*sigh*

I'm experimenting with poetry right now. Trying to do my next entry entirely in iambic pentameter. It might take a while. Anyway, here's a little something to appease the people that've been bugging me to update.

Oh my God, it's a haiku!

This entry will test

Some experimental verse

Blah, blah, blah, FUCK OFF

The Holy Grail

The lights dim twice, signaling the audience that the show is about to begin.

Most everyone has a certain goal in their life, a Holy Grail, if you will, that they search for day and night, week after week, month after month. They fantasize of what they will do once their task is completed. They plan, strategize, analyze the ways in which their goal will be attainable. When they search for this Holy Grail, people are able to think beyond the capacity of their normal functions. Think outside the box.

This Holy Grail can be any of a wide variety of things. Some people strive to build something--finish the Puzz-3D set they started nearly a decade ago. Design a house to accomodate oneself and, perhaps, family, complete with hot tubs, viewing decks, and the finest security system in the world. Others want a more intellectual glory--compose the Great American Novel. Master the art of poetry. Paint a self-portrait.

In some cases, this Holy Grail is desired because the person is searching for the unparalleled feeling of satisfaction with oneself, knowing that their life is complete and that they've done everything they need to do. Or, people strive for this Holy Grail on a more competitive level. "If he can do it, why can't I?" "I can do this so much better than anyone else."

The Holy Grail.

The impossible dream.

The reward to serve as proof of one's struggles and accomplishments.

My Holy Grail is passing the goddamn road test.

Today marks the second time that I've failed. No, it's not because I'm a bad driver, not at all. I'm a pretty damn good one, in fact - I've mastered handling the LIE and Northern State Parkway faster than most of my friends (been driving on them since day 2 of getting my permit, which would be January of 2003). The reasons are circumstantial and purely bad luck.

Oh, the road tests haven't been so bad, really. They confirmed in my mind that women are indeed evil--notice how the word "evil" springs from "Eve," the female companion of Adam that offered him the apple in the Garden of Eden.

The theater lights dim and fade into darkness as the spotlight shines center stage.

July 13 and it's pretty gloomy outside in Patchogue. A light drizzle is falling on the roads, making things a little more difficult to handle. It's nothing new to me, though. I've driven in snow, heavy rain, dense fog. In fact, I'm even able to pass the weather off as a joke.

"You know, bad weather conditions often make it easier to pass the road test," I tell my parents. I'm sitting in the driver's seat of our Honda coupe, my dad to my right and my mom in the backseat. They nod and show they are in agreement. My father even relates how he had taken his road test years ago in the middle of a snow storm.

Enter the examiner, stage left.

The examiner for this road test appeared to be straight out of a horror movie. No, she's not the scream queen teen running away from the crazily deformed chainsaw murderer freak. She is the crazily deformed chainsaw murderer freak. Her maroon hair is disheveled and flying out in all directions, as if she had just blow-dried her hair after getting electrocuted. Her skin gives the image that she is affected by leukemia it's so yellow. She could have been a character out of the Simpsons. In addition to that, her skin also shows signs of poor preservation from the years. She easily looks older than 50 or 60 years of age.

She wears a maroon jacket that perfectly matches her hair. She also wears a black skirt, folded about four inches above her knees. In fact, she appears to be some kind of transvestite hooker waiting for a customer on a corner in the slums just ouside the strip in Las Vegas. Had she been wearing fishnet stalkings, the look would be complete.

Upon her face is a permanent frown. The only time you would be able to catch her smiling is when you turn her pictures upside-down. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses are demonic eyes that scream the cries of the millions of tortured souls confined to the lowest bowels of hell.

My father offers to close the door for her as she steps into the car. She looks at him and sneers, her lip curling and displaying a set of fangs. Closing the door herself, she looks at me with those unmerciful eyes.

"Good morning," I say genially, hoping that she would calm whatever devil she had dwelling with her.

"Your ID and certificates," she says mechanically, completely ignoring my greeting.

At this point, I conclude, if you can't even greet a person who greets you sincerely, you have failed at life. The only way that this examiner could have gotten to be this way is if she had found out she had stage four metastacized ovarian cancer and breast cancer, her husband deserted her and took the kids, and her favorite soap operas were cancelled all on the same day.

The next ten minutes are filled with her screaming at me, attempting to assert that she is a superior being because (a) she has the power to pass or fail me and (b) she's a bitch. At one point, she even mocks me while I make a right turn.

The test over, she says curtly, "You need to reschedule another road test," and leaves the car. Fortunately, I had parked right on top of a puddle. When she stepped out, she had to walk through it. I briefly considered moving the car while she was getting out so that she would fall head-first into the mud.

Alas, I should have done it.

Intermission. Act II.

August 17, today, was a pretty nice day. Not too warm as to cause heat stroke. Not too cool as to not want to blast the air conditioning. Clouds litter the sky, and I look to them while I wait for my turn for the road test, trying to decipher shapes out of them.

I saw a sailboat and a woman's right breast, but that's really all up to my imagination.

This time around, I've practiced nonstop for the test. Rather, my father made me practice nonstop. You'd think that after parallel parking 6-12 inches away from the curb 40 times consecutively would be enough to prove that you're prepared for that part of the test, but not really. In fact, my father practiced me so much that it grew very frustrating when I parked 13 inches away from the curb.

Last night I had gotten no sleep at all. There were many things going through my head, but most of all, I was anxious because of the test.

Turns out, I could have just slept it off and not gone to the road test anyway because all I did was waste my time.

For this road test, my examiner was another woman. She is the matronly, nurturing type with thick glasses and curly hair. If I hadn't seen the examination apparatus she carried on her body, I would have mistaken her for a soccer mom.

She seems to be a very nice person. Unfortunately, "seems" is the key word to that sentence. From my experience today, I have confirmed that outward appearance and casual conversation do no more than tell you how much a person will bullshit you.

Her instructions are simple, easy to follow. The course itself is easy. In fact, the only part I messed up at was at the final intersection, when I made my turn in too close a proximity of other cars. It was at this point that the examiner changed face.

It's almost funny to realize how the conversation we had in our car went from "You went to the Bahamas? Really? Wow, I'm planning to go to Bermuda ..." to "You're going to die."

I failed because of the last turn I made on the intersection. My street had stop signs and the intersecting street didn't. I misjudged the distance between my car and the oncoming cars and ... well, you can take it from there. I didn't hit anything though.

Damn.

Well, at least that's not the end. There's hope yet.

The waiting process for your next road test can be a very difficult thing. Some people have to wait weeks, even months, for their next appointment. Usually, it's a 3-5 week wait, but I've seen up to 8 or 9 already in places just outside of New York City.

Luck happens to be on my side for once though. I haven't seen my side of luck for the last several months, so something's got to be happening for me when an opportunity like this pops up.

Next road test: August 23 in Cooperstown, upstate NY. It's a 5-hour drive, but I don't really care at this point. What's a 5-hour drive in comparison to all the driving I'm going to do when I get the license? I'll consider this trip my journey from The Shire to Mt. Doom to destroy the One Ring. My journey up Mt. Everest to place a flag at the summit and claim it as mine.

My attainment of the Holy Grail.

The cast comes out to take their final bows and the audience cheers them to do an encore. Yes, it was a musical. The cast, content with their performance for this evening, agree to do one. Getting into position as the house lights dim once again, they get ready to sing one more song ...

One choice affects your future success.

You look at Pace University.

You look at Florida State University.

You look at the Michigan Institute of Technology.

Searching for colleges has got to be one of the most tedious things ever. It's sadomasochism, Disney style. You sit at your computer and stare at the screen for hours, seeing what the college has to offer and picturing yourself in it. The past two days alone, I've made metaphysical appearances in about twenty different colleges.

Everything seems to be rushing at me now, crushing me below a weight so heavy that my chest is likely to cave in any minute now. Just you wait. Come September 13, I'll probably be on a wheelchair and a respirator.

You look at St. Joseph's University.

Last night, my dad took me over to the Centereach road test site. I don't know the exact route myself, and neither does he, so we spent about an hour predicting where I would have to turn, where I would have to parallel park, where I would have to do the three-point turn. Where I'd fail the test. Where I'd hide the corpse of my examiner.

You know. The basics.

We've been doing this for a while, too. I've got a lot riding on whether or not I get my license. It's almost as pressuring as college.

Besides, I don't want an angry Drea breathing down my neck about failing.

My father's been putting most of the pressure on me though. It's like this with every parent. All of them have a wish to see their son or daughter succeed in life, but none of them want their child to be more successful than they are. So, they give you every opportunity you need, help you out on your way to success. But the minute you start doing something better than they can, they withdraw their support and find excuses to get angry at you with, thereby undermining you and destroying your self-esteem and turning you into a rebellious-spirited adolescent.

God, I love my parents.

The past few weeks, my father's been on either of two modes - search for college and driving. It's getting to be quite scary too. When we go to family parties, my dad will brag about how I'm going to get accepted into this college or that college. Or he'll talk about his future expectations of me becoming a physician.

It appears that I'm going to be a cardiovascular surgeon/specialist that graduated from Harvard Medical School that's won the Nobel Prize for finding the cure for cancer, AIDS, and all STDs. Not to mention, I'm married to some Hollywood actress that just won the Oscar for Best Lead Female in a movie that won Best Picture. I think I've also gone to the moon on various occasions and helped colonize Mars.

Then, when we're alone, he'll talk about my driving and then criticize what I've been doing. A thousand times over. It's getting to be that I can predict exactly what he'll say the moment he gets home, the moment we're in the car, the moment he opens up his mouth.

You look at San Diego State University.

You look at Iona College.

Last night when we got home from driving, I had to force myself into college search mode. Meanwhile, my father's handing me the mail we receive from Nowhere University, USA. I'm afraid to tell him what colleges I'm looking at now, because then he blows up into excitement and all of a sudden, selects twenty other colleges I might be interested in. About fifteen of them will be Catholic universities.

"So have you looked at NYU?" he asks me.

"Not yet," I reply. "I'm going to tonight."

"Well, look at Fordham and Hofstra and --"

"I got it, dad."

He goes downstairs to exercise and meanwhile, I'm left up with the computer to search for his future.

Searching for a college that's just right for you is like trying to pin the tail on the ass of a donkey (or ass, if you prefer) while blindfolded and dizzy on the Titanic as it sinks. Sure, the place looks appealing, but then again, everything looks appealing when you first see it. That's how they sucker you into choosing them.

See also: ex-girlfriends.

You look at Sarah Lawrence College.

You look at UCLA.

There's a catch that appears with every college. It may offer you great housing, cable TV in every room, a game room, a weight room, a study lounge. It doesn't allow you to bring the car your parents gave you as your gift for graduating senior year. It may offer you an honors program, a special house for honors students, full tuition to be paid. It's also located three planes and a Greyhound away. It may offer you every Greek life from Alpha Beta Kappa to Sigma Pi Sigma and free beer and fake IDs. It's also for the opposite sex only.

"Christ, there must be thousands of these schools perfect for me that suck," I say under my breath as I make my metaphysical appearance in SUNY Stony Brook.

For some reason, the song "Ironic" is imbedded in my head.

You look at C.W. Post.

You look at Iona College. Again.

About an hour into my search and I'm already frustrated. There's sweat beading at my brow and pouring out of my hands. The keyboard is already wet with my perspiration. My vision is clouded and blurry. All the words begin to run together and don't make sense.

Don't worry. There's no medical attention needed. This is your standard college search day.

In extreme cases, the searcher spontaneously combusts.

Meanwhile, my father's downstairs still exercising. He doesn't have to worry about this anymore. In fact, paying the tuition is probably the most distant thing from his mind. On the treadmill, he's fantasizing about the fishing boat that I buy him after I set up my own practice somewhere in the city and become world-renouned as the best heart surgeon, having completed over 400 open-heart surgeries in the course of six months. Then his mind wanders over to where he'll go fishing.

You look at UC Berkeley.

You look at the University of Connecticut.

You look at Boston College.

These are the conditions that I search for. The college must be (a) private, (b) 4-year, (c) have an honors program, (d) in New York, (e) accepts SAT scores below 1300, (f) have english, biology, chemistry, biochemistry, and physics programs for the MCATs, (g) equipped with a Starbucks.

If conditions (e), (f), and (g) are met, the college is up for further consideration.

Additional conditions include (h) greater ratio of female to male students, (i) early action available, (j) presence of (1) 7-11 and/or (2) Wendy's, (k) many females, (l) fewer males.

Yes, I'm picky. And horny.

You look at Colgate University.

You look at New York University.

If you can't tell, I hate looking for college. Nothing seems appealing anymore, especially after going through two hundred different college in the course of three hours. The ones that do happen to stand out for me though are Georgetown, Iona, and St. Joseph's. Pace and Hofstra are maybe's.

Forget about Ivy Leage colleges. I doubt anyone I know will get into one anyway, even me, so I'm not even going to bother looking there. Besides, to get in, your father, grandfather, and great grandfather must have been alumni, your family donates $30,000,000 to create a wing on the campus, or you're a genius with schizophrenia that's in the middle of composing a symphony with the aid of Dick and Tom your imaginary friends.

The one thing I really hope for is that I'm not stuck with something I'll regret for the next four years. It's a pretty hard decision.

You look at your future, exploding in your face.

My parents are weirder than your parents.

To make a New York Sour, mix 2 ounces blended whiskey, juice of 1/2 lemon, 1 teaspoon powdered sugar, claret, 1/2 slice lemon, and 1 cherry. Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Float claret on top. Decorate with half-slice of lemon and the cherry and serve.

Friday and I'm in New York City. Downtown. Follow the white rabbit.

I'm behind the wheel and my mom's in the passenger seat. We race down the LIE at 78mph, dodging Mack trucks and Escalades. Switchover at exit 53 because Queens scares me. My mom's behind the wheel and I'm in the passenger seat. We pace down the LIE at 64mph, ending up behind traffic between exits 39-30.

The Connecticut radio station I listen to statics out.

The Long Island radio station I listen to is in the middle of its 2nd hour of nonstop commercials.

The New York radio station I listen to is playing the worst music I've heard in days.

Arrive in Queens and go to the subway. Here's where things get tricky. For my mom at least.

The metro card machine is like a metallic multi-colored dragon that breathes the fires of yellow, blue, and black cards and is sustained by the flesh of our credit card accounts. Recipts are the white feces. My mother stands before the machine, the sword that is her MasterCard clutched tightly in her hands. She attacks but can't find a weakness in the dragon's defense.

"Mom," I say. "You're holding the card upside-down."

Success! She finds the dragon's weak point and proceeds to attack. But no! The job is too difficult! She needs help!

I sigh. "You're getting a normal metro card. Not the unlimited one. $10 purchase, mom. No, $10. Yes, I know it says $12 now. The screen before said '+$2.00 bonus.'"

The dragon is slain! But the battle has not ended yet. Next thing my mom knew, she was covered in the feces of the dead dragon.

"Mom ... you forgot the recipt."

Traveling onward, we arrive at the gates to the evil castle. Or rather, the revolving-door turnstile. I slide the metro card through the slot and my mom turns the turnstile. The wrong way.

Minus $2.00 from our card.

And at that moment, my uncle just happened to pass by and see her predicament. Now we have witnesses.

We get through and take the subway over to Wall Street. Coming up back to the surface, my dad's instructions were to find the church and walk off in its direction.

"Where's the church?" my mom asks after we spend 2 minutes outside not moving.

"Look in front of you, mom."

To make a Nutty Angel, you mix 1 ounce vodka, 1 ounce Frangelico, 1 ounce Bailey's Irish Cream Liquer, and 1/2 ounce dark creme de cacao. Shake all ingredients with ice. Strain into a chilled martini glass. Dust with nutmeg.

We meet my dad at his workplace, the Downtown Association. It's a club for Wall Street executives that's been in existence since Lincoln's days. One of the Rockefellers is a member of the club. President Theodore Roosevelt was a member of the club. The Seward guy that bought Alaska for the U.S. is apart of the club. He comes in everyday and just eats soup.

Also apart of the club is a group of people that are horrible at playing pool. Money does not buy you coordination.

A cue ball comes rolling past us as we peek into one of the recreation rooms.

My dad brings us upstairs. Where he works is being renovated, and has been for the past three years. The places they haven't worked on are falling apart. Walking means risking your life in the event that the floor will fall through and you'll drop 6 stories in a plummet of doom to have your brains smashed open on the beautiful marble floor lobby.

Money does not save you from plummeting to a horrible death.

Next thing I know, I'm being showed off to my dad's co-workers and boss. Apparently, I'm the sunshine in my dad's life. I'm the genious prodigy on a one-way course of scientific success and medical breakthrough. I'm the one that knows everything about computers. I'm the one that has the beautiful life.

Please, you're making me blush.

No, your father talks so much about you!

Please, you're making me barf.

You have such a bright future, you know. Just keep on doing what you're doing.

Please, you're making me suicidal.

The Downtown Association takes pride in being one of the oldest establishments in Wall Street. They have old paintains littering the walls that are dated as early as 1850. One wall near my dad's office is devoted entirely to showing New York City in the latter half of the 19th century. 70% of the paintings show the city on fire.

There are also old political cartoons around drawn by some guy named Puck. Most of them are about 1860s politics. Tammany appears several times. 80% of the time, he's on fire.

My dad gave us a walking tour descending the stairs and stopping off at the various rooms of the 6 floors of the Downtown Association building. The walls around the staircase display several pictures of clipper ships and steamboats traveling up the Hudson River or going out to see by the Statue of Liberty. 90% of the time, they're on fire.

To make a Flaming Asshole, mix 1 part Blackberry brandy, 1 part Bacardi's 151 rum, 1 part tequila, add to lowball, and set it aflame. It tastes so bad only an asshole would drink it.

Jump to the South Street Seaport. Cobble roads are all you have to walk on. Waiters have to walk on it for 5 to 8 hours at a time. The stench of fresh fish is in the air from Fulton. Indie bands have set up the stage beside the water. There are hundreds of people walking around. Maybe you've seen some of them before. Maybe they've seen you before. Street entertainers compete for audiences. Presently, the magician is winning.

The magician looks like Michael Jackson from the 80s. He's smoking a cigarette and touching small children.

We eat at Il Porto, an Italian seafood restaurant. Of course, I'm always dubious of seafood. Too many incidents involving food poisoning. Instead, I get the pasta. The penne kind, because in some instances, restaurants make spaghetti too tough and suddenly you're choking with several long noodles coming out of your mouth.

The paramedics ask if you just swallowed a yellow ball of yarn. You know, just to break the tension because while you're choking, enough air comes through to allow you to laugh.

My dad orders a Manhattan.

To make a Manhattan, you mix 1/2 parts Rye Whiskey, 1/2 parts Italian vermouth, 1 dash orange bitters, and serve with a Maraschino cherry.

Next thing, he's red in his face and laughing at every little thing.

We head over to the mall. I'm shopping for a new light jacket because my old one is ... old. 6th grade old. Yankees miracle season old.

Inside ExpressMen, my dad approaches the employees.

"WOW!!!" he says. "You've got SUCH a NICE VIEW in this shop!" He giggles a bit.

The employees look at him and nod their heads and smile.

I find a jacket I like and we buy it. At the cash register, my dad begins flirting with the cashier. Then he says something about getting a discount. By now, everyone in the store knows my dad's drunk because of all the noise he's making. I just want to get out. The cashier, she says:

"Oh, you can get a discount by buying an Express Card. 15% off the purchase!"

Son of a bitch! I wanted to get out!

"REALLY??" my dad says, his eyes going wide. "Sign me up!"

While the registration is going through, my dad takes the time to make more heavily-accented flirtacious comments to the cashier, in the presence of both my mom and I. We know he's out of his mind. They know he shouldn't be driving home. The customers know they should avoid us.

Money does not save you from drunken embarassing fathers.

A stop at Starbucks and then we're on our way home.

And it turns out, my dad wasn't drunk after all. He was just faking it. He loves being the center of attention, even if it does mean making an ass out of himself. This he doesn't tell me, but I know that's exactly what he's thinking.

My parents are pretty weird. But I love them still, I guess.

To make a very confused childhood, mix one part obnoxiously loud father, one part puerile (childish) naive mother, and me. Decorate with good grades and defense mechanisms.

Mix well before serving.

The outside world is bad.

There happen to millions of reasons of why staying indoors is advantageous to being outdoors, and I use these to justify why I hate going out.

The sun is a gigantic ball of carcinogens.

There could be an airbourne virus going around that eats at your insides and makes you puke out your own blood and guts, rendering you a living vegetable after three days of exposure.

A swarm of mosquitoes could come any moment and suck the blood out of your body and leave you with the West Nile Virus. A two-for-one deal.

Bees are attracted to my hair gel.

I could get raped. What? I have a nice ass.

By not going outside, I'm:

Preserving the environment by not using a car.

Decreasing my risk for cancer.

Not a target for terrorist attacks.

Drea got online last night. She spent a day at so-and-so's house. A day at so-and-so's house. And a day at James' house.

"James? A guy?"

No, Jaime. Typo.

Right. Cue Sandstorm and 5 male strippers.

My mom wants me to do something. Anything. She tries to force me to go back to the veteran's home, but after a bit of consideration ... I think I might be done with that. Yes, the experience was fun and all, but I don't like the place. There's too much death there. Too much loneliness. It's too depressing, and I don't think my fragile little mind can take it very long.

Gus probably knows what to do.

"You're not doing anything at home!" my mom tells me.

Yes I am.

"No you're not."

How am I supposed to tell her I'm working on a novel that can potentially bring a few thousands into our income? How do I say I've tapped into a creative well that I never knew existed inside of me that stands to be a huge benefit to our family? How can I explain that I'm on the verge of literary stardom?

Easy. I don't.

"I'm doing plenty of stuff at home," I say.

"Go to the gym!" she says. "Go biking! Go outside! Leave the house!"

"All right!"

And out the door I go.

Hello carcinogenic sun, how are you today?

What's up, infectuous mosquito bite?

How you doin', killer bees?

Good afternoon, Mr. Allah-reborn Terrorist.

Okay, so the outside world isn't too bad. I mean, the sky is blue and the hole in the ozone layer isn't noticeable. The trees are green and covered with deadly pesticide. Birds are chirping and crapping on your car. It could be worse.

I could be locked in a top secret vault chamber cell deep within the confines of the Rocky Mountains in a governmental institution being questioned about my loyalties and getting electro-tortured.

This is my circuit for bike riding. Start off going up the hill that leads to my house 30 feet. Bear left onto the main road and keep going down. Speed bumps every 500 feet. There are two of them. Make a right onto the next road - going straight lands me right into the locked link gate that leads to a dirt road that leads to the back of some bank. This next road is downhill all the way about 1200 feet. Speed bump here is avoidable if you're good. Make a right at the end of the road. Oncoming traffic is unpredictable and very random. Gate house helps regulate this, but it only gives them a 5 second delay.

Those 5 seconds mean slowing down, speeding up, or a $500,000 cash settlement lawsuit in your favor.

$600,000 if you're good at lying.

Continue down this road 3,500 feet. Count two speed bumps and three stop signs. A car passes you at the first stop sign. Two pass you at the second one. The driver of the second car flips his middle finger at you because your bike can't possibly match the horsepower of his Ford Pinto.

Arrive at the country club. It's more of a gym than it's a country club. And it's more of a pool than it's a gym. There are children in the indoor pool, because their grandparents are afraid the children will develop skin cancer from too much exposure to the sun at the outdoor pool. These are the smart grandparents, the ones that know what they're talking about.

You were thinking they were pretty paranoid, weren't you?

Get a drink of water from the fountain at the country club, which is more of a gym which is more of a pool. Exit and resume course.

T-split at the road, with your usual stop sign. Proceed straight for a full-circle course. Oval, really. Take a right and you cut the course in half.

I always go right.

Drea's back online again. She says she'll move out to Vegas and make a career singing. Bruce Springstein covers, only. Showgirls are the backup vocals.

Cue Sandstorm and 5 male strippers.

"You play the guitar," I tell her. "I'll sing."

Cue 10 female strippers and a beat-boxer.

Follow the road past a car blasting a techno trance. Pass the putting green to your left. Pathway to the golf course holes 4-8 on the right. There's a four-way intersection. I go left, because going any other way would be going right back home again. 15 minutes haven't even passed. My mom would think I only went to the end of the street and back.

Straight and flat road for about 2,500 feet. Try riding without your hands on the handle. Spread your arms like a bird. Commence lift-off.

Put both hands back on the handles and avoid the oncoming SUV.

Follow the road and you'll arrive at the second country club. It's more of a democratic community convention center than it is a country club. It's more of a pool than it is a democratic community convention center.

In here, I get another drink of water from the fountain. This one is placed less advantageously up a flight of stairs. But the air conditioning is stronger. I could hang out inside here for a while and lie to my mom. Tell her that I went around the community three times. I just have to wait long enough.

Unfortunately, I'm such a good little boy.

Back outside I go.

Hey again, cancer-inducing burning star of deadly infrared light from which we are protected by a thin layer of ozone that is constantly being decayed by our use of cars and hair products.

Take a left. This way I go the way I would have passed through had I gone straight at that T-intersection. There happens to be an entirely new section of our community that I never knew existed until today. Yes, I took a little shorcut.

What? Would you like to go up the treacherous hill of death? The shortcut I take bypasses it completely. I congratulate myself for my genius geological intuition.

This path will take me full circle right back to my home, somehow. All in all, I cover about three miles. Yes, the calculations I gave earlier didn't even sum up to one mile. Congratulations to you if you did the math.

The smarter people are the ones that didn't bother.

"You teach me how to sing," Drea says.

This way, she can decide to fire me at any time she wants and I don't have to be on the playbill at all.

Cue lonely nights at home and a porn video.

Closet fears.

Everyone has a fear that they keep locked up in a closet in the back compartment of their head. It's the kind of fear that you don't want to share with anyone else. It's a silly kind of fear, really. Usually, it's along the lines of the darkness or an animal. These are the fears you don't reveal when playing truth or dare.

Truth or dare.

Truth.

What are you afraid of? What's your biggest fear? What makes you piss your pants?

We all have an answer prepared ahead of time for this. It's the question that you can expect at every truth or dare game. It comes standard with purchase. The cost is your consent to play the game and a chunk of your dignity.

You never reveal the fear you keep locked inside that little closet in the back of your head. God forbid that you should, because everyone will point and laugh. Exploit you for it. Mock you for it. Closet fears can become your undoing.

Mine happens to be falling into the toilet. Head first.

Urine and feces are optional, at the cost of another chunk of my dignity.

It was a cleaning day today, because my mom was off from work and she knew that I've been doing nothing aruond the house. Outside world, bad. Inside, good. No suicidal squirrels running in front of your car. No carcinogenic ball of fire called the sun burning your flesh off.

"Do something!" she says.

I volunteer to clean. It was the trump card I'd been hoping to save until late August to get me out of going outside.

I could always mess my room up again.

My computer room happens to be a large mess of assorted papers and books. There's a doodle here, a note that says "IMPORTANT" there. A few Q-tips. Old tissues, thick with dried mucous. A homework assignment dated 10/2/02.

A make-up homework assignment comes standard at the cost of one lazy night at home.

Useless blank CDs that failed burning. Useless wrinkled blank printer paper. Useless scribbled handwriting of videogame cheats.

It was fun going through them. I came across a couple of my books from Junior year, too. Turns out, there were three of them that my class paid to get but never read. Some people didn't read any of the books. They're the smart ones.

The bathroom was the scariest place I had to clean, though. My bathroom happens to be a shrine. Everything is in its place. Perfect. There is no need to clean it.

Let the urine stains remain.

Let the crap smell reign free.

Mold had coagulated at the base of my electric toothbrush charger. There was some black mildew forming on my faucet. The mirror was soiled by months and months of evaporated water and Neutrogena.

Virulent pathogens running rampant in my toilet comes at the additional cost of three more months' neglect.

Next thing I know, I'm stripped down to my boxers (a green-and-white cream color today) and I'm on my hands and knees before the toilet, scrubbing it down with latex gloves and a sponge filled with a name-brand cleaning fluid. The kind that's advertised by a model wearing "house mom" clothes that doesn't even do her own cleaning.

Which brings me back to my closet fear.

I'm on my knees above my toilet bowl. Before me sits a wretced pool of bacterial doom.

Right in front of my face is a villanous hive of unknown diseases if ever this world has seen one.

This is where my head doesn't belong. This is where I don't want to be when I sneeze real hard. This was the center of all my childhood nightmares before coming to high school. You've seen the shows. A kid gets picked on by a couple of bullies, and then he's suspended over a toilet held at the ankles while his head is in the sun around which the galaxy of toilet water and feces orbit in the flushing cycle. Those shows scared me to death.

I don't go to the school bathroom anymore.

Closet fears can take you over and control you.

Cost of seeing my hair in a swirly doo after getting my head flushed down a toilet?

Priceless.

Dementia is fun.

When do you realize that you're old? When is it that you discover that the wrinkles on your face, the lack of hair on your head, the aches and pains that plague your every move is the accumulation of the years finally catching up with you? When do you discover that you've lived out the majority of your life and have done everything you've wanted to do?

What if you never do?

Tuesday I had a four-hour stint as a volunteer at the veteran's home in Stony Brook. For four hours, I was the on-call Xerox boy. For four hours, I was the trash man. For four hours, I was the man with the stapler. For four hours, I was up to my waist in the feces of old people.

I blame college for this.

My mom told me that I needed some community service on my resume for college.

I have community service.

No, she said. Colleges want to see you helping old people, not singing.

Singing is community service.

Not during the summer!

And so I find myself stuck at the veteran's home. It was an interesting experience I'll say. It could have been worse, though. I've heard horror stories from both Pat and Tita Yoyi. You've heard about these people too.

These are the people that shake your hand after handling their own feces. These are the people that ask you where the bus stop is - repeatedly. These are the people that mumble nonsensically, rapidly, and constantly.

The people that barf and eat at the same time.

The guys that don't know who they are or where they are anymore.

The people abandoned by their family to be cared for by strangers. Albeit, trained strangers.

They're all here. And you thought they were just urban legends.

The first hour I Xeroxed twelve sets of twenty-odd packets of informative flyers. Papers taken out of books, off the internet. Off the humorous toilet papers that have writings on them.

"What do you do when a HEAT WAVE strikes?"

"Who's at RISK for HYPOTHERMIA?"

Imagine burning and freezing at the same time. It was all that I could think about when I was making those copies. I thought of eating cold spicy food.

Tita Yoyi asked me to come with her on her rounds next. We didn't get to far though - she volunteered me for trivia time. Trivia time is where you take several disoriented old people and shove them unwillingly into the recreation room, which is also the dining hall and, for some, the bathroom. Then, because they're unable to move, you leave them there to be tended to by the help - little ol' me - who happens to have no experience whatsoever with elderly health care, so if one of them starts to have a heart attack, they're screwed, and I get the blame. Now with all the old people assembled before me, I take trivia questions from a book and let them answer it.

The thing is, you can't use any questions that'll stir them up.

Which World War II battle ... nope, that's no good.

The Civil Rights Movement led by Martin Lu ... uh-uh, that's not gonna work either.

Oh, here's one.

What's the name of Mickey Mouse's dog?

Gus says, very very weakly, Pluto.

That's right Gus!

Okay, who's the loveable child actress that was a "Good Ship, Lollypop?"

Shirley Temple.

Good going, Gus!

Gus is the only one that answers the questions. Well, the only one that answers correctly. He's also one of three people that is actually conscious there. Gus was a cool person though. I'm sure he must have been brilliant when he was younger. He retained the knowledge of information from the 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s. I didn't test his knowledge past there. The man probably knows where I was born.

I leave them there because I've already postponed their dinner time long enough. There's sweat pouring down my back. Tough crowd, tough crowd.

"We're going to the dementia ward now," my aunt says.

"D-d-dementia?" I stutter. I wasn't exactly expecting to be spending time with the ... less well-intact.

"Yes, the dementia ward. You're going to play ball with them!"

I could only imagine what I was going to do. Play ball with the dementia people. Baseball? One old man stands at the plate. I lob a pitch. He hits the ball. I move to field but the ball's too fast. The old man playing first base isn't playing first base but is dancing, because the organ in the background is playing music. The old batter doesn't move but stays at the plate with the bat, having already forgotten hitting the ball.

I'm playing baseball with them?

No, you're throwing around a ball with them. A big beachball.

So we're playing volleyball?

You'll see.

We arrive at the dementia ward. There's an electric door. My aunt informs me that an alarm will sound if they try to get past the door. There's a device strapped to their foot. Think of it as a tracking device like they put on wild life.

So they can be hunted. Except, no guns. Maybe tazers.

Poor old demented prey.

The dementia residents are eating, so my aunt pulls me aside over to the station first. We sit behind the desk. A safe haven for the time being. And then terror strikes in the form of a five-and-a-half-foot-tall man with graying hair and a not-so-wrinkly face that leans over the desk and looks viciously at my aunt.

"Can you open the door? I have to go to the bus stop."

I look at my aunt and she at me. She's been here before. She knows how to handle this.

"Oh, the bus just left!"

"When?"

"Just now! But the next bus will come in an hour. Come back then."

"But I have to go to the bus."

"Yes, yes, come back in an hour."

The man walks away, disappointed momentarily, but soon the thought is forgotten and now he thinks that he is waiting for the bus again. If we stayed where we were, he'd come back to us within 10 minutes to ask if we could open the door so he could go to the bus.

There are stop signs near the entrance of the dementia ward. This to tell the residents that they shouldn't proceed further. It also serves the purpose of satisfying the man who waits for the bus. My aunt says that sometimes he waits at the stop sign and says that the bus is coming.

The people that don't remember their own name. The people that repeat things over and over again without knowing they're saying it. The people who experience jamais vous with every activity.

They're all here.

And you thought they were an urban legend.

We move into their recreation room. There's a big screen TV that's showing Fox 5 News at 6. There's already a guy sleeping on a couch. Another guy parked his wheelchair about two feet away from the TV.

My aunt shows me how to play ball.

In this game you throw a gigantic rubber ball at the residents. It's just like playing catch with your dad, except you don't have a glove, and the people are old enough to be your great grandparents.

Old people have much more energy than you think, too. One man, in his wheelchair alone, smacked back every ball thrown to him. He didn't catch the ball. No. He hit it in midair. Sometimes it came right over to me. But often, it would fly in a random direction in the air and hit another old man in the head.

Old people have a higher tolerance for pain than you think, too.

I liked the dementia ward. Although, that was only my first time. Pat's been there quite a few times. I can't speak the same for him.

Back on the third floor with my aunt and we're doing rounds again. And I'm confronted by Rita.

Being in the presence of Rita is like accidentally wandering into a Dr. Seuss book. Everything she said was a rhyme. Her sentences didn't necessarily have subjects and verbs though. But between all the boxes and foxes, and the things that go pop inside the boxes, which were locked because they were rocked by the knockers that stood in the lot.

She must have been a children's book author when she was younger.

This is how I imagine the author of "Happy Birthday, Moon" today.

I don't know what I think of my experience at the veteran's home. All I can say right now is that it certainly was, in a word, interesting. Would I do it again? Maybe.

"What happens if that guy ever does get out the door so he can go to the bus stop?" I ask my aunt.

She doesn't know.

There aren't any buses here anyway.

Adolescence is dangerous.

Sunday afternoon I got a call from Emilie.

Come on out and play.

No, I'm tired.

Come on!

Fuck you.

Let's go watch a movie.

Leave me alone.

Insistent as she was, I couldn't decline. I figured, I can sit at home and let my brain rot while watching another B-grade straight-to-TV movie, or I could go to the movies and pay Hollywood to send more shit to my town. Staying home was free ... but I just had to go out. Hadn't left the house in a bit anyway.

"What are we gonna watch?" I ask.

"The Village."

"I'm staying home."

Today's horror movies are crap. They all follow the same formula. People live normal, uneventful life. Something strange happens. People die. Sex and nudity. More people die. Hero confronts the evil and wins. Dependent on the director and script writer, you can add puns and one-liners at random anywhere in the movie. Don't forget your cliches.

"Bourne Supremacy," I suggest.

Fine.

Emilie's a good driver. She's the kind of person I want to be in the car with when I don't have a death wish. My cousin Pat, on the other hand. Driving with him is a good way to die if you like The Who.

We arrive at the movie theater. Loew's, not Island 16. Loew's, not the more comfortable, more expensive, and adolescent-unfriendly Island 16. Loew's, where teen hormones run rampant and people are generally idiots. Not Island 16, where we pay for a good environment. Damn I should have insisted on Island 16.

The entrance to the theater is packed full of kids. Age range 12-14. They're all smoking, fondling each other, and blasting rap music. Someone talks about their slutty girlfriend. Someone talks about their abusive boyfriend. There's a whole row of them sitting on the island, wearing frilly dresses and surf wear from the Gap.

Inside on the line there's a group of guys. Age range 12-14. Mental age range 3-5. One of them is bald, and prone to fits of screaming while talking. His eyes bulge out of his face when he talks about the greatest joint he ever smoked. The other guys laugh and chug out random catch phrases.

My life is a straight-to-TV movie. Everyone I come in contact with is a bad actor, and within the course of this movie, they'll be dead. Too bad it won't be by some giant black monster from outer space that feeds off of brains to live and is sustained by radiation from the conveniently nearby nuclear power plant. Instead, their killer will be cancer. Or an STD.

At least my life is a comedy.

The line to the concession stand is not too long. In fact, it'd be a lot shorter if this fatass and her posse didn't cut in front of me and Emilie. God she was annoying. If I thought the bald crackhead on the ticket line was bad, I was wrong. He's Jesus compared to this girl. This one screamed. Loudly. And right in my face too. Of course, she wasn't directing it at me. No, it was just casual conversation with her friends. About what, I don't know. Must have been a topic that completely justified obnoxious screaming in public.

She couldn't stand still either. She's the kind of person that makes you wish you could strap her down to a chair and force-feed her Riddilin.

God they're annoying, Emilie says.

I agree.

Like I said, she couldn't stand still. First she cut us in line. Emilie and I moved to the other line. Then the girl leaves her line, and walks in front of and passes us. Then she comes back again. And again.

And again.

I got my popcorn, only to find out that the butter is now self-serve. Emilie leads me over to the butter distributor. There are two of them. Two guys were there already putting butter on their stuff. Well, one guy was at least. The other couldn't figure out that pushing the red button makes butter come out. Age range: 15-17. Mental age: 2.

He finally figured out how to do it though, with an exclamation of enlightment. "A-ha! I've found it!" He sounded like he found out what happens at tangent 90. As I put my popcorn under the distributor, he cuts right in front of me and takes his dear sweet time with the butter. He drowns his popcorn with it. 30 seconds go by. One minute. Two minutes.

Artery age: 52 and clogged, susceptible to high blood pressure and heart attack. Or angina pectoris, whichever comes first.

Bourne Supremacy is awesome. No explanation needed, no review needed. My neighbor during the movie sucked.

Emilie and I are watching the movie. The guy and his girlfriend come and ask if the seats next to us are taken.

Nope.

He sits down.

Click.

Click.

Click.

He's chewing his gum. Real loud. And popping it.

Age range: 20-22.

Mental age: fetus.

At every plot twist in the movie, I'd hear, "Awwwwww shit!!!! Hoo hoo!!"

Don't go to Loew's. It's a b-grade horror movie that has no happy ending. An H.P. Lovecraft story.

Outside, the kids are still loitering in front of the theater. They're still fondling each other. Still smoking. The rap music is still really loud, but now it's coming from the parking lot. A Chevy Blazer drives by, filled to the capacity inside. And outside. Two girls hung from front door windows outside the car, and the driver would speed up and then immediately stop.

And they all laughed.

Age range: 17-19.

Life expectancy: five minutes.

Adolescence is dangerous.

Renovating.

This is the place where I'll be coming now to write. A fresh start is always good for the mind, and a kick in the crotch to the techies at LiveJournal.

Sorry about the appearance of the page right now, since I have no real knowledge of the HTML world and I don't care to learn about it either. I'll enslave someone to edit the appearance later.