny after allegations of fraudulent business practices and withholding payment have come to light. Basically, you can write about any number of topics, from politics to religion to music and every sub-topic in between. I came across the website and found a topic about love songs. Since I had been having a conversation with someone (I can't remember who) only days before about that very topic, it was the one I chose. As the article is "published" on the website and Helium now owns the rights to it, posting it here on LiveJournal puts me at risk of being sued for plagiarizing myself, which would place me in an elite group of people, including the incomparable John Fogerty. Anyway, here is the article if you decide you want to read it. Please note that it appears exactly as it does on Helium.com, nothing has been edited, and, as of today, the article has earned me twenty cents of Helium's advertising revenue.

-----------------------------------

If asked to make a list of the greatest love songs ever written, one must first ask the question, “What makes a song a love song?” This seems to be one of the hardest questions to answer, simply because most of the greatest art ever created, since man first put pen to paper, pick to string, or brush to canvas, is about that very thing. I guess the simple answer would be to say that a song is a love song when it is about or inspired by love. This answer may seem elementary at first, but when you look at it closer it becomes somewhat more problematic.
“Heroin” by Lou Reed is a love song. However, because it is directed at a substance and not a person, it would never even be considered for position on any list of great love songs. It’s an easy fix, though. Just take the lyrics to the song and replace every appearance of the word “heroin” with “Margaret” or “Wendy” and you’ve got yourself a desperate oath of loyalty, the story of a man under the spell of a temptress known to the listener only as Margaret (or, I suppose, Wendy). “Margaret, be the death of me/ Margaret, she is my wife and she is my life.” See? If Lou just omitted the lyric about “dead bodies piled up in mounds,” that could be a freakin’ wedding song. But the existence of love songs not directed at people isn’t the only thing that complicates the search for proper love song criteria. When asked what Eric Clapton’s greatest contribution to the love song genre is, most people would answer with “Wonderful Tonight” or “Layla.” But this is wrong. “Tears in Heaven” is the most heart-wrenching love song that Clapton ever wrote, but it almost never gets counted among his best because a) it is unbelievably sad and b) it has nothing to do with romance. Clapton wrote this song for his son who died in 1991 after falling off a balcony, which is probably the strangest way that anyone can die, especially considering that four-year-old Conor was not on Spring Break and he was not drunk. So how can a song as joyless and unromantic as “Tears in Heaven” be considered a love song? To anybody who has been paying attention, the answer is clear: Because it is inspired by love. It does not have to be love for a significant other, or even for a person at all. So, we now know how to define a love song, but we haven’t yet hit the crux of the problem: How can we separate a plain Jane love song from a GREAT love song, and once we can do that, what are the greatest love songs ever written?
Some people might argue that a love song becomes great when it stands the test of time or if the listener is able to relate completely to the lyrics. This argument is flawed, however. When I was in first grade, I had a debilitating crush on a girl named Mandie. This was about the same time that my dad was listening to a cassette of Billboards’ biggest hits from 1969 whenever we went for rides in the car. My favorite track on the tape was (and still is) The Foundations’ “Build Me Up Buttercup.” Whenever I heard that song, I would think about Mandie and how the song’s lyrics perfectly summed up my situation with her. In reality, the “situation” with Mandie was that she was in my class and (if I recall) we sat somewhat close to one another. That was it. I don’t remember there ever being an instance during that year that involved Mandie and I even speaking to each other. Even still, when the Foundations sang about waiting for a visit from that special Buttercup, only to be let down in the end when it was someone else at the door, I related completely. And when they sang of their desperation in waiting by the phone for her call, I couldn’t help but think, “That’s me and Mandie.” Obviously, this is ridiculous, but not just because I was in first grade. People do this with music every day, and it just goes to show that the listener’s ability to relate to a love song has nothing to do with how “great” or “not great” that song may be. “Build Me Up Buttercup” may very well be a “great” love song, but my ability as a youngster to apply it to my own life has nothing to do with that. If anything, it is proof that we should never underestimate a child’s ability to consume pop music on an emotional level, even if those emotions are in no way grounded in reality. And as for a love song’s ability to stay relevant over time, just listen to Barry Manilow’s 1974 hit “Mandy.” “Mandy” is still enormously popular, but there is nothing “great” about that song and there never will be; but it probably would have been a better choice for my first grade infatuation.
So now, we can recognize what a great love song is NOT, but we’re not finished yet. What makes a love song “great,” I propose, lies in its simplicity. Love is the most complicated feeling that any human being will ever have to grapple with, so when looking for its interpretation within music, there needs to be a balance. For example, most of the songs on Meat Loaf’s 1977 album Bat Out of Hell are love songs. And they are great. But they are not great love songs. They will always be great songs, but they will never be “great” love songs because the feelings described are too complicated. It’s as if when Jim Steinman composed these songs, he was trying to get as musically and lyrically close to the actual emotion of love as he could. While this is a noble goal, he inadvertently prevented himself from writing any love songs that will ever be “great” because he was too obsessed with re-recreating love itself. “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad” is a terrific song, but “I want you/ I need you/ But there ain’t no way I’m ever gonna love you” is just too complicated of an emotion for that song to ever be a great love song. It’s just too insistent on re-creating the complications of actually feeling that way.
So, if love is the most complicated emotion we can ever feel (and I think we can all agree that it is), we need to find the counterpoint to that complication. A love song can only be a contender for “greatness” if it is lyrically and musically simple. With that in mind, the following is a list of five songs that I posit should be serious “greatness” contenders.
“What a Wonderful World” (Louis Armstrong) – In keeping with our first rule of thumb, that is, not to be deterred by love songs not directed strictly towards people, this is a great love song. In this song, Satchmo sings of his undying optimism and love for the world itself. With lackadaisical commentary on the grass, the sky, and the colors of the rainbow, “What a Wonderful World” is every inch a love song, and nothing if not simple.
“Nothing Compares 2 U” (Sinead O’Connor) – First, we have to excuse the presence of numerals and letter-for-word substitutions in the song’s title. This song was actually written by Prince and he lost the ability to gauge the coolness of anything a long time ago. This great love song is a lamentation on the universal (read: simple) feeling of loneliness. The lyrics effortlessly portray the singer’s isolation and need for closure on a romance gone sour. It is also one of the most heart-achingly beautiful vocal tracks you could ever hear.
“I Will” (The Beatles) – It really doesn’t get any simpler than this. Light strumming, a basic chord progression, and Paul McCartney’s quiet declaration of devotion to his lady. Whatever it is, he promises, “If you want me to, I will.”
“We’re Going to be Friends” (The White Stripes) – Jack White wrote this song from the perspective of a schoolboy on his blossoming friendship with, what is presumed to be, a girl in his class. With lyrics about playing in the dirt and climbing fences as the two make their way to school, the song is nothing if not innocent and this is accomplished with only three chords played on two strings. No love is more genuine than that of a child for their favorite toy, friend, or family member, and “We’re Going to be Friends” achieves that feeling without a trace of irony or smugness.
“Your Song” (Elton John) – The piano playing is beautiful and the lyrics are sung with honesty and conviction. Of the five songs on this list, this one is probably the most recognizable, and that’s for a very good reason. In addition to be a “great” love song, it is also “great” within another genre: the song-about-a-song. Elton’s mission with “Your Song” is humble – he simply wants his lover’s permission to write a song about them. We are never told what their response is, but if he (?) wasn’t keen on the adulation, well, too bad. There it is.
There. We did it. There is a 93% chance that you will hear a love song before you go to bed tonight unless a) you don’t listen to music or b) you take drugs that prevent you from sleeping. Ever. Either way, when you hear the song, listen closely and see if you can decide if it is a love song or a “great” love song. You’ll know it by its sonic simplicity and its ability to simplify the world’s most complicated emotion. Great Love songs can get you down, they can get you going, and they can even get you laid. It is important to note, however, that this latter function of love songs does not apply to “Tears in Heaven.” If you can successfully have sex while listening to “Tears in Heaven”, you have no business engaging in either activity.

roots_radicals @ 2007-12-12T00:32:00

2007-12-12T05:46:21Z

I am honestly unsure how many times I've quit Pita Pit in the last couple of years. It's irrelevant. I'm doing it again, and my last night is this Friday. I may come back. I may just stay away. They're apparently introducing all-day breakfast pitas. It is important to note that I have been lobbying for breakfast pitas since I started in August of 2005. I was naive. I am glad I will be absent during the advent of the breakfast pita. This just goes to show that I am almost always wrong, almost all of the time, and should never be trusted when food and business are involved.

My living situation is different, but enjoyable. I live with an all-black human named Tim, and an all-white cat who has no name. Logic says that there is no use in naming a deaf animal, and this animal is 100% deaf. She loves to lick humans, whether they be all-white or all-black, all of the time; and this may have something to do with her deafness. Or perhaps she is the most equal opportunity pain-in-the-ass who ever existed. Imagine you're asleep. You are dreaming of wealth or sex, or perhaps a reasonable arrangement between the two. All of the sudden, sandpaper engulfs your nose. And then your left eye. And then your right eye. And then your subconscious realizes that suffocation is imminent if you don't wake up and rectify the sandpaper situation. So you do. And it's a cat. A deaf cat. A cat who doesn't recognize the angry tone of your voice when you grab it by the scruff of its neck, stare it dead in the eyes, and tell it to fuck off or you will cook it in tomorrow's soup. No matter how angry your tone, or how loud your volume, this diabolical creature remains blissfully willing to lick you in your most sensitive of facial features. Imagine that.

She's damn cute, though.

That will do it. For now.

roots_radicals @ 2007-11-07T14:06:00

2007-11-07T19:08:11Z

I believe that David posted this link a long time ago, but I rediscovered some of these the other day, and if you need a laugh, please take a look at

THE WORST ALBUM COVERS EVER!

http://www.octanecreative.com/Parodyville/worst_album_covers/

Pay special attention to "Julie's Sixteenth Birthday."

roots_radicals @ 2007-10-29T16:38:00

2007-10-29T21:41:45Z

It would only be fair to tell you, right from the beginning, that there isn't anything universally significant here. There are only some scattered thoughts on past and future events, and mild contemplation on the present.

I'm getting on a plane on Wednesday evening. I'm flying with my family to our old stomping grounds-- that crusty little village located almost directly in the center of the boot-shaped land mass that is the state of New York. I haven't been back to Johnstown since my grandmother's funeral, and that was last year. This visit will be under happier circumstances. We're going up to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of my remaining grandparents. Fifty years is a long time to stay committed to someone else; some people can barely put up with themselves for that long. On top of that, my cousin Eric and I are going to go around to some bars and I'm going to experience the nightlife that Johnstown has to offer, of which I'm sure there is none. It's going to be fun, though. I like going up to see my family, even though the whole lot of them are some of the strangest people I am ever going to have the privilege of knowing. It's going to be strange not having Grandma and Grandpa McGivern there, though. It will probably always be.

I'm in the process of having my senior check and applying for graduation in May. It makes me nervous to think about, but this will be my last year spent within the relative security of higher education. After this, I'm all on my own. The job market awaits, but I'd like to circumvent the real world altogether. I enjoy being in Shallow Palace and, while we're nowhere near the level of proficiency and prolificness that I would like, I believe that we are a good band and have the potential necessary to rise to the next plateau. It's just a shame that finding the one thing that reminds you that you are alive doesn't guarantee any kind of money or security. If that were the case, society would be nothing but a disjointed collection of artists, athletes, and fornicators, all of us wealthy, all of us happy. And that would be the end of civilization, as it requires a certain amount of monotony and disenchantment to function as it should.

I've been dating Lampshade/Amanda for a little over two months now. So far, everything has been going well. It's nice when someone that you enjoy spending time with turns out to like spending time with you, as well. The relationship is relaxed and uncomplicated, and that suits me just fine. We watch movies, we drink cocktails (bourbon and Coke for me, vodka tonic for her), we sing songs, we talk about things that are on our minds (some serious, some couldn't be further from), and sometimes we don't do anything at all. The whole thing seemed very appealing from far away, and I was pleased to discover that it was once I got up close.

I want to see The Darjeeling Limited. Wes Anderson has always been one of my favorite filmmakers, and his latest doesn't appear to be anything short of his usual brilliance. His movies are like Ernest Hemingway's prose on film; confident, symmetrical, and full of characters whose stoicism and ungarnished dialogue can be everything from melancholy to humorous, all within the same scene.

That's all, I suppose.

A general announcement or two, for those with interest

2007-09-28T18:01:49Z

Gathering One took place at my parents' home. It was fun, and it ended with Rico urinating on the living room carpet.
Gathering Two took place in Five Points. It was also fun, and it ended with me breaking the China Garden sink.
Gathering Three is going to take place at the Josh/Filip/David/Ryan House tomorrow night. For some of you, this may be news; or for others, the confirmation of a vague suspicion. This is not an act of narcissism or vanity. I am well-aware that no one person truly needs three birthday gatherings. On the contrary, the reason for three gatherings is selfless in nature. I have the best interests of my friends at heart, those who were unable to share my company and bask in my birthday glory during Gatherings One and/or Two. See?
No vanity.

This promises to be fun. If you can't make it or simply don't care to go, that's alright. But I'd like to just spend time with friends. I can't really get enough of that.

::End Transmission::

roots_radicals @ 2007-06-28T13:59:00

2007-06-28T18:02:04Z

I'm not a jobless mongrel anymore!

Well, sort of.

I have put my pride to bed and returned to Pita Pit. It was surprisingly easy to get my old position back. Brenden, the manager, still had all the paperwork on me and all of my information, so there was no need to go through all of that hassle again. He's moving to Massachusetts in a month, so for the time being I will only be working a couple of days a week. Once he's gone, though, there will be more hours to go around so that will be really nice.

It's not much, but it's something.

roots_radicals @ 2007-06-22T11:32:00

2007-06-22T15:43:48Z

I give it a few hours. Three, maybe. Probably a little bit less. My phone could die any minute, and here I am. Standing like the fool who forgot to bring an umbrella to Seattle, I have left my charger in the most dangerous place of all-- the backseat of someone's car. Things left there don't often return, but I have hope. I must have hope. I will get it back....on Sunday. Until then, if anyone gives in to the ever-present urge to call me and I don't answer, you know why.

The new White Stripes album is great. I approached it cautiously, but I've gotten accustomed to it now, and it's terrific. I think the title track is one of the band's strongest singles to date and the rest of the record lives up without batting an eyelash.

Man, I need work. I've been applying for jobs around Five Points for some time now, but things are looking bleak. This just isn't the season to be seeking employment in a party neighborhood of a college town. There's just no need for people, it seems.

This was alright.

roots_radicals @ 2007-05-10T02:38:00

2007-05-10T06:40:32Z

This is just a reminder about today's show.

Keg City Sluggers
By The Sins Fell Angels
Monday in London
Shallow Palace

The show is at Headliners and the doors open at 7PM.
The cover charge is $6, I believe.

It would be wonderful to see as many friends there as possible, because this promises to be a really fun show.
I hope to see everyone there.
Thanks,
MC

roots_radicals @ 2007-04-27T20:12:00

2007-04-28T00:14:17Z

From my window on the fifth floor, I saw a mother and father and their two little daughters by the fountain. One little girl was running barefoot and then she fell and hurt herself. She started to cry, I think. The mother and father went over to help her and make her stop crying. The other little girl started to run, too. She hoped that she would also fall and then her mother and father would help her, too.

My day is shot

2007-04-26T16:05:49Z

My day started out alright. I woke up, took care of my hygiene, listened to some music, and got ready for Rhetoric. I went and listened to my professor wrap up the course and thank us for a good semester. Hell, she even passed out chocolate chip cookies. I turned in my final paper, and she said that everything looked good. Things were really looking up for me today.

Until I came home.

I wanted to watch a little bit of TV just to see what was one; but since my apartment only gets CBS and ABC, my choices were severely limited. I turned on ABC to find five women (including Rosie O'Donnell, Tyra Banks, and Bette Midler) sitting in a semicircle discussing the merits of teaching young women that looks aren't everything and that they should love themselves just the way that they are. Yes, I had stumbled upon The View.
Their message was a noble one, and I didn't have any problem watching them talk for a cigarette's worth of time--until one of the two nameless women told Tyra Banks how she admires her so much for "having real boobs." It is important to point out that this woman appeared to have natural breasts herself; other than obviously having been massacred during hair and makeup, there wasn't anything pointedly artificial about her. But this isn't what disturbed me so much. Tyra, smiling like an idiot, accepted the compliment gracefully and thanked her colleague. Rosie, always the sharp wit, decided to point out that her boobs were not fake either. This prompted a chorus of feminine laughter from the studio audience and Tyra, not to be outdone, asked Rosie, "Really? Can I touch them?" Without waiting for a response, she reached out and, with one hand on each of Rosie's breasts, began to squeeze and knead them all while facing the audience and cackling like a wild hyena. This went on for no less than five seconds, which may not sound like a long time; but count it in your head. 1...........2..........3...........4...........5. See? That's a pretty long time to be massaging Rosie O'Donnell's boobs. The audience was loving it. Screeches, cheers, and crazed laughter emitted from the audiences side of the studio and, while still getting publicly violated by Tyra, Rosie announced that they were going to take a commercial break and that I should not go anywhere.

Well, I went somewhere.

I now sit here typing this, thoroughly grossed-out and without any hope that my day can continue with any semblance of normalcy. This image has been burned into my memory and I just can't shake it. So I beg you, no--implore you. If you ever, EVER, are tempted to, or have the opportunity to watch even three minutes worth of The View, just...don't. Go watch Harriet the Spy or something. At least there, Rosie does the violating.

You Owe Me

2007-04-01T07:02:21Z

The following anecdote is true. Nothing has been made up or exaggerated.

After getting off of a ten hour shift, I went to meet up with a co-worker for a post-work drink. Nothing to get rattled about.

Well, we parted ways and then I decided to hit up the China Garden for a White Russian and a game of pool (the latter of which I won, by the way). After the game, I was just relaxing at the bar, when Joe Q. Frat Boy rolls up on me. I swear to God, his first words were "Do you know where to get some blow?"

I was feeling just Russian-ed enough to answer in the affirmative.
"Yeah, man. How much do you want?" I responded casually.
"Just a G" said my wasted friend. "There is this girl, and she has really sweet ass, but she won't fuck me unless I have some coke."
I held my sarcastic tongue and pretended like ALL ugly-ass boring uneducated popped-collar pink polo shirt wearing nobodies were my normal business associates. We played friendly for a hot minute while I pretended to talk on the phone to my "guy."

I yelled. I said words that would make my mother slap me. And when I "got off the phone", he was curious. "So, what's the story on that blow?" he asked with all of the naiveté of a third grader on the first day of college.
"I can't get it for you" I said. My eyes were huge and bursting with apology.
My practical joke would have ended there if he hadn't stared me straight in the eyes and said "How come?"

This was my opportunity to REALLY get creative. It was as though this cokehead had just handed me an loaded revolver and said, "I simply LOVE bullets. Give me a few. Right in the eye. Or the shoulder. It feels good in the shoulder."

I didn't blink. I didn't even smile. I maintained.
And said, "Because...my guy..you know...my coke guy....I fucked his wife..."

You would have thought I just declared war on Iraq.

He stared at me as though I was responsible for every bad thing that ever happened in his small, predictable life.

Well, I played it as though I was. And then I asked him, very casually, "What do you think about buying my next drink?"
He was obviously reluctant, so he didn't say anything.

This is when (Holy Lord, this the best part) I turned and looked him square in the eyes and said, "Want to hear a funny secret?"
He answered in the affirmative, so I replied with, "I'm actually a cop."

His expression could have birthed twins.

He did not know what to say, so I helped him out.
"Buy me my next drink, and you won't go to jail. How does that sound?"
He nodded furiously.
Long story short, I enjoyed a double White Russian for the next half hour, and my frightened compatriot learned what America was all about:

Survival of the fittest.

Yep.

I am still laughing at his sorry ass. Yes, it was morally irresponsible.
Yes, it wrong.
Yes, it was immoral.
Yes, it was boring and mundane.

(You Owe Me)

I realize and readily accept the fact that I am no better than the coke enthusiast in this situation. I told blatant lie after blatant lie. I literally faked a phone conversation just to get this cat off my back, not knowing the hilarious outcome. Yep, that makes me a dick. I did it.

Without shame or a second thought.

But still.....

...it's funny.
And after all, he was no one I knew. He was no friend of mine.

But still.....

...it's funny.
(at least I think so)

(You Owe Me)

Amphetaminute

2007-03-19T23:46:02Z

My sleep cycle just isn't what it should be; but for the most part, I'm OK with that. I will see to it that the end will justify the means. It was good to work the St. Pat's festival on Saturday, even though they stuck me on the country stage and I was closing in on 24 hours with no sleep. Despite my (best?) efforts, I haven't been able to secure steady employment, and it felt good to contribute something to society...with the promise of monetary compensation, of course. These fingers don't bend for free, son.

Recording music is, for the most part, a boring and frustrating process; but when it's rewarding...it's rewarding. Shallow Palace is currently working on its full-length debut, and at the moment we're calling it Surrender Dorothy. Take a guess as to who came up with that one. I do love my Wizard of Oz. This has required putting in a lot of late nights, but I don't really mind. It's not that often that I get fired up about something, so when I do, I find that it's best to see it through and put in as much as I can. On a related note, the CD release show for said album will be on May 10th at Headliner's. We will be playing with Monday in London, End's Passing (?), and the Keg City Sluggers (Ameer's band). Any and all attendance would be more than appreciated. We want this to be the big one. After that, a southeastern tour begins with Monday in London and End's Passing. I'm wicked excited about that, too. I like traveling from town to town with no agenda except to hit my drums. Soon after that, a long overdue trip to the Great White. I'm pretty sure that Montreal just isn't the same without me.

Hell, what is?

Michael Vs. The Raptors

2007-02-01T17:36:09Z

Last night, I had a dream that me and all of my friends were in a mall-like place. But it wasn't just stores. There were also academic and karate classes going on. And outside, there was a pier leading to some dark water. Unbeknownst to most of us, there was a room full of vicious, bloodthirsty raptors. Somehow, they were released and let loose on a killing frenzy within the complex. The lives of my friends was in my hands, however, as I was the only one who possessed a hoverboard. Using the hoverboard, my task was to lure the ratpors outside and then swoop away as they plummeted over the pier to their certain doom. After a few unsuccessful attempts, I finally managed to accomplish this. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt.

No need to thank me.
All in a day's work.

The Litterbox Diaries

2007-01-22T22:49:34Z

To begin by stating the painfully obvious, the great thinkers and foundation-layers for western philosophy were men. And I don’t mean this to point out that they were not women; this is not a gender-based idea. What I mean to say is that they were not cats. Specifically, Socrates, and Plato were not cats. However, whenever I am reading an article or discussion by or about one of the aforementioned philosophers, I almost always picture them as pencil-drawn, lead-smudged, cartoon cats with ever-present goofy grins and crossed eyes. Most of the time, I don’t even realize that I’m doing this, it’s been so engrained in my mind. It is only when I see artists’ renditions and marble busts of these men that I think to myself, “Wait…he’s not a fucking cat?”
This isn’t a random habit that I have, formed out of the vacuum of the unconscious mind. I know exactly why I do this. I do this because when I was in elementary school (what grade exactly, I don’t remember), Greg and I used to draw cartoons and comic strips together. And, after learning to (somewhat) accurately draw Jim Davis’ Garfield, Greg lived briefly under the belief that cats were the only creatures worth drawing. During this torrid and unstable period in our creative partnership, one day as we sat at his kitchen table, Greg showed me his latest additions to the cartoon-cat universe he so hoped to become a pioneer in, two characters by the names of Plato and Socrates. I don’t know what Greco-Roman Philosophy conventions Greg was attending as a grade-schooler, but I had never heard these names before in my life and, to be perfectly honest, thought they were a little uninspired. "Any fool with the sense God gave a tree stump could have thought of Play-Doh and Soccer Tees", I probably thought to myself. The cartoons weren’t exceptional in appearance or artistic skill, and I can’t recall ever seeing them again past this one meeting of minds, but for some inexplicable reason the images of these cats has remained with me and come to mind every time I hear either name mentioned, either in casual conversation or a university setting. So thank you to my ridiculously selective memory for reducing my mental representation of some of the greatest minds this world has ever known to nothing more than a little kid’s Garfield knock-off.

Sara f*ckin' Sara Fisher

2007-01-20T05:17:49Z

I've done the math.
I've performed the necessary experiments.
I've hypothesized.
I've tested.
I've concluded.

My attention span is 39 seconds.

Officially.

Just ask Sara Fisher (the song, not the girl).

roots_radicals @ 2006-12-09T12:47:00

2006-12-09T16:47:25Z

I am a dumbass.

I got in a fight with someone who was much bigger than I was.

That is why I am a dumbass.

I didn't start the fight, but I am a dumbass.

Dried blood on my forehead.

My lips are swollen.

My front tooth is chipped.

Do I feel cool waking up like this?

No, I don't.

My whole body is swollen.

Yep. I got my ass kicked.

And I feel like a bag of garbage.

I am a dumbass.

roots_radicals @ 2006-12-05T20:39:00

2006-12-06T00:39:49Z

On November 7, 2006, the US Department of Justice declared that November 30, 2006 be Methamphetamine Awareness Day. This is true. The overwhelming irony, however, is that this holiday takes place so close to another famous holiday, which is devoted almost entirely to eating and sleeping.

I could not be happier that the semester is on its way out. No offense to this semester in particular. I would say the same about any semester. It's not you, Semester; it's the system.

I can't stop listening to Highway 61 Revisted. There's just something about it that rings true 100% of the time; pure poetry, delivered to the masses by a man who looks eerily like a young Adam Sandler. I guess I can see the parallelism between "Desolation Row" and "The Hanukkah Song." Thus, the neverending battle between pill-poppers and name-droppers continues.

Where does pride end and happiness begin?
[This is not some vague 'what am I gonna do' thing. I'm interested in your thoughts.]

My favorite Misfits song is "Speak of the Devil" or "Saturday Night." This fact is unrelated, but I felt like mentioning it.
Comment as you see fit.

roots_radicals @ 2006-11-20T04:17:00

2006-11-20T08:17:17Z

Imagine your life without your name. It's baffling.

Mark Murphy? Who? Oh, of course! "that funny guy who lets everyone over to his house?" and I would be like, "yeah, that's him."

Erik Johnstone? "oh yeah! He's the muscular blonde guy with the piercings!" "Yeah!" you got it !
Josh Bumgarner....no...doesn't ring a bell....."Oh wait! He's really energetic, right?! Yeah, that's the guy."

Brett Kent...I'm unsure..."he used to live in poinsettia. "no..not ringing a bell." "c'mon, you know him...all the girls thought he was handsome...blonde hair in high school...."oh yeah! that dude!"

Paul Huff? Nope.........
nothin'

Then a couple of minutes would pass, and some token party-goer would ask "is he the guy I just smoked a joint with?" I might reply, 'it's possible'........."Of course...Paul...he was with Chad, that Arab looking guy. They were nice. They didn't talk to me much, but they were nice"

And I would go.."Yeah, that was high school."

The cultural learnings of America continue

2006-11-13T16:19:49Z

http://baltimore.metromix.com/natent-movies-fratboyssueboratzap-s,0,4213233.story?coll=natent-ent-headlines

roots_radicals @ 2006-11-08T12:30:00

2006-11-08T16:30:59Z

In looking back at the amount of time that has passed since my last post, I realize that I have not posted because I did not have that much to say. Please note that this has not changed.

I have been thinking about going away. Chicago seems enticing. Boston is also an option. I would hate to look back on my life knowing that I spent it in one place. That is like sentencing yourself to life without parol; and I haven't done anything that unsavory.

The past couple of months have been turbulent, to say the least. Loss is an incredible phenomenon unto itself. For a moment back there, I felt unsteady and unsure as to where I stand with myself. I am far from completing my own great Design, but perhaps I am just beginning to wake up in my own way. Fingers crossed and eyes skyward, no one likes to feel incomplete. All in all, I am ready and willing to make a huge mistake.

I bought a pack of gum the other day. I don't know why; I can't even remember the last time I bought or possessed any gum at all. I wonder if this is significant.

New Story

2006-09-14T20:26:02Z

The Marriage
By Michael Spawn

An old woman in a white wedding dress stared at me from the hallway. Although the house was dark, I could clearly see the woman; as if the whiteness of her dress illuminated her. I lay terror-stricken in my bed, the covers pulled up so high over my face that only my eyes were exposed. Hers were skeletal; sunken and dark, there was no whiteness to them whatever. They appeared to be nothing more than tiny round shadows. This gave her a blank manner which suggested that this intruder was looking at everything but seeing nothing. Fear’s grip on my heart was so tight that I was unable to even breathe, unable to do anything but lie in rigid horror, locking eyes with this figure before me.

Her features were wrinkled and time-worn, like any other old woman’s; but they lacked the softness of visage that one typically finds in old women. Her skin looked crusty, and her lips were so small and tight that any expression she may have been making was indiscernible. The dress she was wearing was just as wrinkly as the woman herself, as though it had seen an eternity of wedding ceremonies. The bottom, which hid her feet completely from view, was very frayed, as was her bosom. Old as it seemed, the dress was as pure white as the fresh snow that had begun to fall in recent weeks.

I do not know how I was awakened from my sleep or how long this woman had been standing in my hall, almost to the entrance frame of my bedroom; and I certainly can not recall how long we stayed there, locked in stare, before she took a step into my room. Although, at this, the grip on my bed covers tightened to the point of pain, her move was not threatening in manner. She stepped gracefully, as not one ruffle of her flowing dress was to be heard; and seemingly with caution, as though deciding whether she had any business in my room at all. Her next move, however, sent my blood cold. She raised an arm from her side, ever so slowly, as though she was reaching out to me. Midway through the action, however, the figure stopped suddenly; and her arm hovered motionless in the air, as if unsure of what it was to do.

I had begun to tremble in terror when, with the fluidity of evening’s fog, she lowered her arm and, still holding her gaze with mine, backed out my bedroom. Once in the hallway, she turned and hurried away, in the direction of the staircase. I do not know what compelled me to do so, perhaps a need of resolution as to why an intruder, especially one so queer in nature, was in my home in the dead of night; but I sprang from my bed and, in a flash, had put on my robe and slippers and was dashing out of my room towards the staircase.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, I looked down into the dark to see the white figure opening the front door of my home and exiting, with the same swiftness that she had displayed in the hallway. I fumbled down after her, shouting “Stop! Stop!” She had left the front door open, and I exited in a haste, looking around for some sign of my visitor. It did not take long; I spied her almost instantly running across the large field that surrounded my house, heading towards the thick woods that lay ahead. I had to marvel at her speed. For such an old woman, this creature exhibited a quickness that I have yet to find in most men, when the occasion calls for them to run in my presence, let alone someone of her apparent age. Again I began my pursuit.

“Stop!” I yelled at her again, my voice echoing through the still night. I suddenly became aware of how cold my feet had become, since there was at least two inches of snow blanketing the ground and I was protected by nothing but woolen slippers.

She made no effort to respond to my calls; never once did she turn back her head at me to check my progress. The figure did nothing but continue to race before me, her illuminated dress flowing behind her. As we two darted across this enormous field at some unheard-of hour of morning, I began to gain ground on her. She had not begun to falter in her speed, I had simply begun to progress in mine. Even still, she presently reached the edge of the woods that lined the field and disappeared into it. I reached the edge of the woods myself and, gasping for my breath, decided not to enter. These woods were vast and thick, and my chances at catching up to the woman in an open field had proven fruitless. My odds would not be bettered by the introduction of forest. I sighed heavily and, shivering badly, cast my gaze up to the stars spread over the black sky.

When I awoke at dawn, I was in my bed where I had begun my rest. My thoughts instantly went back to the night’s events. I could recall vividly the appearance of the woman and the terror I had felt seeing her. I could almost feel the cold night air whipping mercilessly against my face as I pursued her across that field. I could not, however, remember returning to my bed; or even to my house, for that matter. This was curious, and I lay in my bed for a few minutes pondering it before getting out. I decided that I had been dreaming. I must have, for what cause would there be for an intruder of such strange quality in my home at that hour? I could not think of a place where she could have come from in such a state, since I lived something of a secluded existence in my home in that vast field. Deciding that I had been having nothing more than a vivid dream, I began to get ready for my day. I had business to attend to.

I was going to travel into town that day to visit my father, who was sick with pneumonia. I tended to my hygiene and, as I was bundling up for the weather outside, happened to glance out the front window; and what I saw astonished me. I saw my footprints from the night before, descending towards the woods. I knew they were mine, as they were clearly not made by some something heavy like a boot or a proper shoe. Even more astonishing, they were the only prints I saw. There was no indication that anyone else had been about in the field. It was as if I had traveled alone in the witching hours of the evening. This is when I began to reconsider my decision that the night before had been a dream, and began to fear for my own mental health. Had I conjured up the old woman in my head and chased down the mirage in a feverish fit of madness? Startled, I tried to push these thoughts out of my head and began my journey.

The day was crisp as I walked into town. It was comforting to see men and women in their winter clothing, chatting and laughing merrily in the spirit of the season, and children throwing snowballs and shouting playfully at one another. My spirit began to soften as I traveled down the street and I put all thoughts of last night, the woman, and the footprints behind me. Presently, I reached my father’s house and knocked on the door.

I was greeted by his nurse. She was a stout, pleasant woman, closer in age to my father than to myself. We exchanged formalities, after which she led me into his bedroom. I sat down in the chair next to his bed and we began to talk. I was pleased to hear that he was feeling much better since my last visit, which was two days prior. His spirits were high, and we spoke of the weather and finances, amongst other commonplace things.

It was in the middle of our discussion when the nurse returned to bring my father his tea. As she was leaving the room, she turned around and inquired as to whether I was truly his son, and not a younger brother. I took the comment in good humor; I had been hearing such comparisons since I was a young man. It was true enough; there was a striking resemblance between my father and myself. His hair was gray and mine was not, and his facial features, especially his eyes, had been dulled by time; for many purposes, however, I did look very much like my father in somewhat younger years and had sometimes been mistaken for him by those who knew me on something less than an acquaintance basis. We continued our discussion on various things, but after a time I had to leave my father, as I had other affairs in town that required my attention. I told him that I would return tomorrow, and the nurse showed me out.

The rest of my day proceeded without incident, but I found my thoughts drifting back to the old woman as I lay in bed that night. Every time I closed my eyes, her image appeared in front of me, extending her arm out towards my bed. Those eyes, staring lifelessly at me; that dress, tattered and flowing. The memory itself send a shiver slithering up my back. I finally managed sleep, however, and awoke early the next morning.

I arrived at my father’s house, as I had the day before; but his health had worsened slightly since my last visit. He complained of chills and sweats, so I tried to occupy his attention with light conversation. Every so often, the nurse would come into the room with a fresh cloth, which she would dampen in a basin before placing upon my father’s forehead. This went on for some time before my father began to get tired, so I took leave of him; deciding that rest was far within his health’s interest.

By the later hours of the evening, I was in need of some myself. I retired to my bedroom, but my rest was troubled. Again, I was haunted by images of the old woman whenever I was on the edge of slipping into a restful sleep. I could see her perfectly, every detail. It was as if she was in the room with me once more. I became so agitated and discomforted by this, that I decided to spend some time reading in my study in hopes of setting my sprits at ease. After choosing something to absorb myself in for a short time, I sat down in my reading chair which sits next to the Tudor window in my study. This proved somewhat relaxing, but just for a little while. I kept imagining that I saw her, the old woman, through the glass out of the corner of my eye. At least, I hoped that I was imagining. My eyes would be calmly sewing through the sentences, and I would be jolted to chills whenever I saw something stir outside. I could see across the snow-covered field to the woods into which she had ran on that night. I stared at the barren trees and, after my eyesight had properly adjusted, I could see them swaying in the night’s wind. The swaying branches perfectly accented the stars gracing the sky, still as death.

I was weary as I traveled to my father’s home the next morning. The previous night had offered me very little in the way of proper rest, but I tried to maintain a high spirit. My ailing father did not need my nighttime troubles inconveniencing him. When I arrived, however, any concerns about them were washed away.

As usual, I was greeted at the door by the nurse; but she lacked the usual smile and pleasant disposition of previous visits. I went to his bedside to find him in terrible sorts. His chills and sweats had worsened significantly, and his behavior bordered on madness. Intelligible conversation was almost impossible, as he would frequently burst into painful moans and begin to wail about strange visions and premonitions he was having, none of which made any sense to me. At one point, he claimed to be seeing demonic, cat-like creatures crawling on the ceiling above his bed. He soon lost all ability to communicate normally and would drift in and out of consciousness. This behavior was disconcerting to say the very least, so after he finally fell into a deep sleep and remained in it, I stayed in my chair at his bedside and kept a vigil over him.

As night began to fall, I returned home, troubled by my father’s condition and weary overall. This time, as I slept in my bed, I was not barraged by haunting images. I was much too tired for that, and was in a deep sleep almost instantly.

I awoke later than usual, unintentionally of course; and the morning was in its prime as I made my way into town again. The woman who greeted me at my father’s door was not the same one that I had come to expect. Her pleasant demeanor was erased completely, and she bore an expression of grief that, I must admit, startled me. Entering the house, I immediately inquired as to my father’s condition, as yesterday’s events had left me troubled. The nurse looked at me with more pity and sorrow than I had ever seen as she told me that my father was dead. He had passed in the night.

Stricken with grief, I collapsed in a parlor chair and began to stroke my chin slowly. I was silent for some time as the nurse stood next to me, at the ready in case there was anything she could do for me. Finally, I asked her at what time of the night my father had passed. “I do not know, sir” she said sadly. “It was in his sleep, so it may have been any time.” I was silent again for a few moments, and finally stated aloud, more to myself than the nurse, that I was at least glad to have been in my father’s company in his final waking hours. At this, she informed me that my father had actually come to shortly after I had left the evening before. Somberly, I inquired about his behavior before he fell into his final sleep. “Oh, his delirium was worse than ever, I am afraid” she replied. “He was raving into the early morning hours about an old woman in his bedroom who was coming to get him.”

At this, my grief quickly gave way to shock; and I stared fixedly at the nurse. I asked her to please repeat herself, to make sure that I had not heard incorrectly. She answered wistfully, “Yes, he kept wailing on and on about an old woman who was coming for him. He claimed her to be wearing some dress or other, like she was going to a wedding.”

Without saying anything in return, I immediately made way to my father’s bedroom. He was laying on his bed with his eyes closed, in the same way that I had seen him the night before. His skin was drained of any color or life and his mouth hung open, as if he had died in fear or mid-breath. I stood next to his deathbed and reached out to graze a finger over his cold hand. My lonely bride visitor had finally found her groom.

Short Story

2006-09-05T05:50:46Z

Do Your Best
By Michael Spawn

The milk in Jeremy’s cereal bowl was now bright pink, a clear indication that he had let his mind wander just a little too long over breakfast. He sat alone at the kitchen table, slowly stirring his spoon and, with his head rested in his hand, staring dull-eyed at the Lucky Charms as though they were giving him a lecture about not wasting food or letting his milk go bad with sugar. He snapped out of his daze when his father came walking briskly into the kitchen from the dining room entrance.
“Mornin’, Big Guy”, his father piped as he walked over to the counter and began to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot that his mother had brewed before Jeremy had even woken up.
“Hey, Dad” Jeremy said groggily. He had always found it funny that his father called him ’Big Guy’ since his dad was twice his size, muscular, and built for athletics; and Jeremy was pretty small and skinny, even for his age.
His father stared at him a moment as he took his first sip of coffee. “You’re looking a little rough there. You weren’t out partying too late were you, son?” he jabbed playfully. Jeremy usually slept in on Saturdays, but his sleep had been restless and it showed. His eyes, indeed, were puffy from lack of sleep.
Jeremy sighed and rolled his eyes. “No Dad, I wasn’t. You know I didn’t go out last night.” Jeremy didn’t have a car, nor did he have many friends who did. His parents had never made enough money to get him one, and he would have been happy to save up money of his own to get a nice used one; but, living on the very edge of town without any form of transportation, it was very difficult for him to find a part-time job.
His father chuckled and, setting his mug down on the table next to Jeremy’s bowl, began to vigorously massage Jeremy’s shoulders, just like he used to do before every baseball game when Jeremy played Little League. “I know you’re worried, son. We both know what today is; but it’s important that you just try to relax and loosen up a little.” He shook Jeremy’s shoulders and removed his hands. Having reclaimed his mug, he leaned up against the counter. “As long as you did your best, you’ll be fine. Your mother and I have a lot of faith in you.”
Jeremy seemed to perk up a little bit. “Thanks, Dad.”
His father continued, “And hey, no matter what happens, you know your mother and I love you. It’s just that without that scholarship, we won’t be able to send you to school in the fall. You know that money’s been extra tight around here lately, especially since you’ve got a baby sister on the way.” With this last remark, he gave Jeremy a sly wink. “You’re going to want to impress her with your college education and high-paying job, right?”
Jeremy raised one of the corners of his mouth. “Right.” He had overheard his parents many nights through their thin bedroom door discussing the family’s declining finances and the uncertain prospect of supporting two children. He knew that scholarship money and financial aid was crucial to him getting the education he wanted.
“Alright then, Big Guy.” His father winked again and turned as Jeremy’s mother waddled into the kitchen, her right hand resting on the small of her back. It seemed to be the only thing keeping her from toppling over.
“How are my men this morning?” She asked happily as she gave her husband a good-morning peck on the cheek and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Hey babe”, he smiled at her. “Did you still want me to clean the gutters today?”
“If you don’t mind” she answered exhaustedly. “I asked you to do that last week, but I guess when the Jets are playing Buffalo, the house could burn to the ground and you wouldn’t even notice.”
Jeremy watched his father give her his famous Cheshire cat smile. “You know we’re going all the way this year, don’t you?”
“Yes, honey,” she said, moving to the freezer and pulling out a small portion of beef to thaw for that night’s dinner. “I know, we’re going all the way. We’re going all the way to the roof to clean the gutters, then we’re going to go all the way to the backyard to mow, then we’re going all the way to the table to feast on this meat that I have so lovingly provided for you and our son.” He threw his hands up in mock surrender as she turned to Jeremy, who was still seated at the table with his now-congealing breakfast in front of him. “AND, I know someone whose college board test scores are coming in the mail today.”
“Thanks, mom,” Jeremy said sarcastically, “I had totally forgotten.”
She lowered her head and stared directly at him. “Don’t get smart with me. I gave you life and--”
“You can take it away” Jeremy said, finishing her time-worn sentence.
“That’s right, sweetheart. I can take it away.” She sat down at the table directly across from him with one hand holding her coffee mug and the other resting protectively on top of her stomach. “So, how do you think you did?”
“Mom, I already told you. I have no idea how I did. No one is going to know how I did until the results come. I just wish they were here already.”
“I know, Sweetie. The worst part is always not knowing. But I’m sure you did just fine. Did you do your best?
“Yeah”, he muttered. “I always do. Sometimes it’s just not good enough though.”
His father stepped in, “Now that’s just negativity talking, son. As long as you did your best, that’s all your mother and I would ever ask of you. So stop worrying and do something fun, like….helping your old man clean the gutters, for instance.”
Jeremy ignored the joke. “I just want to be able to go to college, you know? I think it’d be pretty cool to be the first person in our family to get a college education.”
“It would be TOTALLY cool,” his mother said, smiling fondly at him. “But you just stop worrying and put your bowl in the sink.” She looked at it, her smile disappearing completely. “Jeremy, that’s disgusting.”
“Yeah, maybe you should get some Kabooms next time. They last longer in milk”, he said imitating his father’s smile.
“I’ll Kaboom you” she said playfully as he brought his bowl to the sink and rinsed it out.
As was his morning routine, Jeremy showered immediately after breakfast; but the weight in his stomach as he entered the bathroom wasn’t from cereal. The warm water calmed him down, though. As he washed his hair, his restlessness began to waver. For the most part, he was a pretty good student. He had much fewer bad grades than good grades, and there was no reason that he shouldn’t have done well on the College Boards. He emerged from the bathroom with a renewed confidence. He changed into his t-shirt and pants and began to feel ready to take on the day. His clothes weren’t much. He had never had the money to buy the name brand stuff that his classmates wore, but it didn’t really matter to him right now. He had decided that no matter what the results of his tests said, he wasn’t going to let it get in the way of his college education. He would study harder and take the tests again and, if it came down to it, he would get a job. If he had to walk sixteen miles every day to get to work to save up enough money to get to school, so be it. He was going to go to college or die trying.
Feeling fresh, Jeremy walked into the kitchen to make a sandwich. Breakfast had left him unsatisfied and he was pretty hungry. His attention was diverted, however, when he saw the mail laying on the kitchen table. He picked up the stack and flipped through it eagerly. Bill. Bill. Letter from Uncle Andy. Bill. Then, there it was, at the bottom of the stack. His test results from the College Board. He grabbed it and immediately stole off to his bedroom. His bedroom looked very much like a dorm room, in that there were only four pieces of furniture in it: his bed, his dresser, a nightstand, and a small bookshelf. He flopped down on the edge of his bed, his feet on the carpet. This is it, he said to himself and, taking a deep breath, tore open the envelope. He unfolded the single piece of paper it contained and his eyes went immediately to his final score. 760.
Not good enough.
Not even all that close.
He eyelids fell closed as he crashed back on his bed. He lay still for a couple of minutes, then sat back up. Now for the fun part-- telling his parents and letting them down.
This is going to be fun, he muttered to himself.
He walked into the living room where his father stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, watching the football game as if his life depended on it. His mother was seated on the love seat, one of three pieces of furniture in the entire room, excluding the television stand. She was knitting baby girl pajamas with an expression of almost pure serenity. It took a couple of moments for them to feel his presence and when they did, they both looked at him expectantly, almost in perfect unison.
“Well, what’s the verdict, Big Guy?” his father asked with bright eyes.
Jeremy, still holding the paper, looked at it again as if he had forgotten or, by some miracle, the number had changed. He sighed heavily and, trying to look both of his parents square in the eyes at the same time, said, “760. My score is 760.”
The room stood perfectly still for a couple of moments, then his father looked down at the floor as if inspecting its cleanliness, while his mother set her knitting utensils on the cushion next to her. She extended an arm towards him. “Come here, Jeremy” Defeated and embarrassed, he went and sat down next to his mother on the love seat and she put her arm around him and pulled him in close. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I knew how much going to school meant to you, but I believe you when you say that you did your best, and that’s good enough for me.”
“But Mom, I still really want to go to school” Jeremy spoke quickly. “You can take these tests over again. It’s not like a one-shot deal.”
“Honey, those tests cost money each time you take them. That’s money that we just don’t have. I’m sorry.” She looked at him with a look of pity that he had never seen before in his mother.
Jeremy paused. “Whatever, then. I’ll get a job. I’ll do whatever it takes. This is something that really means a lot to me and I hope you guys will support me.”
Finally, Jeremy’s father spoke. Solemnly, he said, “We can’t, Jeremy.”
Jeremy gave his father a puzzled look. “What do you mean ‘you can’t’?”
His father said, “Jeremy, we need to have a talk. Man-to-man, you know?”, and with that he began to walk down the hall. Jeremy sighed and stood up to follow his father.
“Wait. Come here, Jeremy” his mother said. She motioned for him to bend down and gave him a kiss on the cheek when he had. “I love you, my little man.”
Jeremy followed his father into his own bedroom and, rubbing his grizzled chin, his father motioned for him to sit down on the bed. Confused, Jeremy complied.
Sitting down next to him, his father paused for a moment and then said, “Jeremy, you can’t get a job. We can’t support you financially while you look for one and save up.”
Jeremy protested, “It won’t take that long, I swear. I won’t buy anything for myself and I’ll just save all of my money. I really want to be the first in our family to go to college. I want to make you guys proud of me.”
“Jeremy,” his father said softly, “we haven’t stopped being proud of you since the day you were born. We would love for you to be the first Webber to be college-educated. But…we just can’t support you.”
Jeremy stood up. “But I thought you said you guys would support me as long as I did my best. And I did. I didn’t get the score I wanted but I still did my best.”
“I know, son.” his father said with an air of regret, “We know you did your very best on those tests, and we said we would love you no matter what those scores said. And we do. Your mother and I love you very much. But we can’t support you.”
“What do you mean?” Jeremy asked, getting even more confused.
“Big Guy,” his father began, “our greatest dream was for you to make the grades and the test scores to get a full ride to school. You’ve known since the beginning that was the only way you were going to get there. We just don’t make enough money to give you everything you deserve. The fact is, we’re at the end of our financial rope and there’s a baby on the way. I don’t know any other way to put it, but you have to leave.”
Jeremy was stunned. His breathing faltered, and he could not believe what he had just heard. “What?! Leave?! Where am I supposed to go?”
His father’s eyes were fixated on his in “We simply can’t take care of you anymore, son. Sit down.”
Now numb with shock, Jeremy sat next to his father. His father sighed, and neither one spoke for a moment or two. Finally, his father reached behind him and took one of Jeremy’s pillows. Holding it in his hands, he stared at it for a second or two. He sighed again, more heavily this time, and then, still clutching the pillow tightly, stood up to tower his large body over his son.
When he returned to the living room, Jeremy’s father found that his wife had begun knitting again, and she was humming something softly to herself, although her task had only just begun. He sat down with her and put an arm around her. “Did you do it?”, she asked inquisitively and without looking away from her project.
“Yeah, I did. He put up quite a fight, too” he chuckled proudly.
There was a pause, then she turned to her husband. “What are we going to tell the school and everybody else?”
“Hmmmmm….. Actually I hadn’t really thought about it. But we’ll come up with something. Maybe a deadly 24 hour fever?” He laughed. Then, rubbing her stomach, he added, “And hey, there’s still this one on the way.”
She hit him playfully in the stomach. “Shut up, you. You know, you still haven’t touched those gutters and I’m about to get dinner started.”
He gave her his famous smile and said in a silly voice, “Oooh, I’m starving, Mama!”
She lowered her head and looked directly at him. “You don’t eat until those gutters are cleaned.”
The smile still going strong, he replied, “Alright, babe, you win. I’m going outside right now. But can the lawn wait until tomorrow?”
“Hmm….” she pondered. “Depends on how you do on the gutters.”
He threw his hands up in mock surrender and said, “I’ll do my best.”
She turned back to her knitting and stated, “That’s all I ask.”