What the hell was that?

It's a given that if you live in California you spend a good amount time driving in your automobile. And the more you drive, the more crap you see. For example, I never thought I'd see one car physically on top of another. But then what do you know?!?! There it is on the 105. A mean accident with a big ass truck crushing a tiny Corolla. Crap like that doesn't surprise me anymore. I wouldn't even think twice if something similar happened.

But every so often I come across weird Twilight Zone instances where I'm driving late at night and am not to sure of what I just drove by and saw. I mean, it is me after all. I never sleep enough. I drink too much. And I know the truth. I'm Asian. That lowers my credibility enough right there. By default I don't belong on the road anyway.

Anyway, so here I am on my regular Sunday night drive back to my place from my parents being like every other commuter. And just as I said, I've seen, ran over, dodged, or hit almost everything. Possums, cats, babies... You name it. It's been under my tires.

Until the 60 to 605 interchange comes up. I'm on the curve driving relatively sane when I quickly have to swerve out of the way because of some object that if my eyes didn't deceive me, looked something like a wheel barrel filled with hay. I thought to myself, "Nah, that couldn't be. You only find that shit on farms." And as I proceed further down the freeway, I see four guys jump out of the back of a beat down pick up truck wearing overalls, looking very well corn fed, start to run back for their missing wheel barrel.

Well what do you know! Now that's just damn weird. For here at least. I guess what I'm trying to say is, you never know what you're going to see when you drive in California. I would have preferred seeing a big busty lady jump out of a Mini Cooper with 12 clowns doing cartwheels. But you know, we don't pick the weird shit that happens to us.

She's Got A Light Around Her, And Everywhere She Goes, A Million Dreams Of Love Surround Her, Everywhere

--"She's Got A Way", Billy Joel

On August 5th of this year Rachel would have been twenty-five years old. Why this particular birthday springs to mind is that it is around the same age that I first Rachel's Tears and her wonderful story. To think of all the years since the first time I read the book till now is the amount of time she missed out on saddens me to no end. I mean--it used to be what depressed me was the thought of her not having a future with which to inspire more people than she did. Now I see the opposite possibly is true. If I was twenty-five when I discovered the individual I consider my only role model, then it's possible this may have been the age when she discovered the person or persons who may have inspired to even loftier heights of greatness. The thought that she never got the opportunity to find someone here on Earth who flat-out would have made her a better person produces feelings that, not only were we all cheated of a strong light in the world, but she was denied the chance to shine even brighter.

Sometimes I wonder why so much of my time is occupied with thoughts of what she might have been or what she might have done with her time, had she lived. The only answer I can come up with is that she and the way she lived her life is as close to a religion as I've ever had. The logic behind this is that, unlike "real" religions, the central figure in the teachings I know existed. I know every example laid before me in her books and other's tales about her actually happened. People have both known, talked to, and been friends with this person whose life I've chosen to emulate. There is no matter of taking anything on faith or having to just believe in something because that's the way some book tells you to. I've chosen to follow a path because the path that she laid before us all was one she chose to live without any supernatual shenanigans mixed into it. Yes, she did draw her inspiration from God, but the life she led didn't involve any miracles or tests or any unbelievable feats of faith, strength, or endurance. She was just a girl that chose to lead a good life and allowed others to learn from her example. She was just a good person and that's the only type of hero I ever want to have. It's not because she was so much better than anyone else that I like her. It's because she did so much with what she had, what all of us, that gives me hope that I can do something more vital for everyone that what I'm doing now. It's because she had the same constraints as everyone else and still managed to show how love and respect is an easy habit to pick up that allows me to take more stock in her books than any spiritual text ever written.

In Flaubert's Parrot, Julian Barnes talked about how people prefer art to real life because in real life you never get the subtext, you never get the motivation for why people do the things you do. I think the same holds true for role models. Part of the reason she intrigues me as she does is because I get a sense of her humanity and her struggles, that I cannot quite pick up from anybody else who tries too hard to spread the message of God. It's not that I don't believe that message. It's that I have a hard time believing the messenger. I know why Rachel thought it was important to live a respectable life, yet I don't get the same sense of purpose from other religions. I kind of pick up on Rachel's character more and that's a quality I admire from her writings, that there is a sense she was writing her lessons out more for herself rather than to be propogated. I kind of like the sense that she was no more founding a religion as much as placing her various to paper. It's easier to believe in something when it isn't couched in the idea of dogma. It's easier to believe in something that doesn't come off as commandments as advice from an acquaintance or a friend.


she's got a smile that heals me
I don't know why it is

I think I might be simplifying things a bit, but that's basically all I can say about why I think she was so amazing. I don't know--there was just a quality about her that I immediately took to. All I know is that ever since I read her first book I've had the skulking suspicion that the world would have been much better served had she lived on rather than I. It's not that I don't think I contribute to the world, but I know she could and would have done so much more with her time than I, with mine. That's partly what motivates me everyday, this idea that I've got to make something of everyday because there are people, one in particular, who never got the chance to see this day. I kind of want to live my life as a gift to her, because I feel she's given me so much without ever knowing it.

All before she ever saw eighteen.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I sure do know a lot of dick

Fob: "Hey fellas, bukake anyone?
Friend: "But don't we need at least one chick?"
Fob: "Ah crap! Well I was the chick last time..."

Just like a successful movie, my roommates and I tried to follow up our last party with a sequel this past weekend. But like most sequels, it just wasn't as good as the first. Why? Well, I contribute it to two things.

1. L.A. is having end of the world weather. Now I've been living here in this smoggy, over-crowded, usually dry heat city for my whole life. And never have I experienced this kind of humidity, seen thunder and lightning storms, and poured rain in 85 degree weather. Basically, it was hot as hell. You couldn't be inside my house and not have your nuts sweat glued to your legs. It's just not pleasant. So most of the people who came loitered outside.

2. And the second reason, most of the people attending this time around were my friends. Which is to say I sure do know a lot of dick. But don't get me wrong. These guys are my friends. And we kick it sometimes having no problem with the sword fight get-togethers. But this party was the Braveheart battle of sword fights. There was so much sausage in my house I thought we were in Germany, minus Heidi Klum.

So the result. A bunch of hot sweaty men drinking and being jolly in tropical storm weather. Hallelujah, it's raining men! Hallelujah!

Go Ahead With Your Dreaming, For What It's Worth, Or You'll Be Stricken Bound, Kicking Up Dirt

--"Chorus", Erasure

"Hey, do you think there'll ever be a time when I actually get something I want? Or is failing at everyone really my destiny?" I asked her.

"Sure, sugar, with that positive attitude you'll be getting that Nobel prize in no time flat."

We had been talking about various topics for the last hour, but finally the conversation had settled as a lot of conversations did back then on two topics I seem to ramble on about--namely, Rachel and how I'd fallen short of every expectation I'd ever had. Both subjects tended to bring about sobering thoughts, which I, of course, felt the need to unburden on Breanne. I don't know why that was (or still is). I suppose it's because I believe I'm more profound at those certain instances in my life, as if the ghost of my sadness and disappointment scares me into flashes of brilliance. However, I've come to the conclusion that it isn't brilliance at all. What happens is that bitterness, angst, and depression tend to weigh me down like anchors, grounding me to reality. Then, when I stop and take a look around at the reality, I tend to have a wholly serious perspective. Any utterances spoken during these flashes of stoicism tend to sound graver and with more resonance than those spoken in bouts of laughter or hysteria. It's the nature of the game. If I speak with enough heft in my voice I can make even a dirty limerick sound like it's the Apocalypse.

There I was spewing the usual doom and gloom, expressing the sturm und drang of a period of my life that never quite ended, when I found a new connection I had never seen before.

I switched subjects slightly.

"Do you think when she experienced moments of doubt they were ever as forboding as mine are?"

"I think when she experienced moments of doubt she had a secret weapon."

"And what was this?"

"Oh, a powerful ally."

"God?"

"I think that much was obvious was in her book."

For all my talk about how much I admire Rachel and how I thought she was this awesome and awe-inspiring individual, I've always felt a little hypocritical to believe I could emulate her without bringing her devotion to God into my own life. I still resist that part. I still insist that one can live a decent, even excellent, akin to that of Rachel Joy Scott without tying oneself to religion, the bible, or God. I think about it like being able to buy the milk without having to buy the cow, to subjugate a familiar euphemism. She gained all this insight into what it was like to be a "goodly" person without necessarily being a "godly" person, a person who spent their whole life trying to convert people. I took that idea and ran with it in my own life.

But here was Breanne saying that maybe the reason I failed at my endeavor to become as reverent and wholesome as Rachel was that I didn't have the big G as a back-up.

"So you're saying that because I don't believe in God can actually help me out, he's chosen not to?"

"No, I'm saying that perhaps your dreams aren't something that you can entirely wing like a hen hoping to make it over the fence. I don't think you can believe in doing something one day and then forsake it the next."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Patrick, that I hear all these bold moves you want to make in your life, then I start to hear about them less, and less, and less, until I don't hear about it all. Now I'm not saying you up and give up on everything you do, but I do think you have a problem keeping it up."

I laughed, slightly at the double entendre, but more out of nervousness. I'd always thought the same about myself. I always thought that I had a problem with choosing one path and sticking to it. For the most part, I'd accepted it as being just so. I didn't dwell on the topic and I didn't let it dwell on me. In truth, it had all but been forgotten by me over the years as I sought to fill my mind with other, much happier, thoughts. I tended to gloss over my problem with committment to a task I'd set for myself as being the jurisdiction of some other guy, some other entity, some other cosmic force like luck, fate, and even karma. To place the blame solely back on myself was unheard of in my circle of one. It just wasn't done.

Breanne obviously didn't know the rules about pep talks. You don't blame the guy in misery. You always lay the blame elsewhere.

"So what does that have to do with God?"

"Everything. Everything has to do with Him. Even if you don't think He's responsible for giving you all the treasures in your life, I think you can agree that going it alone hasn't been working out for you like you planned, right?"

"Correct."

"That's my point. He doesn't have to be the reason why you do everything, but, for you, at least, Eeyore, I think he can be someone who you can turn to as a means of support. Everyone needs support. Everyone."

"Isn't that what I pay you for, Breannie?"

"Hardly."

It's true. Lately, I had felt like I had been going about my life as the sole passenger on the flight. Lately, I had felt like where I was going and what I wanted to do nobody, not even my family or friends, including B., wanted to follow. That wasn't by choice, but by the fact that I'd chosen fairly lonely pursuits. I wanted to write something meaningful and yet, every time I set myself to that task, I always ended up being distracted by the very friends and family who were trying to support me. In the end, it became a game of not telling people what I was currently working on for fear they would want to read it. That would lead to them lending me "helpful" advice and ruining any objectivity I had about the subject matter in the first place.

Also, I had dreams about finding a love to call my own. That too, however, had gone nowhere. Seemingly, it appeared to be because I was always out to compete with some invisible rival who was the epitome of where a guy my age should be at. I could remember at sixteen, riding my bike near my house, before I'd met Jina, before, I'd met Tara or DeAnn, even before I met Breanne, thinking how someone my age should've had a girlfriend by now. It's this notion that I've lagged behind that's haunted me for a very long time. I never quite feel as mature as I think I'm supposed to be. I always feel inadequete to a task someone else breezes through, especial socially. I always feel like I'm just getting the hang of what it's like to be in an adult relationship. And yet, because I feel so outdistanced by people my age, I always feel intimidate by members of the opposite sex who are my age. I always feel like I've been lapped or something romance-wise, that I have nothing to offer in terms of romantic experience.

It's that reason why I always seem to go after younger women, if only to feel on equal footing with them. Yet, in truth, the age itself becomes an issue and I find myself with yet another failed relationship. Then, the cycle just repeats itself and I find myself alone.

"Okay, I can kind of see your point, Breanne."

"It's simple. Like my daddy always says, 'Birds don't know how they fly. They simply know they can.' You're always worried about how to do something and I think you lack faith that it is possible for you to do it. You're always so wrapped up in the consequences if you mess up that you mess yourself up."

"And you're saying God helps with that."

"I think that a belief in something or someone other than yourself does take some of the pressure off, yes."

"How's that?"

"Well, instead of worrying about how devestating everything's going to be when it all comes crashing down like a house of cards, you instinctively have the safety net of knowing He or it's going to make everything better afterwards. You don't have that now. All you have is the idea that if you fail, you fail for good. I, however, am firm in the knowledge that when something goes horribly awry, He's not going to let me suffer needlessly. I'm buoyed by that. I gain confidence that I can't ever truly fail with God on my side. That's what I think you need and that's what I think God can give you."

It has always kind of been the big divisive issue between us, this God debate. I've always told her that my belief that one can be spiritual without being religious. And she's always told me that one can be religious without being judgmental, which I've always thought. Necessarily, we come from the same place, which is the belief that one has an innate sense of right and wrong in them. I just happen to think that I developed it along myself and she just happens to think that God instilled it in her. Yet it's never been a matter of dividing us to the point where one tries to convert the other. I guess we agree to disagree on that point or, more precisely, we believe in disbelieving the other's side.

"Think about it this way, Eeyore. When you see pictures of Rachel when she was younger does she ever look worried about her future?"


birds singing bells ringing
in our hearts in our minds...

"No."

"Same as you probably if I were to look at pictures of you when you were younger."

"Probably."

"What about when she's older? Does she look worried?"

"No."

"Right, because she still has that faith that she's got that faith everything will be okay in the end, that faith that God is watching out for her. But you, you seem to have stopped smiling after ninth grade. Hell's bells, you've got this look on your face that you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders and it simply isn't true."

"And you're saying that's because I take too much of the worry on myself, because I don't have a belief that someone or something will come to bail me out of trouble?"

"Right. You look at your dreams as something to dread and you only dread them because you've already started to prepare yourself for failure. Dreams, my boy, are something to be amazed at and have fun with. It should be a hoot and a half getting your dreams. This doesn't mean it shouldn't still be hard work, but it shouldn't be all hard work. You've got to smile when you're going after them or else you'll never be able to get them at all."

"So you're saying I shouldn't be afraid of failing at my dreams or ambitions?"

"No, I'm saying you shouldn't be afraid to dream. Period. I don't know if getting to that point is going to take finding religion or merely finding the confidence in yourself through some other means. But you can't go about it the way you're going about it now. You're going to lose yourself in a mire of stress and negativity that you'll never recover from."

I don't know--I don't think I've taken Breanne's advice quite to heart yet. I still have doubts. I still complain far more than I should. But, all in all, I think she's opened my eyes to the possibility that failure isn't the end of the world. And, she's right, when I read Rachel's words, I see too she had doubts. But what I also see is that immediately right after she laid aside those doubts and went about the business of succeeding. She didn't let the threat of disappointment ruin her aspirations. She could do that because she had a secret weapon on her side.

I don't think I've found my secret weapon yet. But if I were to venture a guess, I have a skulking suspicion that she may not even know what an asset she is to me. She's a secret weapon that doesn't even know she's a secret weapon.

"I guess you're right, Breanne."

"Of course, I am."

"Thanks for the pep talk, coach. After that, I just might make my dreams come true yet..."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

But Now The Sun Shines Cold, And All The Sky Is Grey, The Stars Are Dimmed By Clouds And Tears, And All I Wish, Is Gone Away, All I Wish, Is Gone Away

--"To Wish Impossible Things", The Cure

Back when I was a kid in elementary school I used to love play Four Square at recess and lunch. It was a simple game played by simple kids who had yet to be taught the intricacies of more complex fare like baseball, basketball, or football. The basic layout was four squares about 8 feet by 8 feet, forming a larger square 16 feet by 16 feet and the basic concept was to hit the ball in someone else's square once before they could then hit it back to another person a la tennis. One square was designated server and everyone was gunning for him with the other squares in a pre-designated order behind him. Basically, whoever got eliminated vacated his spot and all squares after him moved up a spot. Then whomever was next in line would come in at the fourth square. Like I said, it wasn't a terribly different concept. I just remember how many days I wasted at getting as good as possible at the game.

I think that what crushed any desire to continue playing the game was the fact that, like all things, a certain few people figured out how to exploit the inherent weakness in the game. If you're playing by the spirit of the game there aren't supposed to be any teams and everybody should have an equal shot of getting anybody else out. However, a certain trio of students figured out that if they co-operated with one another there would be no way to eliminate them from the co-ordinate. So that's what they would do; they would set each other up, cover each other's mistakes, and generally work in cahoots with one another so that anyone coming into the game had no shot of making it for very long. It wasn't a question of when one would be eliminated, it was only a matter of when.

I think that's why the game of Four Square resonates with me even after all these years of not playing it. It's the fact that it was my first real taste of a certain sect of people, doing something opposite of what was good for the whole of the people. What would be fair and in the best of everyone was that everyone have fun, content in the knowledge that there was a decent shot of "winning" the game. When that certain trio of my classmates would come into the game, it just turned everyone off from having fun. Technically, they weren't breaking any rules, but it made for a very hopeless sense of defeat waiting in line. One knew one didn't stand a chance, therefore, one had a fatalistic outlook going into the endeavor, which is never good.

After that, I pretty much figured out that the universe wasn't as nice and tidy as I once thought it was.

A few years later, I was re-introduced to the concept when I was reading a set of books by Dave Duncan called A Handful of Men. I had read the previous set of books entitled A Man of His Word, which I had absolutely loved. Those first four books had everything I wanted in a book, especially a fantasy book--action, drama, and a compelling romance at its core. Not only did it feature a nobody stableboy getting the girl in the end, it featured a climatic ending where she actually saves him from certain demise. No joke, I loved those books.

The second set of books, though, came to symbolize a wholly different set of emotions for me. Early on in that series of books, the woman, now the wife of the stableboy main character, gets kidnapped by one of the villains from the first series. Not only does she get kidnapped, but, in the course of the plot, she gets summarily raped. This affected in two different ways. One, it was one of the first instances where I saw an author utilize rape as a means to an end, in this case showing the villain's utter lack of self-control and his overwhelming anger at the two heroes from the first book. And two, it was one of the only times that I became fueled to finish the series just to see the villain get his comeuppance. No longer was I reading for fun, from that scene on I pretty much was reading solely for revenge. My need to see him die in print became all-consuming. I probably read the last three books faster than I've read any other books in my life. I bought them on a Tuesday. By Thursday morning they were all done. I just kept waiting for her to tell the hero what the villain had done. I wanted to see the fight. I wanted to feel the satisfaction of the hero knowing he is wholly justified in murdering the evildoer.

I wanted to see justice.

And you know what I discovered by the end of the book? She never tells him. He never finds out. Sure, the villain gets killed, but it is through a far gentler means than he deserved. When I read this I felt cheated. I felt unsatisfied. I felt like the world I had just been privy to was completely unfair and hurtful and plainly nonsensical.

Basically, I found out that it was just like real life. Who wants to read that?

I know it's wishful thinking, but I wish I could have held onto my youthful naivete. I wish I could have been spared being exposed to the unnecessary injustive of the world for that much longer. It's bad enough when my day-to-day life was plagued with feeling of inadequecy on the playground. The one place, the few moments in my life where I felt comfortable, namely while I was reading, had somehow been corrupted. That's when I knew the sad truth must be how it is everywhere. Life is unfair and sometimes cannot be made to be fair. The good guys will not always win without losing and the bad guys will not always lose without winning a bit in the first place.

I don't know--I guess I'm still idealistic enough to believe that there's a place out there that people in love deserve a long-lasting type of happiness, uninterrupted by unpleasant things like rape. I still think there's a place out there that bad people can never really harm good people and get away with it. I still think that there's a place out there where only the bad people deserve to die. I still think that there's a place out there that is free of worry and stress and feelings of being cheated.


remember how it used to be
when the sun would fill the sky
remember how we used to feel
those days would never end

I still believe there's a place out there where one can play a completely fair game of Four Square.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

This Heart Is A Stone, No One Will Ever Break It, This Heart Is A Stone, Close To You It Breaks Easily

--"This Heart Is A Stone", Acid House Kings

When I was first considering moving down to the South Bay I was visiting various cities to ascertain which ones I liked the best. For having lived practically all my life in Southern California my knowledge of this particular collective of cities was woefully stunted.

That much was proven when my friend Kerri Ray and I tried to find an old pizza place my parents used to take my brother and I to when we were kids. For the life of me, I just couldn't figure out how to exit from the freeway to get us to the correct place. Hell, I couldn't even remember what the name of the place nor the shopping center was called to even ask for directions. Kerri Ray, being the great sport that she is, cursed me for my stupidity and questioned aloud why she had ever agreed to join me on the expedition in the first place.

"It's not like I didn't have prior engagements," she shouted hastily in the midst of my driving.

"And it isn't like I forced you to come in the first place," I answered back.

Even while I was working with her at Sears, back when I was afraid to talk to her, the deal with Kerri has always been that she has never been one to be afraid to speak her mind. It makes for a very effective collection agent as I never once heard her bow down to a customer. In fact, more often than not, she got comments that perhaps she was being a bit too harsh with customers with obvious legitimate gripes. I always admired that aspect about her even while it may have been the very aspect that spurned any thought of ever actually acting on my silly infatuation for her. Even when I found her, through Myspace of all places, she wasn't in the least bit mellowed. That's when I found out that what makes for a superb collector doesn't always make for a good friend, at first. She was gruff, at first, questioning my wanting to chat with her after two years of quitting that job. She even stooped to calling me not-so-very-nice names, but I wouldn't budge. The aspect of Kerri Ray that's always been there is that she's never been on to suffer fools gladly, but, as soon as you can prove yourself of hearty character, principles, and intelligence, she tends to ease up a bit and another side emerges. That's the side that keeps me interested in her.

She started to sulk in the passenger seat. Not only had I spent the last hour driving around, only seemingly to get us more lost in the process, I had blown way past lunchtime which I had enticed her with to come out.

"Why do we have to go out to this particular place? I don't comprehend its meaning for you," she said.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

By that point I'd had enough of the constant complaining, something that tends to happen at least once or twice a month whenever I talk to her. She's a sweet girl most of the time and I admire her to pieces, but there are some times where I seriously think she's evil. I was one more comment away from turning my car around. I didn't want to sound silly so I didn't bother asking the traditional, "do you want me to turn this car around? Because I'll do it. I will." Instead, I cut right to the heart of my frustration.

"Look, woman," I said, placing special emphasis on the second word since that has always been useful in annoying her, "your bitching at me about what a bad driver is not getting us there faster. Either help out by looking around for some signs or please don't talk to me if you're not."

"You didn't answer the question."

"I don't want to answer the question."

My reticence at her inquiry seems to have quieted her criticism as she spent the next few minutes staring blankly forward out the windshield. I knew she was still mad, but another quest had replaced her earlier one of trying to apparently voice her lack of trust in my navigational abilities at every possible opportunity. Instead, my lack of offering of any sort of explanation for the trip had intrigued her. Soon, she turned her head slightly back to me.

"I'll proffer you this deal for your consideration. You tell me why the sudden urge to find this pizza place has replaced any amount of sanity we two have left and, in exchange, I shall not utter another word about what an utter and complete simpleton I think you're being. Deal?"

"God knows I love it when you say proffer, Miss Kerri Ray."

"Deal or no deal?"

"Well, if you put it like that, I guess I have no choice to accept your conditions."

For her part, she didn't rush me into starting out immediately. She didn't announce her impatience or disapproval of my wanting to prepare myself first. She understood that a deal had been struck and, while I'm not exactly good to my word in every instance, she knew I would be good to it in this situation.

It wasn't that it was a difficult story to tell, full of misery and heartache. And, no, it didn't involve some sappy plot about my falling over my head for some gal at the harbor. But it was kind of sappy, nonetheless.

"The thing is that when we were kids," I began, "my dad used to take my brother and I down to this place all the time. I don't even remember when we started going there. I just remember going there often up until I was thirteen. In fact, I remember one of my last trips to this place was to buy my Wizard poster. There the three of us would just wander around, only for an hour or so, but inevitably we would always stop at this same pizza place for a bite to eat before we would head back home. Truth be told, I think my dad and even my mom whenever she came did it just to escape the heat of the valley, but to me it was always a great time. I don't even remember if the pizza was even all that good, but I always looked forward to it.

"What I remember the most, though, and the reason I didn't want to get into all this explanation, was the fact that it was something that my brother and I used to enjoy together. Back when we were kids, I guess you could say we used to hang out a lot--a lot more than I can even remember now. We all shared the same friends on the same block so it was easy for him to just tag along whenever I went over to my friends' house. But somewhere along the way we just grew more distant. We developed different sets of friends, different interests. Then, when I went away for college and he did too, we just never reconnected in the way that I think brothers are supposed to. It wasn't that I didn't want to. It was just easier to think of him as being to far to keep up with. He fell into the old trap of being out of sight and out of mind."

"I see," I heard her say.

"It's really about something my cousin Vincent told me a few years ago, about how I acted more like a brother to him than his real brother. That got me to thinking about how he was more like my brother than my own real brother. I certainly saw him more.

"Right now it's really to the point where I momentarily forget that I even have one. He's off doing his own thing, which is good, but it's always something I have to hear about from somebody else. I'm no better, though. It's not like I pick up a phone to call him. I'm so bad that I don't even know his current number or address. I'm just a horrible brother, that's all."

That's when I saw Kerri Ray smile.

"Awwww. And you thought, by going back to this locale where you had so many great memories with your brother, it would recapture some of that bliss you felt."

"Pretty stupid, huh? Just like The Wizard. I might as well have said, 'Francis,' when I got there."

"No, I think it's understandable. Commendable even. Every one of us have places that bring back the flood of memories. I completely relate."

"That's why I think it's important that I find this place, if only to prove to myself that it is real. It's like if I can see for myself that it is real then I'll know my memories of those good times were real too."

I heard my companion chuckle, her decidely green eyes sparkling in that unique manner which only shows itself when she's in the rarest of moods, which is to say a good one.

"I always knew you were an idealist, but that's downright corny."

"Hey, it is what it is."

This time it was my turn to remain taciturn as I waited for her to fill in the conversation. She's always been reluctant, as long as I've known her, to reveal terribly intimate things about herself. I always had the sense that she was raised rather strictly and that she was always a far stricter arbiter of her own behavior as a result. The reason she didn't abide sloppiness or incompetence, I think, was that it wasn't tolerated in her own house. Therefore, she grew up always on the lookout for it in others, lest she fall into a lackadaisical work ethic herself. This included whimsical reminescing which she had always derided as being foolhardy and best left to those of us who had nothing better to do than laziness.

"I don't think wanting to reconnect with your family, even if only through a metaphorical context, is entirely nonsensical. I didn't mean to give that impression. Some of us, myself included, have always wondered about what it would be like to have a closer-knit family. However, I don't have a San Pedro to swap tales with you about. I was never that fortunate."

"Not one place?"

"Our sojourns with my parents and my two brothers were always directed towards education and self-improvement. Very rare was the time we just went to a place just to relax. I didn't exactly go on very many vacations that were solely amusing."

"I feel sad for you, then."

"It wasn't all bad. I had my fun in bits and pieces, but it was always in the context of having to keep it hidden for fear of my parents telling me to cease it immediately."

I don't know what's worse, having all these great memories of one's family that one has to look back upon with fondness since no time presently or in the future will ever measure up? Or to grow up with your fond memories being those times spent in secret from one's loved ones? At one time or another, we both have been accused of having stilted senses of humor, like the joy has been drained from our souls except, whereas mine comes from having to watch that ship sail away from me, hers has always been of that of an individual whose ship never arrived.

"There was one place, though, not that I really ponder it, that I remember enjoying myself at. We had gone to the Huntington Library for some art exhibition my mother had wanted us to see. I remember having just finished the tour and walking out into this breathtaking garden that literally was the most beautiful garden I'd ever seen in my life. I remember looking down upon that and just feeling the need to smile. Never before have I witnessed something that so had an immediate effect upon me.

"And instead of telling me to hurry back to the car so we could drive home, my mom told me we could stay a couple of minutes just to walk through it. I don't know--maybe she was merely attempting to expose me to horticulture, but I just recall it being a moment of temporary joy."

"That you could share with your mom, right?"

"Exactly. Wow, I've never shared that story with anyone outside of my family."

Looking at my friend's face, it was a moment that I could see she had truly let her guard down and experienced something to the core of her being. Soon after, the wall of her own rigid behavior came down once again and she was back to worrying about when and if she'd ever get to San Pedro, but for a moment I had the thought that, for a couple of people who are always being chastised for being far too downtrodden and rigid, we had managed a genuine moment of shared delight.

Who knows, it may even be a story I recount to her again or others many years from now as being an example of a fond memory.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Caught In A Net

"I got caught in a net..."

If you're a fan of "Lost" then you'll know what I'm talking about. And sadly, this time I'm not talking about myself. It just so happens 75% of the residents I live with have been caught in a net in the past 24 hours.

Am I bitter? Not really. It's nice to hear my roommates are doing well. And it's not that I'm listening. Believe me, my radio is up all the way to avoid hearing something I shouldn't. But should I be bitter? Probably so... The drought that's been going on in my life is not due to environmental factors or a lack in ability. I'd say it's more a choice in allocating funds. Being, I have no funds so I can only spend on crap I need. And right now, I'm just not hurting for it.

But who knows. Maybe the adult sound show constantly going on in my household will change my needs. Getting caught in a net may be more important... than say... food.

Fob: "Man, I'm so hungry..."
Fob's Penis: "Dude, so am I..."
Fob: "Lets get something to eat. Burgers?"
Fob's Penis: "Nah... I was thinking some cat fish..."

I Will Bring Anything For Three, With A Dusty Smile And A Loaded Gun, You Ask Me Again, What's In It For Me? Well Thanks And Tell Me Come Undone

--"October, First Account", Be Your Own PET

Before I went to St. Rita's for 2nd Grade, I went to Bethany. It was a vastly different place. It was a different time, younger, more lawless. The same laws that applied to other, more civilized schools, just didn't apply there. For instance, whereas in most schools the faculty were the law of the land, at Bethany's there were wantonly weak comparitively. Sure, for the benefit of the parents and guardians, they held titles like Principal or Teacher, but down in the dirt fields and blacktop everyone knew who really ran things, the students, the kindergarten through sixth grade students.

Being in first grade, I had a whole year to got inducted into the way the system worked.

I knew who to go for when I was in need of a juicebox. I'm not talking about the swill that my parents tried to pass off as satisfactory; I'm talking about the good stuff. I'm talking about the stuff they reserved for the highest cubby hole and, even then, only for his oldest, most trustworthy friends. His name was Dennis, and the handlebar mustache the shade of this side of midnight let everyone know that he was not a man to be trifled with.

I also was on good terms with the girl, Linda, who ran the local jungle gym. For blocks around, the neighborhood boys would flock to get a gander at Linda and her cute friends. Her prices were fair; for one cupcake you could have a girl of your own for all of recess--double for lunch. I cannot even tell you how many afternoons I wasted with company the good Lord wouldn't want me keeping.

Yet, along with the finest wares or services being at your every disposal, our den of inequity came with a heavy price. It hadn't been so bad in the early years, Kindergarten. Back then, a man could walk across the playground without crossing his fingers. It used to be that everyone kept to their own kind and no trouble ever brewed between the various outfits that operated the school. It used to be that an unspoken truce governed the land and no one was keen to breaking what had become a life of luxury and debauchery. That was before the troubles began.

When poor Reggie had his unfortunate accident on the track by himself at the start of P.E., I knew the good life was about to come to a close. They never quite found out what happened. All the teachers ever found of him was the gym shorts that had been ripped into two. "He's gone missing," they cried. "He's ran home," another person shouted. But I knew the truth. I knew that there would be no seeing Reggie again. He'd been the first casualty, the first shot in a battle nobody had seen coming in a war that had been brewing for at least five semesters.

I knew what most people didn't, that Dennis had a select group of students that protected his interests. Not only would they purloin the local supermarkets and relatives for the hard-to-find beverage boxes; they also provided muscle to an organization that had its hands in many pockets. For you see, the apple juice trade was only a means to an end. What Dennis really yearned for was to become undisputed ruler of the roost, the universally-hailed overseer of everything that went down at Bethany's. So the coffers he filled everyday with the allowances of foolish young boys and girls was turned right around into paying off various school officials to make sure his agendas were forwarded. The no tests for months ending in "R"? Yeah, that was his idea. That idea alone won him the respect and the loyalty of a great deal of the student body. Dennis and his cronies soon had practically every teacher in his pocket to the degree that all it took was a call from Dennis and school literally would be shut down for the day.

And what did this illustrious and all-powerful group call themselves? The Squirrels, of course.

But every group needs an enemy, and The Squirrels were no different. The Beavers, they say, had their beginnings in the fact that Linda used to work for Dennis--some even said the two had even been nap buddies once upon a time. But, whatever the case, she had eventually come to hate him with every inch of her being. She too had a thriving business. While Dennis ran the administration and the day-to-day illicit activites at Bethany's, everyone came to Linda when it came to social cache. Not only did she have every single cute, non-cootie infected, girl in her employ, but she also had access to information, gleaned from a much older (and seasoned) sister, that she used to great effect to push her own agendas forward. And everyone knew the kind of information that she had access to was more tantalizing than a new bike or a summer vacation; hers was the information that our parents thought we were too young to know--about playing doctor, spin the bottle, truth or dare, skinny-dipping, and other strange terms that we had never come across. While Dennis had been busy stashing faculty away with monetary rewards, Linda had slowly been bedazzling all the boys, including the sixth grade and fifth grade boys, the finest of us all, into surely doing her bidding, which, didn't sit well at all with her rival. "Those damn Beavers are going to be my ruination," I had heard him remark on more than one occasion.

Yes, what happened was a long time coming. I had the perfect vantage point with which to witness it all. Being a first grader, I was still considered a neophyte, but not a complete plebian. I had access to locations that the older students, the students who had already chosen allegiances, didn't. I made fast friends with both crowds, each side wooing me to their cause with a deliberateness usually only reserved for class presidents. I wasn't the smartest student nor the most popular. I didn't come from any sort of wealth or prestige. Nope, the only quality I could see that had warmed them to my reception into their fold was the fact that I had a gift for storytelling. Every victor needs a scribe, and they recognized that overt maneuvers weren't going to win them as many converts as a subtle game of propoganda.

So, yeah, I played both sides. I wrote stories chronicling Dennis' latest feat in taming the dogged Mr. Crenshaw and forcing Principal Henry to call him master. I even covered the lavish soirees Dennis hosted, along with all the Squirrels, the parties that lasted from first period until well after the afterschool care kids had gone home. I also wrote stories about every new debutante that Linda had befriended and had for auction that very afternoon. I wrote profiles on all the girls and how they felt like they were only doing their part to keep up school morale. "After all," one had remarked in an interview I had conducted, "it's hard for all of us here, at school. We only want to make it easier and funner to while away the time spent in this godforsaken hellhole."

Reggie's only fault, if he could only be considered at fault, was that he had once been loyal to Dennis. Once Reggie had been Dennis' bigger customer, his trusted confidante. Many days I would pony up to the benches by the foursquare courts where Dennis had set up his juice saloon and see Reggie patting Dennis on the back telling him what a great guy he was. The two of them looked to be the best of chums.

Then Reggie had to go and fall in love with Margaret, the new girl and the Beavers' newest recruit. From the moment he first saw her skipping rope by Linda's jungle gym, he was a goner. Soon his days came to be spent farther and farther away from Dennis and closer and closer to Margaret. Linda was professional on the outside, but on the inside she confided in me that she was ecstatic. Not only had she gained some leverage on Dennis, but she had also managed to discover an unwilling informant as well.

Soon Reggie had gone from carrying one, maybe two, cupcakes with him to giving Linda entire packs merely for the privelege of sitting next to Margaret all day. At first, Margaret was a tad hesitant. She had only just arrived at Bethany's. She really hadn't meant to get into offering up her time business. She had been young and foolish. Also, like I said, Linda could be a very persuasive businesswoman. Before she knew it, Margaret had agreed to give herself to whoever wanted her for snacks. At first, she resisted Reggie as being just like her other customers, only interested in her for her good looks and forced conversation. Soon, as he began to meet her everyday for lunch and the two of them really got to talking, she realized that he really liked her. Not just liked her, but liked her, liked her. And that was something she really hadn't expected.

Margaret decided she needed to quit the business, which Linda would have none of. She refused to let go of Margaret even stooping to the point of refusing Reggie's payments and offering Margaret to other, less worthy, patrons. Every day he was resigned to watching the girl of his dreams at nap time making time with others that didn't deserve her. Then, as everyone returned to their classes, he would watch Margaret go into the girls' bathroom crying.

Sure, she would come out looking as wholesome as ever, but she had surely come to the realization that Linda was not her friend. Linda was only using her friendship as a rouse to get what she really wanted, the undying loyalty of the student body. At that point Reggie would have done anything to spend time with Margaret, including selling out his former buddy, Dennis. In fact, after a few days of this treatment, he even offered Linda anything she wanted if she would consent to allow Margaret to see him again.

But Linda wanted more. Linda wanted Reggie to not only take down Dennis personally, but she wanted dirt on taking all of The Squirrels down. She knew that if she cut off the head, someone else would only take his place. She needed to end it all. She needed to end all of them. Reggie would not consent.

Reggie was heartbroken. What could be done? Where could he turn? There was only one place he could turn. He turned back to Dennis. At first, Dennis was more than slightly angry at him. The incident in front of the hopscotch court where Reggie was not only hung out the window, a whole six feet from the ground, but also made to sit in timeout for a whole schoolday, proved that Dennis' wrath was beyond measure. Eventually, though, Dennis figured out that Reggie could be used as a double agent. And so Reggie was sent back to Linda's camp with explicit instructions to bring her down and to bring all of the Beavers down.

The next day we found the remains of Reggie's shorts on the field. Eight minutes later all hell broke loose. Someone just shouted into all the classrooms that they had taken Reggie down. The next thing we knew, Dennis screamed "Squirrels on me. Follow my lead." Then we watched as he stormed out in the middle of the lecture into Linda's class and began to pummel her mercilessly.

"This is for the Squirrel you took down today," he said.

It was Margaret who came to Linda's defense surprisingly. Unfortunately, Dennis' ire was blind. Normally, he wouldn't have struck a girl other than Linda, but Reggie had been a long-time friend and this was the last straw for him.

"You don't understand," Margaret said, laying crumpled on her side.

It was pandemonium. Brother was fighting sister. Cousin was fighting cousin. Everywhere you walked you could hear the shouts of "Squirrel!" and "Beaver!" being echoed throughout the whole school. This was not merely the largest school fight ever at Bethany. This was the largest school fight ever. Even I was caught up in the conflict. I remember standing on the carousel, pinning an unfortunate kindergartner, watching his head sticking out from the bars as the ground inches below seemingly spun around. "Fucking say it!" I told him. "Which side do you belong to?" "Beavers," he would answer. "Wrong. Which side do you work for?" I asked again. "Squirrels?" he then replied. "Wrong again," I said. I didn't even know which side I was working for. All I knew was this violence had to stop. I had counted sixty-seven students in the nurse's office, all before lunch, and the body count was only increasing.

Nobody went back to class. They just kept fighting in the fields and playground. It was eerie. Nobody knew why exactly they were fighting, but the tensions had come to such a boil and both parties had been instilling so much hatred for one another that the violence seeped like sewage. It would not be tamed. It could not be tamed. It continued until well after the last bell had rung.

Finally, it claimed its second victim. Margaret was errantly struck in the head with a tetherball, which had split open a gash the size of a grapefruit in her head. Soon, an ambulance was summoned to her aid and she was taken away. Then and only then did hostilities cease. All told, we had caused hundreds of dollars in damages. All the classrooms were wrecked. Every single member of the faculty had vanished without a trace, went home to get away from the idiocy that was the student body.

Eventually, Dennis was sent away to Juvenille Hall and Linda was sent to boarding school. They broke up The Squirrels and The Beavers. They had to burn the whole school down and just never bothered to rebuild. Not it just sits there, a ghost school to remind all those who still live near it of the folly of allowing recklessness to be the law of the land.

As per our plan, myself, Reggie, and Margaret all got transferred to St. Rita's. He was never really hurt. We had come up with the idea that something needed to be done to clean up the hive of scum and villainy that had been our former school. Not only that, but the two of them needed a new beginning outside the influence of their former friends. We thought it was for the best, ridding ourselves of the entire school wholesale. I, for one, was sad to see it go, but it had to be done. God help us, we had no choice. I knew if I stayed at Bethany, it would eventually sink its hooks into me and that, frankly, was enough for a first-grader to contemplate. I didn't want to be in my rocker, sitting in sixth grade, looking back at my elementary school life and regretting every decision I ever made. I wanted to look back with pride at something accomplished. But mostly I wanted the tyranny of students with power to be at an end.

Now when people ask what happened at Bethany, either when they see the remains or hear about all the students who moved away, I just tell them one simple thing.

"The Squirrels and The Beavers happened, that's what." Then I cry uncontrollably and give thanks that I'm still alive to tell the tale.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

wrrr... Wrrr.... WRRR!... (Wrr-wrr!) Dom dom Dom dom

It seems that Clarke/Kubrick (though less so Nietschze himself) speculated incorrectly and in fact, Zidane is the over-man to modern man which the weapon-wielding primate is to the weaponless primate. Once astronomers find the monolith in space and retro-plot its trajectory we will surely find that it aligned with the Sun, Alpha Centauri, Earth and Zizou's head at the exact spatiatemporal point of contact with Materazzi's now Shroud of Turim-caliber relic of a jersey.

Evolutionarily it makes sense. First we forgo the chimpanzee's opposable toe, preferring a specialized arch. We become fast and lissome and willowily-armed. Soccer invented. Head-controlled vehicles developed for quadriplegics, consumer models surely coming. Autopilots. Segways. Voice-activated everything. And then all the technology becomes invisible.

But will it ever be practical for humans to be floating heads tentacling a ball around a field? No no... . . . : We are going the way of dolphins and seals! Costner was actually onto something. Today soccer, tomorrow hands-free blitzball!

Let Me Take You On A Trip, Around The World And Back, And You Won't Have To Move, You Just Sit Still

--"World in My Eyes", Depeche Mode

After what seems like years of neglect, I've decided to start a book similar to those that I was reading over a decade ago at USC. No more bestseller, flavor-of-the-month, fluff stories that really don't educate me or benefit me in any substantial way. I've undertaken a quest to read all those books I promised myself that I would read someday and never quite got around to it. I'm doing this for two reasons. The first reason is I can feel myself getting dumber as the years drag on, which I realize both in the manner of speaking I've adopted as well as my skills at composition. I promise, I used to be more eloquent than the roughshod behemoth that now sits before you writing this. The second reason is that I used to enjoy reading a lot more than I do now and am curious to see where that sort of passion died. It's my sincere hope that by falling into a pattern of reading two or three books a month I may recapture that sense of fulfillment now sorely lacking in my day-to-day existence.

For my first book, I've undertaken a doozy, Walden by Henry David Thoreau. I've always wanted to dive into this book ever since I heard so many of my fellow students at university discuss it. Sadly, I was never fortunate to enroll into a class where it was taught and missed out on its considerable charms. I've only prowled through twenty pages or so, but am finding it both a challenge and a joy to re-use those mental muscles I'm afraid I let atrophy under the rather light discourse of blogs, sports pages, and entertainment magazine articles.

The humorous aspect of the process by which I choose my intended delights is that I've always been spurred on by more conventional and current media. I'll be viewing a show I like, like Avonlea, and they will plug a great literary classic like Ivanhoe. The next thing you know I'm buying that same book the next day. For another example, I will be listening to a song and the lyrics will make some obscure reference to a Tolstoy novel. The next thing you know I'm scouring the internet to both find the reference and purchase the selfsame novel. It was much the same with Walden, except, in the case of this particular book, they made reference to it on an old episode of Frasier. Damn it all if it didn't pique my interest in actually completing that book.

I've always been that way since high school. The books I remember the most and the ones I cherish the longest are those that were prompted by the shows or movies I've liked. It just goes to show, for me, at least, that television doesn't make you necessarily dumber. When it facilitates a keen interest in pursuing knowledge after hours, then it can be a force for good. I think it's safe to say that 40-50% of the books I've read had nothing to do with a teacher's or school's reading list. That percentage of books I tracked down on my own because a show or movie I respected told me that I'd enjoy myself if I read it. They never said it in so many ways, but the idea that the characters who lived and breathed on those programs thought these books enriching enough to make mention of them is a good enough recommendation for me.

I still haven't been disappointed by selecting books in this matter and I doubt I ever will be.


let me show you the world in my eyes

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a book to read.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Winner: Tequila

It's been a while since I went heads up against alcohol, well, maybe not for you readers. You can probably scroll back a blog or two and find me bitching and whining about how I'm going to give up the sauce and commit my life to the starving children of the world, or maybe something more selfish like masturbate 24/7. But anyway, for me, it's been a long while since I've gotten my ass kicked this bad by the bottle.

This past weekend was extra special because it was four days long due to the American Rebellion, or Independence Day depending on who's side you're on. Thankfully I got some much needed time off from the grind to do what? How do I celebrate? By throwing up all over my house.

I come back to the Hate to find the guys prepping to pass out. There on the table sits two lovely bottles of Tequila 1800. I think to myself, "Alright. I'm officially on vacation. I can have a couple of shots."

Later that night, we're two bottles deep and I'm starting to run my mouth saying things that wouldn't make sense to a sober person when another buddy of mine shows up with a new bottle of Tequila. By this point, it would have been smart for me to go home because God knows I won't refuse more alcohol. I continue to take more shots yelling things most people wouldn't put up with, slapping my friends and calling them my bitches, and spilling my beer chaser then saying, "Hey asshole stop moving the ground! You keep spilling my drink. Now pour me, you piece of hate!"

And just like every other night like this, I can't say I remember the rest. But my butt wasn't violated and I still had some money in my wallet so it couldn't have been that bad. Violating wise... As for health wise, I don't think I've thrown up as much as I did since I was 21. I threw up in the kitchen sink, the shower, the toilet, the bathroom sink, three different trash cans, and a little spray on the floor to where I found myself the next morning.

It was terrible. And I felt like absolute shit. Not only was my head pounding but my innards which were strategically thrown up throughout my house made it smell like a dirty sock dipped in year old blue cheese. It was nasty.

So the lesson today children is... um... You know I can't say anything and really mean it. Well, I guess, drink on! Just don't throw up so much. And be careful when taking on Tequila. Easy huh?

You Know That There's A Possibility, That We'll Never Get This Chance Once Again, Oh No, So Tell Me What To Do, For The Love Of You Tonight

--"I Can't Wait Another Minute", Hi-Five



It was 1994 and it was still the first day of my trip to visit Breanne. I remember it was uncharacteristically hot for December. Even at 9:43 in the evening, according to the digital clock by her bed, I was still managing to sweat a bit through my clothes. Normally, if it had been that hot back at home, I would have been carousing around in a pair of boxers, safe in the knowledge that no one outside my walls could see my hideousness in all its glory. But with her there it felt different. I felt awkward. For the time being the suffering I was experiencing beneath all that heat was more bearable than the suffering I imagined of making a fool of myself (again!) in front of her. There I lay on top of her sheets, still wearing the same flannel shirt and pair of jeans that I'd worn out from the airport. I was too chicken shit to change into something more comfortable, so I'd been uncomfortable the last couple of hours even as I was having probably the best days of my life. Not that she would have noticed anyway. She was dressed appropriately for the weather, in a dotted blue halter and a pair of denim shorts. Unlike me, she had no compunction against baring her wonderfully soft skin for the whole world to see. Unlike me, she was already completely comfortable around me.

It would be a lie to say that the kiss didn't have a lot to do with it also. I mean--I have always thought of Breanne like a younger sister. She's always been someone I always tried to look out for, protect, and insure nothing bad happens to. The last thing I would have advised in the spirit of preserving her happiness would have been to get mixed up with the likes of me romantically. But it also would have been a lie to say that I hadn't ever given credence to the idea of us as a couple. By that point in our friendship I'd shared too much, been through too much, with this girl to say I wasn't invested in us having a future together. All in all, I had a lot on my plate that evening to remain stoic.

"Peso for your thoughts," I heard her say.

We'd been laying in her bedroom for the last few hours, talking honestly about a plethora of topics. With the possibly exception of Jina, I've never met a person who I found it easier to talk to about anything. Certainly, I don't believe there has been an individual with whom I've shared more words with than her. I've been so lucky. I've always been blessed to have met people who had the rare ability to draw forth the best and brightest ideas that I've ever originated. On my own I'm truthfully quite the idiot. It's almost as if I didn't have someone wise and mature enough to understand my laziness I'd be content to wallow in the same caveman philosophy--beer good, fire bad, type of thinking.

"Nothing. Actually, a peso is about how much they'd be worth."

"Mine would be worth about the same. You could be getting back change too."

I laughed slightly first, but she soon followed.

I looked at her smiling face, dimples and everything. Normally, this would be the part where I write it was like staring at the face of an angel. It would also be where I could feel myself falling deeper and deeper for her. But that would have been the romantic in me writing. What it was really like was nice. She looked pretty, as always, but she was not breathtaking or ravishing. Nor was she the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. She was what she was, which was very pretty. Even then I'd always been a firm believer in paying a person a compliment if the situation warranted it. As much trouble as I have receiving compliments, I'll always be the first individual to dish them out.

Especially to the prettiest girl I've ever known.

"You look pretty, Breanne, that's what I was honestly thinking," I finally said after a beat. I watched as she started to blush slightly. I don't know if the assertion is true, but she's always claimed to have the innate ability to blush on cue. She always said it was a byproduct of her mother's upbringing--all the false modesty and well-mannered gracefulness that was expected of the daughter of her very particular mother. I always joked with her every time I saw her blush or heard about a time she told me she'd been blushing particularly noticeably that she was just faking it. I always teased her that she was a notorious for giving out fake "glow-gasms". Yet somehow I think this particular time she was truthfully embarrassed.

"What a coincidence, Mr. Patrick, I was just thinking that I look very pretty myself."

"Really?"

"Nope, what I was honestly thinking was what a dork you were for not having taken notice of it sooner. I'm quite offended," she said smiling out of the side of her mouth.

The last few hours after we'd kissed we'd said nary a word about it. It'd happened and we were both glad for the experience. We were also both sure that it had been something we'd both wanted to happen. It was the step after that was kind of hazy. The idea of having to decide where we went from there was confusing. Instead, our answer to the entire dilemma was to forget entirely that there even was a dilemma. Our mentality seemed to be that, if kissing was what caused all this confusion, then we'd lie to ourselves and forget altogether that we'd kissed at all. For those few hours it seemed to work. We'd conveniently sidestepped around any discussion of any attraction between us and focused on milder topics. In time, I think we fooled ourselves into believing that everything was still the same between us. Of course, that's the point I had to open my big mouth about her being pretty.

All the dialogue about her being pretty reawoked the notion that she was, in fact, pretty. It was as if my brain had been lulled into a delirious state of hypnosis-induced amnesia only to be reawakened by the trigger phrase "Breanne is pretty." After that, all bets were off. I remembered why it was that I'd wanted to feel her lips so much and why I was doubting myself even then.

"So sorry, milady, for the offense."

"Apologies will not suffice, you insolent whelp. Rest assured your deed shall not go unpunished and I promise you, sir, your punishment shall be severe."

"Again, so sorry, milady," I said, taking a hold of her hand and kissing in mock reverence. "Shall not happen again."

I watched as her head turned slightly away from me.

"Severe and swift, I might add."

That's when I rolled in closer to her so that my face was an inch from her own. I took my hand, placed it on the cheek facing away from me, and gently rolled it back towards me. She resisted, of course, still playing the role of the offended queen. It was all rather cute and certainly what I expected from her. If it wasn't for all the good times I had with her, I may have thought it impossible for one person to make another truly happy. After a few moments, when she had finally given up, and I was able to look her in the eyes, I kissed her. Unlike our first kiss, I didn't hesitate. I was still nervous and I still thought it was a bad idea, but I was coming around to the notion that, hey, I'd had worse ideas. Plus, I'm very impulsive by nature and, inevitably, in any dealing with a member of the opposite sex that I find attractive, I always let my heart lead where my brain cannot.

Basically, since I'd first met her, I'd had the hots for her. There's a reason why in my earlier writings about her I referred to her as being, "like the little sister I had the hots for," incestuous as that sounds. I never wanted to let myself get caught up in all that, though. I didn't want to introduce another avenue of heartache into my already troubled life. Also, she had so much going for her that there was a part of me that knew, in the ledger of her life, I could only be a liability and not an asset. Yet, at that moment in time, I didn't care. All I cared about, all I was really thinking about, was how pretty she looked and how great it had been to kiss her earlier that day.

"Apology accepted?" I asked as I moved my face away.

"Hell's bells, Patrick. If I'd known that would have been my reward, I would have let you offend earlier."

I laughed. I felt her put her arm around me definitely not like a sister would. Then I viewed her delicately place her head so it rested on my chest. I started to unconsciously run my fingers through her chestnut curls for, if nothing else, it prevented them from being tempted to explore elsewhere.

"What brought that on?"

"Nothing. Just felt like it."

"I liked it."

"So did I."

"I could tell."

This time it was her time to kiss me. As I felt her lips touch mine, I reflect how it was almost second nature by then. I was slowly beginning to get the hang of how our mouths fit together. I was slowly beginning to recognize, even expect, all the peculiarities about how she kissed. It was a habit that I could tell even then that would be impossible to break once started.

Technically, one wouldn't be able to say we made out. I've always thought of making out as involving petting and fondling. All we did was kiss, which was the most I was willing to allow myself to do with her. I still had boundaries and I wasn't about to cross them. I don't know if she had her own boundaries, but at the very least she seemed to pick up where I wanted things to go and respected that. The kissing was very nice, though. It was like telling a child that all he can ever be is a mime. If he was happy with that lot in life and knew that's all he could ever have as a career, eventually he'd grow up to be the best damn mime in the world. We must have kissed straight for twenty minutes in a variety of permutations. It was an experience the likes of which I'd never had. It was one thing to kiss your date good night. It was another thing to have kissing lead into heavier foreplay. But to kiss for its own sake was like visiting another planet for me. It was nice, though. Very nice.

Afterwards, she went back to laying atop me again.

It makes my heart quiver to remember how overwhelming my feelings were for her back then. Those tender moments that the two of us shared are some of the hardest memories not to reflect back upon, especially when I'm feeling especially lonely or sad that I haven't found the right one yet. It hurts sometimes because I know it's horrible to compare something that happened to you a long time ago to where you're at now. One's tendency is to reminesce about "the good old days" when everything was better and happier and prettier. And, while I cannot say I didn't have other happy times that were just as memorable and just as happy, I can say that those few days--heck, all my days--with Breanne were when I realized what being happy could really mean.

We laid like that for awhile, my hand playing with her hair, her hand tracing up and down my arm, like two people who had too much to say and only two hands to say it with. I didn't want to talk because I had a sense that any more talking would ruin whatever magic that moment held. All I wanted to do was feel the texture of her body against mine, feel that unique warmth against me.

"What are you thinking now?"

"Just trying to enjoy the moment, my Breannie."

"Was it good for you?" she laughed.

"No complaints. And you?"

"I'm ready for seconds, please, thank you."

I know it's a cop-out to say that what you appreciate about a person is that they make you laugh. I think it's obvious that if you like somebody they both get and share in your sense of humor. I'd be hard-pressed to find a pair of individuals who were dating or even just friends that didn't laugh at each other's jokes. It'd be like trying to find someone who didn't enjoy music or toast. But, yeah, Breanne has always been good at finding the particular vein of humor that I always seem to strike. I can't think of a time when the two of us have been talking, when we weren't fighting, that she hasn't made me laugh out-loud. And one of her surefire ways to laugh at the most inappropriate moment is to add the phrase "please, thank you" to the end of her sentences. It was a phrase that she used to repeat ad nauseum when I first met her and I used to have the giggle fits every time she said it. I used to think it was strange for someone to be that polite and considerate, since I was practically raised in a barn. Eventually, I weaned her off the practice and relegated its use for purposes of comedy exclusively.

"I bet you are."

"The question is are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic."

"How happy are you?"

I opened my arms around her head and spread them wide like I was describing a fish I'd caught.

"This happy."

I felt her jump off of me and her bed. She ran to the radio and turned it to some pop station, fiddling with the volume until it was just below the level which would her parents up. Then I watched as she went to the light switch and flick it off, breaking the number one cardinal rule her mother had given us before turning in for the night. I knew her mom liked me, but you can like somebody without trusting them, and she was well within her parental rights not to trust me, especially given the situation Breanne and I found ourselves in. I felt more than heard her climb atop the bed, then me. The next feeling I had was that of her cheek brush against me like it was effortlessly ice skating past it. It provided me with a blast of chilling tingles that, to be honest, did take my breath away.

I wrapped my arms around her.

"Do that again," I instructed her. She complied. Again, I felt my breath leaving my lungs but not escaping my mouth. She literally was sending shivers down my spine. In the comforting darkness I felt her breath move from the side of my face down my neck.

"How happy did you say you were?"

"Ecstatically happy," I replied.

The first kiss on the neck was a surprise.

"Is that a fact, sugar?" I nodded. "More?" I heard her ask.

"Please, thank you."

Kiss on the neck. More?

"Please, thank you."

By the time she'd given me the fifteenth kiss, I began to detect a pattern to the sequence of events. I grabbed her and turned her over on her back. Then it was my turn to return the favor. The nape of her neck tasted sweet in my mouth, very much like the orange fragrance she claimed she put on every day. As I began to kiss her repeatedly, the orange motif became the overriding sensation of what kissing upon Breanne's skin is like. It got to the point where I can't even eat oranges without thinking of her. I kissed her all over her neck, down to where her cleavage began, and back up again. And then I repeated it one more time, but this time I spaced out the kisses so that each one came farther and farther apart. It drove her crazy.

When I finally stopped, I was smiling inconsolably. The last thing I remember thinking before the plane had taken off for Georgia was that maybe, possibly, I might get a chance to kiss her once before my trip was done. To think I had, not only been kissing her for the last hour, but kissing across her body was a little much. Even if was the one and only time, I remember thinking on the bed that night, at least I can tell myself that I never risked it at all. I could reconcile myself to the fact that the two of us had shared at least that much.

Again, we stopped ourselves from doing anything further. I wanted to be happy with what had already transpired. I didn't want to sully that great memory with something cheap and tawdry, even if cheap and tawdry was what was on both our minds just then. Instead, we started relaxing once more. We both knew soon I would have to head off to the guest room. The last thing I would have needed is to have fallen asleep in her room on her bed next to her and have her dad catch us. They were okay with us catching up with one another late into the evening as long as the lights remained on and I went back to my room as soon as we stopped talking. We'd already blown the first part and I wasn't about to give them another reason to separate my ass from the rest of my body.

"Can I ask you something else, Eeyore?"

"Shoot."

"Would you mind offending me, again?..." she giggled. "Please, thank you?"

I kissed her on the head, but before I could even attempt to offend her again, a particular song came on the radio that immediately perked up my ears. "I Can't Wait Another Minute" was this song that my cousin V.J. had fooled around singing karaoke-style whenever we wanted to act goofy. He'd take the melody and I'd always sing the harmony parts. I remember singing ourselves silly because it always possessed this Barry White-esque makeout song quality to it that, in those days, always cracked me up. I'd sing it with this deep bass that was well out of my range and be smiling uproariously throughout the entire number.


can't turn my eyes away

I got off the bed to the puzzlement of my companion. I felt for the radio in the dark and turned up the volume ever so slightly. As the first few words of the opening verse came on and I started to seranade the lovely Breanne, I was choked up with all the laughing. For her part, Breanne was doing her best not to chuckle as well.

Little lady you look so fine
Can't turn my eyes away
So much I wanna say, and
Tonight I wanna make you mine
We'll turn the lights down low
And dance so very slow

Then a funny thing happened. As I began to sing more and more of it to her, the laughter began to die down from both of us, and I began to realize how the lyrics of the song made some sense for our situation. Very soon I stopped the silly New Edition dance moves. Heck, I stopped dancing altogether, and I moved closer to the bed. I knelt beside it until my mouth was directly in front of her head where I knew she could hear me. My voice softened to a loud whisper and I sang the rest of the song for her.

Cuz I've been holding back what I feel
Love's so real
But I can't wait another minute
I can't wait another minute
Cuz I've been holding back all I feel
I'm for real
Cuz I can't wait another minute
I can't wait another minute for your love

It kind of became my song to her. It was a way to express how I felt about what had happened and what was happening, while still maintaining a sense of distance appropriate to the situation. I could say I loved her without actually saying it. And she could tell how honest I was being without getting embarrassed by all the rheotoric of a formal declaration. After all, it was just a song. By the end of the song, I think we were in a good place. True, it may have only been the first step of many, but it was a definite step in the right direction. Plus, I've never seranaded anyone else in my life so it was a definite milestone for me as well.

After that, I kissed her good night and awaited what the 'morrow would bring for the both of us.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

A little question.

Is there a place where we can go to cry? Is there a place where we can say: "I'm tired to live" and people understand that feeling?

I wish I had wings to fly to a place like the one I'm looking for.

Cheeseburger In Paradise, Makin' The Best Of Every Virtue And Vice, Worth Every Damn Bit Of Sacrifice, To Get A Cheeseburger In Paradise

--"Cheeseburger in Paradise", Jimmy Buffet

I know I'm not the only one who associates with different places with the various people in his or her life, but lately I've been noticing that the corrolary may be true too. Lately I've been finding that, more often than not, places I used to enjoy as little as five years ago have started sliding downhill enjoyment-wise. I suppose this is just another symptom of the disease of change, where the people and activities I used to enjoy, I no longer do. And I know that I only have my entire life for old favorites to fall out of favor and new favorites to take their place, but sometimes I wish it wasn't so. Sometimes I wish that there were a few things, a few places, that were as magical now as they were the first time I stepped through those doors.

Fatburger is one of those places.

I remember going there six or seven years ago with Jennifer after hanging out at the beach all day. They weren't the best burgers; that honor still belongs to the now-defunct KWGB at Citywalk. They weren't even the cheapest burgers. The one thing that made it different from most places was the fact that you could add a fried egg to their burgers, which I thought was pretty cool. That, and the fact that I always used to eat there with my friend Jennifer. I think it was the fact that it unofficially became our place that makes it stick out to me as once being a location where fun was always to be had. It truly got to the point where I couldn't think of ever going there with anybody else, that's how unique our times there were. The weird fact is that we never had those life-changing conversations we had elsewhere. In fact, that place was often the place where we stopped after we'd just peeled our hearts bare. I guess that's another reason why the thought of it always seemed to put a smile on my face because we never spoiled it with tears. I always remembered it is this amazing place to come for a bite to eat with a good friend and a hungry stomach. In that respect it was the best.

Well, I went to Fatburger for the first time in years today and, frankly, it was mildly disappointing. Rather than the good food and good times place I remembered it as, I started looking it as the over-priced food and rather plain times place. I guess I could blame it on the company; it's hard to think of anyone else taking the place of Jennifer there.

But, mostly, I think the reason why the place's stock has gone downhill is that too much of it reminds me of her. Too much of it reminds me that she isn't around anymore to enjoy it with me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers