Recently, an interviewer from the underground ninja magazine Silent But Deadly caught up with me and asked me a few questions. He never told me his name, but he’s a ninja - and that’s what ninjas do. So, the following is a reproduction of that interview, word for word. I hope you enjoy getting to know the real Matt Frey a little better!
- Matt Frey
Silent But Deadly: I’m here today with author and secret ninja Matt Frey.
Matt Frey: Hello all you ninjas out there in ninja land!
SBD: So, Mr. Frey, never mind the scariest moment, favorite movie, biggest gorilla you’ve ever slain, or worst career choice you’ve ever made questions! Here at Silent But Deadly, we strive to give ninjas what they want - obscure information they can use to relentlessly stalk and eventually kill you.
Matt: Sounds great! Let’s get to it!
SBD: The first set of questions focuses on all the information an enterprising ninja would need to know if they ever started fighting you. My first question is, are you passive or aggressive?
Matt: I’m a pretty passive person, really. And I’ll kill anyone that disagrees with me. Now make me a sandwich.
SBD: Excellent! I see you have the ninja way about you. Next question - Do you trust others easily?
Matt: Who wants to know!? Keep your distance, I’m armed! And legged! Don’t come any closer! I’ll kill myself if you come near me!
SBD: Spoken like a true ninja. Now, tell me, Mr. Frey, do you think you are emotionally strong?
Matt: The voices in my head are prompting me to say no, but instead, I believe I will say “Shazbot.”
SBD: Shazbot indeed, Mr. Frey. Which leads me to my next question. Without a strong will to jump out of moving cars to kill their target and such, a ninja is just a guy wearing pajamas and holding a sword. With this in mind, do you consider yourself a daredevil?
Matt: By all means. Once, I jumped off of the Empire State Building into a kitty pool filled with rocks. And sharks. Wearing nothing but a thong. Too bad we forgot to account for the wind current and I wound up landing on the Pope. Man, I’ll never live that down; newspapers acted like no one’s ever fallen on a pope before, and they bent the whole thing out of proportion. For weeks, the headlines said things like Thong boy attacks Pope!, Ninja assailant dive-bombs His Excellency!, Sinister shark-man flies in bisexual UFO; abducts His Holiness and forces him to make sandwiches for $4.50 an hour!, and my favorite, Devious thong-clad alien marauders decimate New York City in a blind, hideous rage as never seen before; Pope caught in the middle with nothing to defend himself with but his trusty lightsaber; Bush declares a national state of emergency; Janet Reno still looks like a man. Then, the next day, I wore white… and it was after labor day! Now that’s daring!
SBD: That’s truly impressive, Mr. Frey, and just a little bit scary. Finding a ninja who will wear white is like finding a cure to the common cold - it just isn’t going to happen. Are you suicidal or something?
Matt: No, I think my life so far has been good. I have all the basics, like a rusty shack to call my home, only slightly torn and somewhat recently washed (maybe) apparel and two out of two parents. They’re both chicks, but whatever.
SBD: But, what if you died doing that stunt? And I know you say it was an accident, but do you think God was upset at you for what you did to the Pope? Or, for that matter, do you even believe in God?
Matt: On more than one occasion, I’ve sat back and asked myself, “Is God just another Santa Claus? Another Tooth Fairy? Another Edward Scissor Hands? Another Darth Vader? Another drink for the lady, sir?” And after some serious thought, I think I do, but it all depends on what’s going on in the world.
SBD: I see. Well said, Mr. Frey. As for my last ninja-related question, what makes you think that you’re a ninja? Tell me some of your qualifications.
Matt: Well, I’ll tell you, only a true ninja would try to assassinate himself. I’ve been plotting to kill me for years now. The menacing way I look at myself in the mirror sends chills down my spine. And, whenever I’m eating, and I’m around too… well, let’s just say I don’t like the way I’m always eyeballing the nearest sharp object. Also, whenever I make me a drink, I’m always worried that that jerk me is trying to poison me. So, I always have me take the first sip before I take a drink. That way, any poison would kill me before it kills me, as a warning to me to not drink whatever it is that that devious me poisoned.
SBD: Bravo, Mr. Frey! Excellent! But enough about you as a ninja. What about you as a person? If a poor fellow came up to you on the street, what would you do?
Matt: Are they going to ask me anything, or did they just come up to me and stare? It'd be really weird if some bum wearing, like, McDonald's bags walked up and just stared at me. I'd probably freak out and throw my wallet at them.
SBD: Interesting. But that begs the question, have you ever given money to a homeless person?
Matt: Does the artist formally known as Prince count? Well, if he does, the answer is… no. I haven’t.
SBD: I’m at a loss for words… so I’ll just read off of my card. What’s the one modern thing you could live without?
Matt: Broccoli. That is definitely something that we, as a modern society, can live without. That and Brittany Spears.
SBD: It looks like you’re hostile towards celebrities.
Matt: Only the ones who deserve it.
SBD: All right, then, if you could be anyone famous, who would it be?
Matt: I’d be Uncle Ben of Uncle Ben’s Rice. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I was an older back man who sells rice. Ever since I was young, I knew I was different from the other boys. While most boys my age were interested in football, Pokémon, and grabbing any girl that moved, I found myself drawn to cooking and watching the Black Entertainment Network. I remember that my parents took it hard when I told them. I can’t say I blame them. I mean, I’m sure if I was in their position, and my son just told me he’d like to be about 60 years older, African American and a vendor of rice, I would have felt shocked too. Now my days are a blur of cooking rice and hanging out at Uncle Ben’s bars, trying to pick up other people of my kind. Will I ever find the peace I’m searching for…?
SBD: That’s tragic! So, how was your family life before all of that?
Matt: Well, let me answer that with a long story…
SBD: I’ve only got eight more hours before I have to assassinate the president, so don’t go on too -
Matt: One snowy Christmas, at about 3 a.m, I awoke to find a large box wrapped in the most enchanting paper. With glistening eyes, I pulled off the ribbon, and slowly removed the lid, my face absolutely beaming with anticipation. I looked in the box quite slowly, as the golden light came spilling out, unable to contain my excitement. With that, a fat, demented clown thing jumped out, knocking me down. He smelled like dumpsters and rotten eggs. And, I don’t know how he managed this, but somehow he also smelled like screaming.
“What the hell is this!?” I bellowed, backing away from the clearly perverted man.
“Why, that’s Thrusty the sexual mime!” Mom returned, smiling. “Isn’t he what you always wanted?”
“Oh, honey, he’s humping the Christmas tree!” Dad added. “Isn’t that cute?”
“Why did you buy this… hideous monstrosity!?” I exclaimed.
“Son, you specifically asked us for a fat, middle-aged pervert,” said Mom, shaking her finger authoritatively at me. “Don’t deny it.”
“Voltron action figures, Mom. I asked for Voltron action figures.”
“Same thing, boy,” Dad retorted. “Now go clean up after Thrusty. He’s your responsibility. You have to feed him, clothe him and take him for walks.”
By then, Thrusty was already drunk. On top of that, he had also received three parking tickets. And he was convicted of murder. All in 30 seconds.
That was the worst Christmas ever
SBD: What an awful story! I can relate; one time I asked for a shiny new ninja star for Christmas, and all my mother got me was a stupid Playstation. “You’ll star your eye out!” she’d always tell me. Oh well… she got hers… I mean… Holidays! Do you have any more amusing stories about holidays?
Matt: Well, once I dressed up as George W. Bush for Halloween. People refused to even answer the door. I had elderly women tossing eggs and shooting paintballs at me all night. Mom locked me out of the house too, so I was taken in by a pack of wild wolves and I learned to mimic their ways. Then I came back the next morning and Mommy made pancakes.
SBD: Speaking of your mom, they say men try to marry women who are similar to their mothers. What kind of person do you want to marry?
Matt: Specifically, I want a woman who will love me. I also want a girl who’s not afraid to say what she feels. Like, if my claws are puncturing her lung or something, I want her to speak up. A relationship is give and take, you know. The more you give, the more I’ll take. Now make me a sandwich.
SBD: As a human being, I’m sure you’ve made plenty of mistakes. But, do you regret anything, in being a writer or otherwise?
Matt: Remember when everyone was pouring money into all those online stores, like pets.com? Well, I decided to jump on the band wagon and buy thousands of dollars in stock in BeatTheChildren.com. Let’s just say it didn’t work out.
SBD: That must have hurt more than just the children, Mr. Frey. But one last question - what are you going to do next?
Matt: KILL BIG BIRD WITH GRENADE.
SBD: Well, I meant in your writing career, but I think I’m out of questions for you.
Matt: Have I won the Survivor competition yet? Because it feels like I’ve been sitting here with you for weeks. Thanks for interviewing me anyway, my ninja friend.
But by then he was gone - he had slipped out the window unnoticed, into the black night.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Course Overload #25: “I Vant to Give You a Midterm!”
They got together one Tuesday afternoon, when they knew we were sleeping or eating after their classes. (Some of us managed to fall asleep while eating, which figures into their menacing plan even better.) They met on the mysterious staircase that keeps going up after you reach the third and final floor of the MST building, the one reserved for wickedness. Then, they all crammed themselves into the elevator and had the person with the fewest knees and elbows threatening to puncture their spleen hit a magic elevator button that no one can see without at least a masters in education.
It traveled down; down below the dinosaurs, below the rocks and the heat, below the secret sinister alien stronghold I probably shouldn’t have just told you about. The elevator brought them all to their secret underground teacher’s lounge. (Well, everyone except for Mr. Barone, who lost his daily planner and thought the meeting was tomorrow.)
They filed into the small dark room, cackling with twisted delight as they went. The objective of this malicious meeting was simple: to make the students’ lives as difficult as possible. That way, students would fall asleep in class so professors could drain them of their blood and drink it to retain their own failing youth! And as long as the students were still sleeping, secondary objectives included painting their faces silly colors and putting shaving cream in their hands before tickling their noses.
“I hate sunshine!” exclaimed one professor angrily. “A good student is a pale one, because the more one reads, the less one goes outside!”
“So let’s invent a test that they take in the middle of the semester and then we’ll schedule all of the tests to occur on the same day!” screamed another, smirking evilly. “We’ll call them murder-exams!”
“I have a better idea! We’ll call them... midterms!” replied Mr. Beard,
adding, “I hate cell phones!”
You might think the above is a dramatization; that professors are nice people who want to impart their knowledge upon the next generation to help them flourish when it’s their turn to run the world. Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth. What I’m about to tell you might give you nightmares for the rest of your natural college career, so I won’t blame anyone who doesn’t read any further, though I will consider you a big pansy, you big pansy.
It’s a little known fact that all professors are secretly vampire-like creatures who survive by drinking the sweet, sweet blood of the innocent youth. Those eager new teachers fresh out of graduate school are anything but - most professors have been consuming their students’ tender plasma for thousands of years. Yes, that’s right - midterms are nothing new. They’ve actually been around since the days of the ancient Greeks, when the MSMC professors had their first underground meeting. (Interesting fact: midterms is from the Latin Midus Termi; “Mid,” meaning “middle,” and “term,” meaning “impossible test.”)
I realized all this while sitting at my desk at my job with the Wallkill Valley Times. It was election night, at about 8 million o’clock, and I couldn’t go home until CNN told me I could. What I mean is, I couldn’t go home until someone wrote an article about who had won the election and I proofread it. In my boredom, I had resorted to coloring every person in every picture on the wall next to me with my red copyediting pen.
Sometime around when Bush had 66 billion electoral votes to Kerry’s 65.9 billion (Kerry had just narrowly carried Australia), my head fell to my desk like a balloon filled with rocks. It was as if I had narcolepsy but was unfortunate enough to fall asleep in a much less humorous location than, say, in shop class while using some sort of sanding device.
When I woke up seconds later, however, my boss was hovering over me with a huge, malevolent straw. He had a crazed look in his bloodshot eyes, and an odious smile on his lips. That’s when I put everything together. How many times have you seen professors using straws? Plenty! And what can you find in the college’s café, in a big round container? That’s right, straws! The evidence is irrefutable - our professors are horrible vampire creatures who survive by drinking their students’ blood as they slumber with straws! My boss was obviously one of them, and he had come to sample my fresh, zesty plasma.
“Matt, could you hand me my soda?” he asked. “It’s sitting right next to you.”
“Leave me alone, you foul creature of the darkness!” I exclaimed, sidestepping his criminal sinfulness like the highly trained ninja I am and blasting out the door into the cold, annoyingly Republican night.
While tearing down the midnight streets of Walden and passing at least 32 biker gangs and drug dealers, I wondered if I wouldn’t have been safer in the clutches of the vampire. That’s when I fainted from exhaustion and a helpful vagabond aided me by stealing my wallet.
For a few minutes, all I could hear were sirens. “Sirens are so romantic,” I said, opening my eyes. I was inside an ambulance. Above me hung a red bag, attached to my arm with a needle. Blood! They were reintroducing to my system what my boss had managed to drink!
Now you know the horrid truth. Midterms exist to make you stay up all night studying and then fall asleep during the test the next day. You must never study again, lest you be drained of your very life force!
It traveled down; down below the dinosaurs, below the rocks and the heat, below the secret sinister alien stronghold I probably shouldn’t have just told you about. The elevator brought them all to their secret underground teacher’s lounge. (Well, everyone except for Mr. Barone, who lost his daily planner and thought the meeting was tomorrow.)
They filed into the small dark room, cackling with twisted delight as they went. The objective of this malicious meeting was simple: to make the students’ lives as difficult as possible. That way, students would fall asleep in class so professors could drain them of their blood and drink it to retain their own failing youth! And as long as the students were still sleeping, secondary objectives included painting their faces silly colors and putting shaving cream in their hands before tickling their noses.
“I hate sunshine!” exclaimed one professor angrily. “A good student is a pale one, because the more one reads, the less one goes outside!”
“So let’s invent a test that they take in the middle of the semester and then we’ll schedule all of the tests to occur on the same day!” screamed another, smirking evilly. “We’ll call them murder-exams!”
“I have a better idea! We’ll call them... midterms!” replied Mr. Beard,
adding, “I hate cell phones!”
* * *
You might think the above is a dramatization; that professors are nice people who want to impart their knowledge upon the next generation to help them flourish when it’s their turn to run the world. Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth. What I’m about to tell you might give you nightmares for the rest of your natural college career, so I won’t blame anyone who doesn’t read any further, though I will consider you a big pansy, you big pansy.
It’s a little known fact that all professors are secretly vampire-like creatures who survive by drinking the sweet, sweet blood of the innocent youth. Those eager new teachers fresh out of graduate school are anything but - most professors have been consuming their students’ tender plasma for thousands of years. Yes, that’s right - midterms are nothing new. They’ve actually been around since the days of the ancient Greeks, when the MSMC professors had their first underground meeting. (Interesting fact: midterms is from the Latin Midus Termi; “Mid,” meaning “middle,” and “term,” meaning “impossible test.”)
I realized all this while sitting at my desk at my job with the Wallkill Valley Times. It was election night, at about 8 million o’clock, and I couldn’t go home until CNN told me I could. What I mean is, I couldn’t go home until someone wrote an article about who had won the election and I proofread it. In my boredom, I had resorted to coloring every person in every picture on the wall next to me with my red copyediting pen.
Sometime around when Bush had 66 billion electoral votes to Kerry’s 65.9 billion (Kerry had just narrowly carried Australia), my head fell to my desk like a balloon filled with rocks. It was as if I had narcolepsy but was unfortunate enough to fall asleep in a much less humorous location than, say, in shop class while using some sort of sanding device.
When I woke up seconds later, however, my boss was hovering over me with a huge, malevolent straw. He had a crazed look in his bloodshot eyes, and an odious smile on his lips. That’s when I put everything together. How many times have you seen professors using straws? Plenty! And what can you find in the college’s café, in a big round container? That’s right, straws! The evidence is irrefutable - our professors are horrible vampire creatures who survive by drinking their students’ blood as they slumber with straws! My boss was obviously one of them, and he had come to sample my fresh, zesty plasma.
“Matt, could you hand me my soda?” he asked. “It’s sitting right next to you.”
“Leave me alone, you foul creature of the darkness!” I exclaimed, sidestepping his criminal sinfulness like the highly trained ninja I am and blasting out the door into the cold, annoyingly Republican night.
While tearing down the midnight streets of Walden and passing at least 32 biker gangs and drug dealers, I wondered if I wouldn’t have been safer in the clutches of the vampire. That’s when I fainted from exhaustion and a helpful vagabond aided me by stealing my wallet.
For a few minutes, all I could hear were sirens. “Sirens are so romantic,” I said, opening my eyes. I was inside an ambulance. Above me hung a red bag, attached to my arm with a needle. Blood! They were reintroducing to my system what my boss had managed to drink!
Now you know the horrid truth. Midterms exist to make you stay up all night studying and then fall asleep during the test the next day. You must never study again, lest you be drained of your very life force!
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Case of the Mysterious Pageviews
I got 107 pageviews at this blog yesterday, which is astronomically higher that what I normally see. My other blog, Wordsmith VG, gets closer to 100 views a day, but it's still high. Better yet, all those hits occurred between 3 and 4 a.m.
I have no idea what happened. Oh well; it was nice while it lasted. :)
Sunday, October 10, 2010
No Need For an Online Journal
The following are entries from an online journal I had a long time ago. It has since been deleted, but these few entries somehow survived.
Hello, everyone. My name is ...not important. Let's just say it rhymes with "Orange."
* * *
Once, I had gone swimming, and a day later, my shorts were still wet. I wanted to dry them quickly, so I just tossed them in the microwave for a few minutes. Or hours. Same thing. Anyway, it would have worked just fine if I my house hadn't burned to the ground in the process. Oh well, it's not like I was using it or anything. I now live in a small cardboard box. It's got a lot of cool stuff, like outdoor plumbing, a cool dirt floor, and climate control. (It's nice very warm in the summer and very cold in the winter.) Up until yesterday, before that priest tore off the left wall to dry his windshield, it had a nice El Grecco painting. But, I like my new picture window just fine. It's really quite cozy. And by cozy, I mean crappy. But, you know how the saying goes: beggars can't look a gift horse in the mouth before they’re hatched, can they?
I didn't mean for it to turn out like this. It's all my friend Bill's fault. See, Bill and I have been friends for a long time. We go all the way back to when Saturday Night Live was actually funny. And, I don't remember when it happened, or how it started, but one day Bill and I started joking about dressing up like Power Rangers and going to gay bars. Well, one day, he came up to me with this grin on his face, and his hands behind his back.
Well, I asked him what he had behind his back, and low and behold, he produced the Green and Red Ranger costumes. So, he some how convinced me to wear the green one and hit a few gay bars. "But Bill, I'm not gay, and this costume was designed for a six year old," I said, pointing at my exposed beer belly.
"I'm not gay either," he returned. "It's just the principle of the thing. Now stop complaining and listen. I think you should hold this bee's nest, just in case."
"In case of what?"
Bill walked into the nearest bar at that point, as the bees were stinging my eyeballs. The bar tender took one look at us and said, "What are those kids doing!? Oh dear God!"
As it turns out, Bill had made a mistake. It wasn't a bar tender, it was a nurse. And we weren't in a gay bar, but a children's hospital. The bees suddenly shot out of the nest and swarmed the immobile sick children in their beds. There was blood everywhere.
One of the children looked up and me with tears in his bee-stung eyes and said, "Why, Green Ranger, why? You were my - wheeze - hero..."
Wait a minute. That has nothing to do with JFK. Probably because I didn't assassinate him. Neither did Bill. What was I talking about again?
As you all know, Tuesday was Christmas. And as per the long running Christmas tradition in my house hold, I’ve been shooting down those damn dirty vampires for the past three days straight. My friends keep trying to tell me that vampires don’t exist. Well, tell that to the pointy-eared, fang toothed freak down at the gas station who tried to bite my neck. Boy, did I teach him a lesson. I invited him home for dinner, and then served him a nice, juicy steak. Heh, heh.
Hell, my friends are all probably vampires, and are just telling me that vampires don’t exist to keep me from shooting them. But I know better. Okay, so maybe I was wrong about the goblins. And the trolls. And the zombies, the giant birds, the ninjas, the sea monsters, the Frankensteins, the bats, the aliens, and yes, even the Monkey Overlord I was sure was living in my tree house. But this time I’d bet my life size porcelain Elvis that I’m right.
Freakin’ vampires. Your time is limited.
No Need For an Introduction - May 1, 2001
Hello, everyone. My name is ...not important. Let's just say it rhymes with "Orange."
* * *
Once, I had gone swimming, and a day later, my shorts were still wet. I wanted to dry them quickly, so I just tossed them in the microwave for a few minutes. Or hours. Same thing. Anyway, it would have worked just fine if I my house hadn't burned to the ground in the process. Oh well, it's not like I was using it or anything. I now live in a small cardboard box. It's got a lot of cool stuff, like outdoor plumbing, a cool dirt floor, and climate control. (It's nice very warm in the summer and very cold in the winter.) Up until yesterday, before that priest tore off the left wall to dry his windshield, it had a nice El Grecco painting. But, I like my new picture window just fine. It's really quite cozy. And by cozy, I mean crappy. But, you know how the saying goes: beggars can't look a gift horse in the mouth before they’re hatched, can they?
No Need For JFK - Aug. 15, 2001
Today I realized that it was probably wrong of me to assassinate John F. Kennedy.I didn't mean for it to turn out like this. It's all my friend Bill's fault. See, Bill and I have been friends for a long time. We go all the way back to when Saturday Night Live was actually funny. And, I don't remember when it happened, or how it started, but one day Bill and I started joking about dressing up like Power Rangers and going to gay bars. Well, one day, he came up to me with this grin on his face, and his hands behind his back.
Well, I asked him what he had behind his back, and low and behold, he produced the Green and Red Ranger costumes. So, he some how convinced me to wear the green one and hit a few gay bars. "But Bill, I'm not gay, and this costume was designed for a six year old," I said, pointing at my exposed beer belly.
"I'm not gay either," he returned. "It's just the principle of the thing. Now stop complaining and listen. I think you should hold this bee's nest, just in case."
"In case of what?"
Bill walked into the nearest bar at that point, as the bees were stinging my eyeballs. The bar tender took one look at us and said, "What are those kids doing!? Oh dear God!"
As it turns out, Bill had made a mistake. It wasn't a bar tender, it was a nurse. And we weren't in a gay bar, but a children's hospital. The bees suddenly shot out of the nest and swarmed the immobile sick children in their beds. There was blood everywhere.
One of the children looked up and me with tears in his bee-stung eyes and said, "Why, Green Ranger, why? You were my - wheeze - hero..."
Wait a minute. That has nothing to do with JFK. Probably because I didn't assassinate him. Neither did Bill. What was I talking about again?
No Need For Vampires - Dec. 27, 2001
As you all know, Tuesday was Christmas. And as per the long running Christmas tradition in my house hold, I’ve been shooting down those damn dirty vampires for the past three days straight. My friends keep trying to tell me that vampires don’t exist. Well, tell that to the pointy-eared, fang toothed freak down at the gas station who tried to bite my neck. Boy, did I teach him a lesson. I invited him home for dinner, and then served him a nice, juicy steak. Heh, heh.
Hell, my friends are all probably vampires, and are just telling me that vampires don’t exist to keep me from shooting them. But I know better. Okay, so maybe I was wrong about the goblins. And the trolls. And the zombies, the giant birds, the ninjas, the sea monsters, the Frankensteins, the bats, the aliens, and yes, even the Monkey Overlord I was sure was living in my tree house. But this time I’d bet my life size porcelain Elvis that I’m right.
Freakin’ vampires. Your time is limited.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Course Overload #24 "Phone Home"
I want you to turn out your pockets, and women and secure men, turn out your pocketbooks. And if you’ve got one, I want you to empty out your book bag.
Ha ha. You just made a big mess. Fooled you!
Seriously though, there is a method to my madness. There’s a good chance that your heap of stuff is ringing, vibrating or playing the same few bars of some ridiculous song over and over. I want you to wade through the nice big pile you just fathered and pull out your cell phone, if you weren’t using it while voiding your pockets in the first place.
Now take a good look at it. It’s hard to imagine life without that little sucker, isn’t it? Everywhere you look, someone is on their cell phone. I’m guilty of it too: One time, in the middle of a TV criticism class, I had an entire cell phone conversation about how many aliens Mr. T would kill if he were a robot ninja. Everyone was so used to receiving calls at all hours of the day, all I needed to do was say “excuse me for a moment” as I picked up the phone and that made it all okay.
You may be thinking that you don’t use your cell phone all that much. You might even think that you could give up your cell phone any time you wanted. Well, think again. As I discovered one dismal October day, it’s anything but easy to escape from the cell phone’s mighty, menacing grip.
When I awoke that morning, there was only one thing on my mind – a book. I had fallen asleep reading Life in the Fat Lane the night before, and it was still on my head when I woke up. Tossing it aside before too much of its evil seeped into my brain through my exposed, tender face, I glanced up at the clock. Ahh, good. I had nearly three minutes to get myself into my car before I would be late, once again, for my Tennessee Williams class. Last time I only had a minute and a half and I had to cut out some of my less important morning rituals like wearing pants.
Moments later, I was careening down the highway at approximately 400 MPH, praying that I wouldn’t be late. At some point, I flew past an ambulance, passing it on the right. For some reason, the lights were flashing and the sirens were blaring. The occupants were so happy to see that I’d make it to school on time, the all waved at me, especially with their middle fingers. “Sirens are so romantic,” I thought, and pulled off the exit to school. After assaulting a few speed bumps and nearly running over a large group of slow-moving pedestrians who didn’t seem to know what cars are, I drove into the nearest parking spot (about three blocks away) and bolted to class.
I had triumphed! There I was, in class, on time, with pants and ready to learn. But, as soon as class started, I noticed something was amiss. I put my hands on my chest – no, I was wearing a shirt. I grabbed at my left pants pocket – yep, I had my wallet and my mother’s charge card, so everything was okay there… And then I instinctively knew what had gone wrong. Praying that I was missing something unimportant, like my car keys, I put my hand on top of my right pants pocket.
There was no telltale cell phone bulge. The only bumps I could feel were from the Cap’n Crunch I had poured in my pocket to eat for breakfast on the way to school and a little moistness from the milk. Horrified, I slid my hand into the void, producing nothing but breakfast cereal. I was stuck without his cell phone for the ENTIRE DAY. I could barely keep from screaming (and for once it had nothing to do with what my therapist and I talk about).
I know it sounds crazy, but I somehow made it through my classes that morning without a cell phone. Near the end of my last class, though, I had drawn a cell phone in my notebook and was talking into it for nearly 10 minutes before I realized it had lost the signal.
I must have gotten lucky because my car still worked, even without my poor phone. I hopped in and drover to work, where I was surprised to learn that I hadn’t been fired due to lack of mobile communication device. But how was I ever going to finish out the day without my mobile phone? Thankfully, that’s when I noticed a large, black, cell phone-like object on my desk. It had numbers on it and sometimes it rang. Could it be some sort of new style cell phone? I picked up the banana-like part and dialed my father’s number.
“Hello?”
“Dad!” I exclaimed. “Help me! I forgot my cell phone today and I have no way of communicating with anyone!”
“Then how are you talking to me?” Dad asked, genuinely astonished.
“I don’t know!” I yelled, staring at the black demon box. “I’m so scared!”
Suddenly, Dad burst out into tears. “Matt, thank God! Your mother and I thought you were dead!”
By the time I made it home, it was nearly 3 a.m. (I had driven extra slow to make sure the cops wouldn’t notice and pull me over for not having a cell phone.) I ran to my phone, pulled it out of the charger and cuddled it lovingly, like a beautiful newborn.
That day, I had missed no less than 86 phone calls and just as many voice mails. Half of them were from my friends, seeing if I had died and, if so, perhaps they could have my PlayStation. A few were from my parents and another few were from my job, even though I had reported to work as scheduled. Actually, I think I gave my boss the number.
The last call was from Jesus. He said that he loved me very much and didn’t understand where I had gone and why He couldn’t seem to contact me anymore. I hung up the phone and walked calmly out of the house.
On my lawn, I stared into the sky and screamed, “Can you here me now?”
Ha ha. You just made a big mess. Fooled you!
Seriously though, there is a method to my madness. There’s a good chance that your heap of stuff is ringing, vibrating or playing the same few bars of some ridiculous song over and over. I want you to wade through the nice big pile you just fathered and pull out your cell phone, if you weren’t using it while voiding your pockets in the first place.
You may be thinking that you don’t use your cell phone all that much. You might even think that you could give up your cell phone any time you wanted. Well, think again. As I discovered one dismal October day, it’s anything but easy to escape from the cell phone’s mighty, menacing grip.
When I awoke that morning, there was only one thing on my mind – a book. I had fallen asleep reading Life in the Fat Lane the night before, and it was still on my head when I woke up. Tossing it aside before too much of its evil seeped into my brain through my exposed, tender face, I glanced up at the clock. Ahh, good. I had nearly three minutes to get myself into my car before I would be late, once again, for my Tennessee Williams class. Last time I only had a minute and a half and I had to cut out some of my less important morning rituals like wearing pants.
Moments later, I was careening down the highway at approximately 400 MPH, praying that I wouldn’t be late. At some point, I flew past an ambulance, passing it on the right. For some reason, the lights were flashing and the sirens were blaring. The occupants were so happy to see that I’d make it to school on time, the all waved at me, especially with their middle fingers. “Sirens are so romantic,” I thought, and pulled off the exit to school. After assaulting a few speed bumps and nearly running over a large group of slow-moving pedestrians who didn’t seem to know what cars are, I drove into the nearest parking spot (about three blocks away) and bolted to class.
I had triumphed! There I was, in class, on time, with pants and ready to learn. But, as soon as class started, I noticed something was amiss. I put my hands on my chest – no, I was wearing a shirt. I grabbed at my left pants pocket – yep, I had my wallet and my mother’s charge card, so everything was okay there… And then I instinctively knew what had gone wrong. Praying that I was missing something unimportant, like my car keys, I put my hand on top of my right pants pocket.
I know it sounds crazy, but I somehow made it through my classes that morning without a cell phone. Near the end of my last class, though, I had drawn a cell phone in my notebook and was talking into it for nearly 10 minutes before I realized it had lost the signal.
I must have gotten lucky because my car still worked, even without my poor phone. I hopped in and drover to work, where I was surprised to learn that I hadn’t been fired due to lack of mobile communication device. But how was I ever going to finish out the day without my mobile phone? Thankfully, that’s when I noticed a large, black, cell phone-like object on my desk. It had numbers on it and sometimes it rang. Could it be some sort of new style cell phone? I picked up the banana-like part and dialed my father’s number.
“Hello?”
“Dad!” I exclaimed. “Help me! I forgot my cell phone today and I have no way of communicating with anyone!”
“Then how are you talking to me?” Dad asked, genuinely astonished.
“I don’t know!” I yelled, staring at the black demon box. “I’m so scared!”
Suddenly, Dad burst out into tears. “Matt, thank God! Your mother and I thought you were dead!”
By the time I made it home, it was nearly 3 a.m. (I had driven extra slow to make sure the cops wouldn’t notice and pull me over for not having a cell phone.) I ran to my phone, pulled it out of the charger and cuddled it lovingly, like a beautiful newborn.
That day, I had missed no less than 86 phone calls and just as many voice mails. Half of them were from my friends, seeing if I had died and, if so, perhaps they could have my PlayStation. A few were from my parents and another few were from my job, even though I had reported to work as scheduled. Actually, I think I gave my boss the number.
The last call was from Jesus. He said that he loved me very much and didn’t understand where I had gone and why He couldn’t seem to contact me anymore. I hung up the phone and walked calmly out of the house.
On my lawn, I stared into the sky and screamed, “Can you here me now?”
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Course Overload # 23: "Everybody Leaks - Sometimes"
And it’s true. Everybody does hurt, sometimes. But I always assumed the song only applied to humans, or at least, only animals. Yet, as I discovered one rainy afternoon in October, it actually applies to inanimate objects too.
There was so much for me to do. I had to write 15 papers for Lit Crit, read at least 6000 pages for Young Adult Lit, and, on top of all that, I had to write an article about pumpkin picking for everybody’s favorite local newspaper, the Wallkill Valley Times. As I strolled to my car, the sky swirled ominously above me, its dark gray clouds threatening to let loose on me at any second. The trees taunted me as I walked, brushing up against me with their branches and dropping their leaves on my head as I passed by.
In times of crisis, my thought process turns from the trivial, like finishing my homework so I can graduate and get a decent job, to the absolutely necessary, like getting inside before the rain comes and messes up my hair. Luckily a friend was walking by at the time and I calmly sauntered over to her to strike up a conversation.
“You have to let me into your dorm before the rain starts and I die!” I screamed in terror.
“All right,” she replied, stepping back slowly.
After running to her dorm at full speed, dragging her by one arm over the rocks and broken glass that seem to grow like plants everywhere on campus, we made it to her dorm. Inside, she sat me down in front of her computer and told me to work on my pumpkin picking article. Then, with the impending rain, my friend warned me of the leak in her ceiling.
“It’s just a small trickle,” she said nonchalantly, stepping out of her room to go to class. “Its name is Roofus.”
“Rufus?” I questioned.
“No, Roofus, with two Os,” she replied, somehow detecting a spelling error in my speech. With that she twirled around and closed the door.
Seconds after she left, the rain began pounding down and heavy winds tore through the college. I watched from the window, glad I had avoided the downpour. Without giving it a second thought, I saw my friend get picked up and tossed out of sight by the horrible, horrible winds. Ah, me and My Hair were safe at last.
Relieved, I sat down and began writing my article. “The first thing you must accept about pumpkins is that they’re extremely dangerous,” I typed. This was going to be my most informative article yet!
But then I heard a noise. It sounded as if something was dripping. I assumed that someone had left the water on in the bathroom and I ignored it. But then it happened again. I looked up from my article.
Roofus had become sad and had started to cry. Small drops of water had already created a puddle on the floor under him. “What’s wrong, Roofus?” I asked.
“…,” he replied. I ran to get him a bucket for his tears.
But by the time I got back, Roofus had become very sad and was weeping even harder than before. The bucket I had gotten for his tears wasn’t big enough anymore, so I ran downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed a big garbage can. I got back and thrust it under Roofus; however, it filled up quickly and his tears spilled out onto the floor again.
I emptied the tears into the bathtub a few times, running back to catch some more every time, but it seemed that the garbage can wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Roofus’ tears fell like water from a hose and everything was getting wet, including My Hair. I decided to try to reason with him.
“Don’t let yourself go! ‘Cause everybody cries!” I exclaimed. “Everybody hurts – sometimes!”
Unfortunately, my attempt at comforting him wasn’t so comforting and Roofus cried so hard, it was like the ocean was pouring into the tiny dorm room. “Hold on! Hooooooooold on! Hold on!” I exclaimed. He wasn’t listening. The water quickly shot up past my ankles and thighs.
Suddenly, I was drowning.
Thankfully, that’s when my friend opened the door, releasing the water trap I had been floating in. The water shot out of the door jam like a tidal wave, drenching everything. I’m not even going to say “everything in the dorm” or “everything in the school.” Both of those are accurate, but they don’t include everything else that got wet.
I came rushing out with the wave, slamming up against the wall. It was that awkward time, I knew, when my friend would demand an explanation. I stared up at her, small droplets falling from me and My Hair.
“I think Roofus needs a hug,” I declared.
You’ve got to hand it to REM. All this time I though they were just a band, but as it turns out, they’re also a group of super intelligent pain-detecting scientists who understand the problems of the world and try to fix them through the wonders of music. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from “Everybody Hurts,” one thing I can keep with me for the rest of my life, it’s this: If your dorm’s roof is leaky, you should call maintenance to come fix it.
Thanks, REM.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
