Best Of: June 2007

This was one of Jim's first "Fear and Loathing" pieces, which is generously ripped off from Hunter Thompson, as far as style was concerned. He's argued that he's paying an homage to the late cultural icon, where as the rest of us on the editorial staff call it blatant plagiarism. Anyway, with Jim out of the office for the next week or so,(work related stuff at his OTHER job...) we thought it would be appropriate to run this old post this weekend because it is La Kermesse back in Maine through Sunday. Enjoy- Ed.

All names have been changed to protect the guilty.*

If you live in Southern Maine, passed through on your way some place else, or are vaguely aware that what some consider to be a suburb of Boston, is in fact a totally different state, you might've heard of the little shin-dig the locals up this way call "La Kermesse."

I don't know what the name means, but I can tell you it's a big French festival complete with rides for the kids, poutine for the people who know what the fuck that is, and a beer tent. The festival itself is preceded by a "block party" on Thursday night, followed by a parade that will open up the fair grounds come Friday afternoon.

Basically, it's an excuse for people to be drunk in public. Not that anyone who lives in the greater Biddeford area really needs an excuse to do so.

So over the last few years (aside from the fact I was living in New York) I've pretty much stayed away from the neon colored orgiastic culmination that is La Kermesse. I really have no desire to see people I went to high school with, whether they're doing better off than me or not, nor do I want to run into the citizens of Biddeford on the whole.

But last night, Thursday June 21st, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of the fray, on the York Street Bridge with some friends, most of whom I didn't even know two hours prior, standing and looking at fireworks through blurry bloodshot eyes, and surrounded by Parliment smoking, stroller pushing, tank-tops-with-skinny-arms having trash. How did I get here? Allow me to illustrate.

I get home from the office at about five, and my pocket buzzes just as I'm pulling off of 95 at the Biddeford exit. It's my friend *John*, a guy I went to high school with and is probably the most genuine guy I know, other than Hokie. He asks if I'd be interested in hanging out, and at first I'm thinking he's putting a card game together, and being broke, I say I'm going to pass.

Instead, however, he asks if I want to go to the fireworks "and shit" tonight. I totally forget that it's the La Kermesse weekend, only passing the giant fucking yellow billboard at the 95 on ramp everyday, twice, for the last two weeks. I say sure, and get a time, and proceed about my evening per usual.

I have dinner with mom which is just pizza out of the box. I manage to burn the roof of my mouth.

I get to John's house a little after 1930 and park in front. He calls from the window to come up stairs and I do so, only to find his drunk younger brother sprawled out across his bed, jabbering on about something. He's dressed head to toe in American Eagle and sports a frat-boy tan. I'm not exactly sure what's going on, because John's busy playing Counter Strike on his computer and his mom is yelling at his brother, who's managing to be at his most incoherent.

Apparently, John's little brother just got home from college for the summer. And he's totally shitfaced.

So that being said, I dig into my back pack and produce a can of PBR and sip on it as I wait to see what's going to happen for tonight. John escorts me out, and his mother calls out that she doesn't want his younger brother getting outside. Dumbly, I stand at the door, with it wide open, as like a cat, the little brother scampers out into the bright wilderness.

We go down into John's basement where he has a pool table, as well as other assortments of entertainment displayed about. It's like your grandparent's rumpus room, if this was the 1970s and people still had rumpus rooms. Or even put those two words together. You know what I mean.

Low ceilings, beer cans littered about, a used and tired looking punching bag propped up against a far wall. The door to get in is never locked and requires a leaned in shoulder to pop it open. We stand around, discussing his younger brother's lack of alcoholic tolerance.

"I told him not to come home. I sent him a text. 'You're shitfaced, mom's home, don't come home'" John says as he works some chalk on to a pool cue. I sip my beer and nod along, thinking back to my kidney destroying first year of higher education. At the time being, John's little brother is sitting, splayed out on the back yard, telling everyone who asks if he's ok that he's in fact, twenty-one years old.

"Dude, you gonna be good?"

"I'm twenty-one!"

"....Ok..."

This brings us to John's other two friends who show up at about this time. *Jerry* and *Dan* know John from college and I guess all play musical instruments together. Dan's a tall dark haired guy who still looks collegate and Jerry's built like a keg, and reminds me somewhat of a guy I went to high school with. Both of these guys are cool shits.

A game of billiards breaks out and John hooks his iPod into a stereo and we take turns talking about stupid shit that guys talk about when they play billiards. Who we've fucked, who we want to fuck, how fucked up we are, how fucking gay something is, how fucking gay you are, and how fucking gay we all are. It's a regular round table of fuck patois.

Suddenly, John's mom appears downstairs, visibly upset. She states that the younger brother has "taken off" up the street, with some female friends of his. She wants him back at the house, pronto.

Allegedly, according to John, his brother started drinking around four in the afternoon when he went to a friend's house, and came back stumbling. He's not much of a guy; he's probably 6' even and 150 lbs tops. Also, he's only eighteen, and although belongs in a fraternity, probably can only muster to hold down four Bud Lights at the most. Also, he probably likes to kiss men (John's words, not mine)

Like an crack army assault unit, myself, John, Jerry and Dan climb into John's Mazda and tear off down the street looking for his brother. It doesn't take us long to come up on him from behind, as he's leading a pack of about four high school aged girls down the hill towards the festivities below. He's weaving all over the side walk, hands out to his sides, head lolling from side to side.

John, who is also a former Law Enforcement Professional, expertly puts the car up on a sidewalk blocking his brother's path from furthering. We all step out of the car as if it was planned. We look like something out of a cheesey cop drama on syndicated television. One of the girls in the pack that was behind the little brother even exclaims to no one:

"Wow, you guys are like a SWAT team!"

You're fucking A right we are, missy.

John makes contact, and Jerry and Dan are quick to block the brother in like a wall of flesh. There's a little bit of a confrontation with a young girl who's obviously on something, but I take her aside and keep a perimeter. The girl says to me "I'm not scared of you guys, my dad's a cop."

"So are we."

"Oh."

With some explanation on my part and some coaxing on John's part, we snatch up his brother and pull off down a side street and get him back home. Where he will pass out sitting on a toilet ten minutes later.

Fast forward to later in the evening. The other gentlemen and I have been playing billiards, shooting the shit (shit patois), and throwing ping-pong balls at water filled cups on a ping-pong table. At some point in the evening, purely due to my inebriated state, I produce my scrotum and announce that I've seemed to have gotten gum on my shorts.

This psyches out Jerry, and leads Dan and I to take the title of Supreme Champions of Beruit, 2007.

John then receives a call from a girl he has some history with, and I encourage him to have her come over. My thoughts are that if she gets here, gets drunk enough, we could probably run a train on her.

Seriously.

*Celeste* shows up about forty-five minutes later, and she's your typical cute college girl. Nothing remarkable or unremarkable about her at all. Cute body, cute face, cute personality. John puts her on "myspace picture duty" as we continue to play Beruit.

Soon after, five strong, we make our way down the hill into the pit of sin, all while glittery explosives go off over our heads. The entire time the five-some is together, we're busting balls, laughing, clutching our stomaches, and weaving all over the road as we walk. People are lined up on both sides of the street, heads tilted skyward as they watch the pyrotechnics from their properties.

Almost as if, years ago it had been planned out, we pass by the sewage treatment plant as the entrance to the lower downtown area of Biddeford, where the "block party" is being held. All around us, carnivale-style games, people, food, etc surround us. The booms and sizzles of fireworks rain down on us from over head. The air is coated slickly with a haze of residual burning Marijuana, and it makes your skin feel greasy. Cheap looking, broken people shuffle their dirty-faced children past us. Each one of them clutching a plastic sword and swinging it expertly at crotch level.

We weave through the crowd and make our way to the bridge. Along the way we, inevitably, come across people we know- high school people, teachers, neighbors, etc. A guy I haven't seen since early on in college, comes up to John and I and puts us both in a head lock and squeezes. He goes on to tell us that the next day is the day he's signing his papers to be released from the Army. I tell him good luck with that.

We get offers to go drink at bars and parties and so on. But the collective mood of the five-some is to march back up the hill to John's, play a few more games of Beruit, and possibly clusterfuck.

Seriously.

We weave our way back through the crowd, heading back the way we've come. The fireworks are over now, with a substandard "grand finale" which lit up the sky like it was day time, and twice as loud, and suddenly I become aware of the increased police presence.

It seems all around us, cops in polos and standard uniforms, with ear pieces for their radios have materialized out of thin air. There's probably a ratio of every three people, one cop. It's startling.

Jerry is probably the most drunk out of everyone, and as we pass some carnivale-style games, the chatter starts to pick up.

One game involves a small inflatable pool filled with water containing rubber duckies. I'm not sure the premise of the game but that's exactly what it is. As we pass by, Dan says to Jerry, something like:

"I'll give you twenty bucks if you jump into that fucking pool,"

Of course, Jerry turns him down. It's going to take a considerably higher amount of money for him to engage in such baffoonery.

"Dude, back me up!" Dan slaps John on the chest and John grudgingly agrees to go in on twenty bucks as well. Now the dare's up to forty.

All eyes turn on to me. I look around, knowing that I don't have even ten dollars to my name, because I just paid all my bills today, I nod absently, and the crowd seems to go wild.

"Sixty bucks dude! Just jump in!" And Jerry still throws up the block.

This whole time, the only voice of sobriety and reason is Celeste's.

"You're so going to get arrested. There's cops all over the place," and this seems to hit home with Jerry immensely.

"Yeah dude, I don't want to get arrested on this dumb shit," He says and starts to balk, heading back towards John's house.

To be completely honest with you, gentle reader, I don't know why I chose the words to say at that particular moment, but maybe deep down, I wanted to see a little chubby guy jump into an inflatable pool filled with little rubber duckies. Maybe my dark side came out of me at that instant. Maybe I wanted to see if he'd get arrested, based purely on my deeply routed curiosity. Maybe I just wanted to call his bluff.

I lean over, touching Jerry's shoulder, placing my lips next to his ear lobe and say this:

"Do this, and you'll be the stuff of legends. People will talk about this for the rest of their lives. People you don't even know, but they're standing there, waiting for you to jump into that fucking pool. You'll be remembered forever. This is your legacy."

And with that, Jerry's eyes glazed over. A slow, goofy grin spread across his fat Donkey Lips lips and suddenly I glanced down and saw that he was standing in stocking feet, his shoes somehow coming off.

You see, men strive to leave a mark on this world, no matter how big or small. We want glory in all shapes and forms. To us we live for the conquest. This is why men climb Mt. Everest.

The psychological erection I gave him proved the jolt he needed. Much to the protest and physical strikes I was taking from Celeste, Jerry turned and started at a good trot towards the inflatable pool, some fifty yards back. We all stood watching in mixed disbelief, drunken grins pasted on to our faces, all of us chanting in unison "he's not really gonna..."

And then, he goes sideways in midair.

That's when I turned away, shocked, scared, knowing he was about to be swarmed upon by a mass of trigger happy Nazi, Nixon-esque Biddeford Cops.

What felt like an eternity passed as we four stood looking at each other. John starts to walk off, turning around only to say "I cant be caught up in this, I just applied to these guys like a week ago. Call me when you find out what his bail's going to be, and I'll come down and bail him. But I can't be here for this."

It's Dan who stands tall on behalf of his friend Jerry, stating "dude, we can't ditch him," and Celeste is quick to agree. Admittedly, my feelings were with John, and I teetered on the edge of staying or going, my vote being the decider.

But then, out of the crowd, as if it was the end of the film "Rudy" our pudgy counter part and La Kermesse Carnivale Terrorist remerges, soaked head to toe, jogging back to catch up with us. A roar goes out, as we collectively welcome him back, slaps on his back, hugs, and "holy shits" had all around.

Jerry ends up scraping his knees, and as he takes a seat by the sewage treatment plant, he retells of what happened:

"I fucking jumped in, and this guy, this guy grabs my collar on my shirt and goes 'you're not going anywhere' and I tried to run, but this cop comes up to me and goes 'do you have three hundred dollars for bail?' and I say 'no sir,' and he asks me my name and I tell him, and that was it." And for as simple of a story as it is, we're all huddled around our new hero in total awe.

"That was some pretty stupid shit," he finishes. He also makes it known that he wants his money ASAP.

We climb the hill back to John's house where things eventually wind down. Jerry and Dan decide to go out to Old Orchard to meet up with some other people to retell the tale of the night. Celeste, expertly deflecting my drunken horny advances, decides to go home ("I've gotta get home," she says "You can come back to my home," I come back with, "it's a home....") and I pick up my bag, wish everyone a good night, and manage to drive myself home without getting pulled over.

...And that's why I don't go to La Kermesse.

Short Fiction: Turn Key Operation

Jim has said on more than one occasion how proud he is of this piece of work, and we're inclined to agree. This short fiction was inspired by a television show he had watched last summer about the booming (no pun intended) tourist industry in Israel, and he took it and ran. It originally ran on his myspace.com blog back in June of 2007. And we're running it here because it's Jim's day off and he doesn't feel like being cooped up in the office in front of his computer. -ed.

At 11:00 pm it would’ve looked like any bar in New York City, with its bright orange neon lighted sign, the patrons out front smoking, chatting idly on a Friday night. Only this wasn’t New York City, this was Tel Aviv, and these weren’t trendy New Yorkers, but Israelis, Greek tourists, employees from the near by British Consulate, what have you.

I bought the bar five years ago from an army buddy who was getting out of Israel. He lost his son in a bus bombing that summer, and since then didn’t have the heart to keep up the nightlife lifestyle. He sold it to me, totally turn key, for a song. I was happy to have something to invest my time in since leaving the IDF.

It needed a lot of work; the floors were scuffed and horrible to look at, there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment. There was a small stage towards the back, but the amplifiers were blown out and there was only one tv in the whole place, directly over the bar. I won’t even start on the condition of the bathrooms.

So I spent three weeks, every day, for about fourteen hours a day remodeling the place to my specifications. It took my entire life savings, over forty thousand dollars to get the place the way I wanted it. I put in plasma screen tvs, bought new speakers, new fixtures, hired some new staff, restocked the liquor, bought some new signs and renamed the place from Koffa’s to The Ocean.

And it was a good name because we were in essence right on the ocean. There was a tiny strip of other clubs and bars along the water, and mine now faced out so that during the middle of the day the place was nice and airy, and at night there was a gentle breeze that would blow in through the front double doors. It was literally paradise.

That was until tonight.

It’s 02:00 am now, and the paramedics, army personnel, police, everyone has finally left. The front of the building is black, the cars across the street are black, the ground is wet. At first it was an oily slick of hot blood and body parts, now it’s with water from fire hoses. The lieutenant responding to the scene explained to me that it would take a while to get a guy with a flatbed wrecker out here to get the cars, so it’d be likely morning before the charred automotive remains would be off the street. He suggested that I get home and get some rest if I wasn’t going to get checked out at a hospital. And then he told me that I should probably put my gun away.

I hadn’t even noticed it, until he mentioned it. I had been clutching a Berretta that I kept behind the bar in my right hand the whole time, the whole hour. My hand was numb, my arm throbbed, my face coated in a filth that consisted of blood, dirt and tears. I tucked the gun into my waist band and walked back inside.

There had been over two hundred people inside the bar when the bomb had gone off. I had been behind the bar, pouring a Bombay Sapphire Gin into a martini glass and flirting with a young American girl, much to my girlfriend Sara’s distaste. I remember pouring the drink, turning to see Sara standing at the other end of the bar, holding her waitress tray, a few empty glasses, apron tied tight around her slender hips. She was shooting lightening into my eyes and I shrugged sheepishly, grinning at her.

She was beautiful, long black hair, 5’6, slender body. During the reconstruction of the bar she had come in in the middle of the day to ask about tabling on weekend nights, she was 19 at the time, I was 27, and I was in love with her.

We dated off and on, mostly on, seldom off. We were always hot for each other, and we would do the most absurd things to make each other jealous. I’d flirt with the young tourists, she’d allow herself to be pawed by the male patrons to get better tips. But even when we were off, I’d always walk her to her apartment at the end of the night. And if we were on, I’d follow her up.

So here I am, standing there, holding a bottle of gin looking at her. She simply shakes her head and walks on over. She leans across the bar and puts her face to mine and tells me that I’m a dirty old man. She’s 24 now, I’m 32, and she pushes her fingers into my receding hair line, and grabs a hold of my short black curls. I smack her lightly on her cheek and tell her that I always knew she loved dirty old men. She smiles sweetly, turns, and struts off back towards the front of the bar where there’s more tables that need tending to.

At about that time, things seem to happen in a lurch, like your DVD is on the fritz. I put the bottle of gin down on the back bar, and turn to look out the big picture windows at the crowd outside. It’s a typical Friday night, the place is an orgy of young faces, laughing, singing, drinking. There’s not a bad seed in the crowd, no one here looking for a fight or to prove themselves a man. It’s mostly tourists and youngsters from the nearby hotel resorts. I let myself smile.

I approach the register to swipe the young blonde’s credit card, when I notice my doorman, Ari stand up from his stool and walk towards someone on the sidewalk. It’s something in his walk, his approach that makes me stop in the middle of what would be an uninterrupted credit card transaction. I stand watching him, and see where his eyes are staring at. I hired Ari on a recommendation from a friend who’s still working in the Mosad, he told me Ari knew his shit, and was looking for some laid back weekend work. I had no problem hiring him. He’s bald, 6’3 and two hundred and sixty pounds, he fills out a black t shirt like a typical bouncer, only unlike a typical bouncer he carries a degree in five different disciplines of martial arts and is the fore most expert in Israeli Krav Magna.

Ari walks up to a small skinny sickly guy in a brown coat. His hair is wet and combed to the side of his head. From where I’m standing at the bar, which is about twenty-five yards from the scene outside, I can see the whites of his eyes. I can see his Adam’s Apple bob in his throat. And just as I’m getting the thought into my head that there’s something very wrong with this, the coat puffs out, like he’s got an air compressor under it. It balloons out from his body and tears. I smell cordite and burning, there’s a flash and what feels like my skull ripping open.

I come to on my back, covered in glass and booze. The bar is on fire, I can feel a rumbling slowly fading under my back, against my spine. I wasn’t out long, maybe half a second. I try to roll over to get on my feet but nothing in my body is responding to the commands from my brain. So I dumbly lay on my back, looking at the far ceiling from between my bent legs.

Sound comes back like you’re turning up the volume on the tv after putting it all the way down. It’s a slow build, first there’s the screams and moans. And then there’s the sound of feet moving. There’s furniture being tipped over, so on.

Finally my body goes into motion. I feel like I’m watching it more than participating. But I feel this need to do something, and then the shockwave rips through my body and brain: Sara. She was right by the door when the bomb went off, oh Jesus.

I turn over and feel every inch of my body reject the notion of moving, but I fight through it, pure adrenaline running through my veins. It’s not anger, but a sense of need. Like being under water and needing air, and fighting to break through to the surface. As I turn over, I’m looking at the Berretta, my nose almost touching the grip as it sits under the register as if it was oblivious to the bombing. I snatch it and push myself up on the bar.

There’s a fog, everything’s wet, people are lying on the ground withering, twisting. Some aren’t moving at all. Some don’t have all their parts. On a far table that’s still standing upright there’s a hand with a wedding ring on it.

The whole front of the building is blown inwards. Paper is all over the place, the floors black and shiny. Cars across the street black, glass everywhere. I clear the bar, clutching the gun and wade through the living Hell all around me. I try not to step on anyone but it’s hard to tell. Ceiling tiles hanging down, insulation on fire, little fires all over the place. I slip and fall down, my hand comes back up red.

Bodies are literally piled on top of each other and it’s hard to tell who’s who and who’s still alive and who isn’t. I call out her name, my voice is hoarse and strained. I can barely hear over the ringing and the people screaming. There’s soldiers outside with Galils and Uzis looking around in a cover pattern. An ambulance is already out front, stretchers already on the ground, people being haphazardly rolled on to their backs and lifted. Fuck a neck brace at this point.

I call her name again, and still nothing. For some reason I’m comfortable accepting that she’s dead. My rationale is that at least she didn’t suffer, hopefully. Hopefully she was close enough to the bomber to be obliterated and isn’t lying under a pile of bodies suffocating and bleeding. God it’s so hot.

Finally there’s a tug at my pant leg and I look down. I see her face, half of it. Her mouth is caked in black, and a rope of spit is between her two lips as she’s trying to talk, maybe say my name. I drop to my knees and grab her up, cradling her head in my arms.

I don’t remember crying, I don’t remember saying anything, just holding and squeezing. Sara’s body is half black, burnt. Her right side is blacked out completely. No hair on her head, just tufts on the left side. Her ear is missing, her eye is shut, mouth doesn’t even look like a mouth, just a twisted wound.

Her right leg is missing, a bloody stump slowly lifting and falling. I shake a little, and she clutches to my chest with a bloody paw. She shudders in my arms, like a gentle cough and her grip gets tighter. God, just hold on, please stay, please.

I lift my head and do as I was taught in the army. I call for a medic, I scream for a medic. I can’t find my voice, it’s buried under all the bodies and debris. I start to cry then, or maybe I’ve been crying all along. I just need someone to help me, help her. The anger then starts to build as she starts to fade.

Finally, a young medic in white runs over and grabs her from me. He pushes me aside and I try to get back to her, get closer to her. I want to tell her I’m not letting her go, I’m not leaving. I can’t find the strength, and I watch them drag her outside, her stump of a leg waving good bye as her head lulls backwards, her burnt face looking up at the young medic in white.

I would later find out that she died on the way to the hospital.

I received a check for two-point-eight million dollars in insurance coverage, and decided that it would be better to just move away. I could relate then to my friend who left Israel after losing his boy. Who wants to own a bar caked in blood?

Advice For Graduating Seniors...

Jim wrote this about two or three years ago for a graduating high school senior he knew. The information within is still useful today, and since he's struggling with putting out his "Bike Week" article, we here at the office felt we should run this instead. -ed.


You’re about to embark on a journey to higher education. You’re on your way to be an Elite, a member of a society of people who have gone the extra mile and succeeded. But it’s not an easy trip, and there’s lots of things out there that you might come across and have no idea what to expect. I hope this book is helpful, but seeing as I’ve not read it, I will give you some advice/insights from my own college experience (I graduated with a BA from John Jay College in NYC in December) which I hope will help you. Good luck!

-Your High School graduation is a big deal. For about a year. Then you, along with everyone you know – parents included – won’t give two shits. Try to find a nice place to put your high school diploma where it won’t get a soda can ring on it.

-College is mostly about learning to interact with your peers, not so much about what goes on in class. Actually, you should spend as much time not doing anything class related.

-That said, wait til the absolute last second to buy your books. If you decide to at all.

-On the subject of books, they’re overpriced and you will never use them. Just because they package a useless CD-Rom with the book, it automatically will cost you over 100 dollars. And when you go to “sell them back” to the bookstore, you get roughly 5% of what you paid. If you need anything out of a book for a paper, might I suggest Google.

-Your roommate, ideally, should be your best friend. He will only become your enemy. Do not ever trust him, or anyone he brings over, ever.

-“Girls? You’re a freshman, so they’re pretty much off limits.” -Jeremy Piven, PCU. That quote is totally true. However, as incentive to stick with college until you get your degree: the older you are in college, even as a sophomore, impressionable young freshman girls will flock to you. Hence, if you’re a Super Senior, 18 year old frosh chicks will literally sit on your hands and beg to be finger blasted by you on a stained futon in someone’s basement. Who’s basement? Like it matters, brah.

-Of course, there are three things you should never be without, ever. They are, in order of importance… Beer: Have plenty of it, because it makes you cool, girls cute, and your roommate’s shitty taste in music, rock. Condoms: they keep you from having to take trips to the campus clinic, unwanted baby’s mamas, and your pubes from falling out. Bottled Water/Brita Filter: It basically reverses all the side effects of the beer and fucking with a condom on.

-You will be expected to write ten to fifteen page papers on a regular basis. Don’t worry about this. These papers are going to be double spaced to begin with, meaning you’re only writing a 5 to 7 page paper. Also, your professors will NEVER read your papers. So the only things you need to concentrate on are the first paragraph and last paragraph, which will introduce your topic and reiterate your topic. Everything in between should be mindless filler/bullshit. It will never be read, don’t worry. Your grade will be represented by how many multi-syllable words you use in the first and last paragraph.

-If you have TAs (Teaching Assistants) and one in particular happens to be a hot chick, do everything you can to sleep with her. And I mean everything.

-You will gain weight. There’s nothing you can do. Accept it.

-Don’t be that dick that brings 6,541,661,484 DVDs to school with him. Your top 5 should be good enough.
You’ll find that girls in college are apt to make out with each other. This is a good thing.

-Being a freshman, you probably won’t be able to have a car on campus, that sucks, but think of the gas money you’ll save!

-Oh, you’ll shit a lot. A ton. I mean, an actual metric ton of shit will come out of your ass. The story will go around that the cafeteria laces its food with laxatives. This isn’t true; it’s actually the plate of French fries you’ve been eating as a meal for the last four months.

-Along with this, you will be constantly sick. Living in a dorm with a bunch of other guys, who barely bathe and masturbate when their roommates are at class and not washing their hands, will cause you to become ill. You can only kill the germs by drowning them in alcohol. Litre after litre of delicious alcohol.

-NCAA Div 1, 2 or 3 sports won’t mean shit to you, but your Residential Dorm Intramural Wiffle Ball League will be everything to you for five months.

I hope these tips help you out. And of course, best of luck.


j.

Best Of: August 2007

Jim originally posted this back in August of 07, regarding Comedy Central's usage of "comedian" Carlos Mencia to be the flagship for their network since Dave Chappelle went all ...Mariah Carey-crazy and bolted for fucking.... Africa.

"Africa-Africa?"

"...Africa-Africa."

Anyway, enjoy. -ed.

"An Open Letter to Comedy Central: re: Carlos Mencia"

Dear Comedy Central/Viacom,

"The Mind of Mencia" has been airing on your network for almost two full years, and since has spawned something like four or five seasons since its inception. I'm writing you today to ask you to please cease and desist with this tripe.

I understand how it happened: Chappelle went Mariah Carey-Crazy, jumped the first jet to Africa and left you suits holding the bag in regards to a culturally relevant, hilarious 22 minute television programme starring an influential minority. You saw that you needed to plug the leak in the dyke as fast as possible, so you removed your thumb from your ass and jammed it as hard as you could into the widening gap.

No one blames you.

So you thought to yourselves that you'd find another "controversial" minority comedian who probably had some sketch comedy ideas kicking around, and Carlos Mencia seemed to fit the bill at that time. And again, no one blames your decision on this; Mr. Mencia at that time was relatively still underground but a fast rising star. He was "The Punisher of Comedy" and you guys wanted to bet it all, thinking you should snag him up before ABC gives him a sitcom ala George Lopez.

So you brought in Mr. Mencia and said "look Carlos, we love what you do, and we want to bring you to a wider audience. We want 'Carlos Mencia' to be a household name." And I'm sure he was on board for this. You gave him some creative licensing control, let him do his own writing, developing, etc. But what you didn't count on was that Carlos Mencia is a one-trick pony at best.

I've watched a number of episodes of "Mind of Mencia" and I find the title of the programme to be both ironic and telling. "Mind of Mencia" is twenty-two minutes of mindless jabbering and soap-boxing. The diminutive host dresses as if he shops at Baby Gap, with his "youthfully hip" t shirts and hoodies. It seems that he takes great pains to get his jokes across to the masses, and I'm sure he's under some oversight from Standards and Practices to keep things somewhat tasteful, even though the show is rated TVMA. But we know the big black block of a rating that pops up at the beginning of the show is a bait and switch tactic. There's nothing very adult about his humour at all.

Let me break down how I view the show in its entirety: There might be a half-hearted sketch at the show's opening depicting something overtly racist. Maybe Mr. Mencia has donned "white-face" make up and is acting like some pompous politician, or maybe he's donned "black-face" make up and is acting like some overzealous rapper. Either way he hops around his sketch like a wounded Ashlee Simpson at a live recording of Saturday Night Live.

Next there will be the typical splash graphic opening that I suppose is "edgy" and "urban" for the RedBull swilling kids who are just getting home from their jobs at Domino's Pizza or who are too stoned to change the channel after watching the same South Park you've been airing since May. Then Mr. Mencia will make his first appearance.

So he comes out holding a microphone, even though he's wearing a lapel mic. Mr. Mencia will then go on roughly a four minute mini-monologue about something about living in LA, or being a "beaner" or whatever happens to be the topic of the day. He tries very hard during this part of his show to really reach out to the television audience to get his socially charged point across. But again, he's falling short. He laces what could easily be a thoughtful speech with "duh-duh-duuhs" and mindless yelling. And then Mr. Mencia will shepard a D List level comedian who might really need the exposure on a nationally televised basic cable tv show, out on to his stage and let them rant, while he forces himself to laugh at weak attempts at humor. The whole thing is staged and very fake. For a viewer to convince themselves otherwise of the fact would be doing a disservice.

Then there's a commercial break, and when the show comes back, we the viewer are typically treated to a "man on the street" type waste of seven minutes, where Mr. Mencia and what I presume to be a small film crew, scour the streets of LA talking to tourists. The subject matter is usually something race driven, because the bulk of Mr. Mencia's schtick is racially motivated.

For instance, Mr. Mencia will ask a white person to immitate a black person, or have a black person immitate a jewish person, or have a hispanic act like their really mad at their boyfriend and hit him over the head with a chanchla... or sandle in English. He may or may not incorporate the use of a dwarf or his mentally handicapped brother Joseph in this portion of the show.

We go to break, and come back.

The last vignette is usually an in-studio sketch with a remarkably elaborate setting. I do have to give the set designers they're due in that regards. I wish I had more nice things to say about the show other than that, but I will give credit where credit is due.

On the subject of in-studio, how do you sell tickets or ... fill the seats of this set? I find it very hard to imagine people lining up to get into this show, but then again, the collective intelligence of Americans is somewhere between Forest Gump and Peter Griffen.

Anyway, so this last sketch will exhibit a number of horrible actors parading on to the set playing the role of despondant teenagers who are in need, apparently, of an attitude adjustment from Mr. Mencia. Mr. Mencia will usually take the role of some sort of authoritarian and the template is always the same: You'll have a depressed white "emo kid" who Mr. Mencia will tell "you're white, you have nothing to be depressed about!" a gay asian "you're gay, but it's ok, you like to do nails!" a butch lesbian "you should go try out for the Olympics... the Male Olympics!" a dumb blond "thank god you've got titties!" And finally a stereotypical black "gangsta" who Mr. Mencia will tell "you're homeboys won't always get your back when you go to jail, but he will!" and cue an obviously homosexual character who will come out and chase the character around the set and that's a wrap.

It's all very analgesic, and yawn inducing.

Again, suits, I appriciate the bind you were all in when you lost the greatest star to Comedy Central since Jon Stewart. But I urge you, on behalf of lovers of intellectual and thought-provoking comedy, please cancel "Mind of Mencia." I'm sure you could fill the empty time slot with another episode of South Park or Scrubs, or MadTv, or Drawn Together. All these shows are genius examples of greatly inspired writing and production.

Or, ... or you could stay the course and keep contributing to the "dumbing down" of America. ...But do you really want to be responsible for another Republican president? ...Think about it.

Thanks for your time,
J.

PS: And while we're at it. Let's hit the brakes on anything "Blue Collar" or with Larry The Cable Guy involved in it.

Best Of: May 2006

This was my very first "unmailed letters" article (there'd go on to be about five installments, each getting angrier I think...) so I thought it'd be nice to show you guys what was pissing me off roughly two years ago.

Hope you enjoy!

Often times people say that if you have a problem with something, you should write a letter, but not mail it. It helps get all the anger out. Well, for the first time ever, exclusive to this blog, here are some of my more favorite Unmailed Letters....

To the white trash family that lives at the top of the street:

Good morning, crackers! It's your neighbor James, you might remember me from a few weeks ago when I came over to politely ask you to stop having the three of your nineteen kids that drive, to stop driving so fast up and down the street in their shitty cars? Do you remember that? Remember how I even identified myself as a Peace Officer, and we shook hands? You were shirtless at the time, and presumably barefoot as well. Your smaller children were scattered all over your makeshift property? They had dirty clothes and dirty faces? You smelled like burning marijuana?

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how much I love being ignored! Even more so, I wanted to let you know how much I love the fact that you also ignore safety on a regular basis! I love how your property is littered with shitty cars, some running, some not. I love how you all decide to use our tiny street as your personal drag strip! I love hearing the shitty loud exhaust at all hours! I love how you keep me from maybe taking a 45 minute long nap by racing up and down the street all day. Also, that tinny whine from that mini bike you ride, which is illegally unregistered and illegally operated by an unlicensed individual, makes my ears bleed. So thank you for ruining some of my more favorite t shirts with a fad toy from two years ago that you just got off of lay-away.

Also, thank you so much for providing me with a real life episode of COPS twice weekly. Having Biddeford's Finest respond to your domestic issues at all hours, and screaming obscenities into the night air gives me a warm fuzzy feeling down in the base of my balls.

By the way, you're also very poor.

I hope that life finds you all well, with unscrubbed faces and unlaundered clothing. Also, the can of paint I plan on tossing on to that shitty primer gray VW Golf that keeps racing up and down the street is complimentary.

Bests..... James.

To my former upstairs Jewish neighbors in Queens, NY:

Shalom! I hope that whatever crazy Jewish holidays that have passed recently found you all well. I'm so sorry things didn't work out for us better... I was really looking forward to the man of the family letting himself into my apartment to turn down my appliances again. Nothing says "welcome to the neighborhood" like a creepy Jewish guy standing with muddy boots in my freshly washed kitchen floor, touching my property while I'm taking a piss.

I'm sorry that my work schedule was inconvenient for you and your family, and you had to report my landlord to the authorities, after less than a month, instead of just catching me while I was home and asking me to not play my tv/stereo/lady I was having sex with so loudly.

However I commend you on your ability to find a corrupt Russian landlord in a city that's only filled with them, and then reporting him to the City's Housing Board so that the only punishment that would be meeted out was me losing my home.

Anyway, I hope your small child grows up unathletic and greedy.

Mozel Tav! ...James.

To Howard Stern:

Howard... just a quick note to say that you're really not that funny. You're not god's gift to free speech. Just because you can get porn stars to fuck each other with modified power tools on your radio program only means that you were the first to put the idea in action. There are literally a million other people out there that had the same idea/s as you, but you only had the good fortune of getting on the air first.

Good luck with the satellite radio thing. It only downside is that your replacement was a post-rehab David Lee Roth, who is the only person on this entire planet who is more opinionated/bitchier than me.

Oh and I miss the awkward pauses on live radio early in the morning.

Baba-Booey.... James.

To Tv's Jack Bauer from FOX's '24':

You're awesome. Keep up the good work.

Man-crushing on you..... James.

To Olympian Bode Miller:

As if it wasn't already hard enough to be American in the world's eye, you come along and make it that much harder, you fucking choke artist.

Granted, the Winter Olympics in Torino were months ago, but you know, I just wanted to take an extra second here and tell you how much you suck. You suck harder than Howard Stern's show. You suck more than the Yankees, and they suck a whole lot.

All I can think of is the poor kid who worked his ass of, who wasn't born with the same talent as you, who missed the team cut off and was forced to be an alternate by maybe three seconds. He would've appreciated going to the Olympics, and he would've represented America proudly. Instead of going to night clubs all night, fucking ridiculously hot italian broads (the ones with the waxed mustaches), and presumably doing ice booze louges into the wee hours, he would've been at practice, and shit, maybe would've medaled. But no one will ever really know, will they?

So again, thanks for all the unnecessary hype. Thanks for affirming the idea in the international community that Americans are excessive consumers and have zero respect for age old cultural traditions, you fucking hack.

Next time you choke, I hope you die.... James.

To President Bush:

At the risk of having my door kicked in by federal agents (maybe... Jack Bauer? That'd be really hot actually...) I'll keep this short and thinly veiled... you're not doing a very good job sir.

I don't necessarily blame you, I mostly blame your administration. See, as a proud republican, you guys are making it awfully hard for me to stay along the party lines. You all are so super fucking conservative that you make the Nazi Party seem somewhat warm/friendly.

Everyone in your administration is on their own agendas, and quite frankly sir, you were somewhat under-qualified for this job you took on to begin with. When you first took office, we all thought that "hey, we're progressive! This will be a quick four year stint, and then we'll get back to having an actual president, not a funny go-betweener." The 9/11 happened and the shit hit the fan. We all turned towards the administration, with their figure piece, and collectively said "oh shit..."

We still are progressive though, ... we're the first country to elect someone who is clinically retarded to the office of President. Hey, we got a retard in before a black guy! NICE.

You're actions in Afghanistan were warranted, but then the whole Iraq thing happened. Your administration poured honey into your oversized ears and told you to lie to us, to coddle falsified reports about Weapons of Mass Destruction. Cuz I mean, basically, you're just the pretty face on the program. You're the picture of Mr. Clean on the bottle. You don't really do anything at all, except go to press junkets and do photo ops holding a giant turkey at Christmas for our troops overseas. You're a bastard, but the rest of your crew are even bigger bastards.

In closing sir, I'm still going to stay the course with the Republican Party, however, as a formerly staunch Republican, I'm going to ask that you consider maybe lightening up a little. I mean, fuck, you love to quote Jesus this and Jesus That.... dude, Jesus was the definition of bi-partison.

And don't even get me started on gas prices around here... dude, you worked in the oil business... that's no excuse to why I put 20 bucks into my small 4 cylinder truck and the needle doesn't even touch the half-way mark. Goddamnit.

Anyway, good luck with the next two or so years fucking us all in the collective asshole.... James.

Special 'Best-Of' Two-fer: March 2007

I've been looking for this article for a while - it ran back in March of 2007, and was titled "So Gay." I found it, so give it a once over. It's not very deep or thought provoking, but I enjoyed writing it and I got a lot of positive feedback from a lot of readers. So anyway.... go:

So gay that even gay guys are like "wow, that's really gay."

Lately I've been tivo-ing alot of Reno 911 because, well... that shit is hilarious. It's hilarious, because as a former law enforcement officer, I've encountered in real life a lot of what the beleagured deputies of the Reno Sheriff's Department seem to come face to face with on a daily basis.

Shit's hilarious.

So, as I'm enjoying a chicken pot pie, fresh from my oven, from a box, from my freezer, I have the tivo'd episode of Reno 911 playing in the background. And since I have it on my DVR I can skip over the commercials, and I usually do. But the timer on my microwave went off so my attention was on my delicious chicken pot pie, and not on the fact that the episode was lapsing into a commercial coma.

So imagine to my surprise, when I came from the furnace-like oven with my oven mits on and a cookie sheet in my hands, I see this commercial for the gayest shit ever....

"Guys Gone Wild" is the obvious spin off of the softcore porn DVD franchise of "Girls Gone Wild." The commercials for "Guys" seems to only play after midnight (using my detective-like skills, and my Tivo, I observed that the episodes that featured these commercials were recorded around 0100-0300) and feature hard bodied young, "college aged boys" strutting around shirtless, wet, laughing, embracing, wrestling, pushing each other into pools.... strangley, I was quick to notice, there isn't a chick anywhere around.

As "Girls Gone Wild" panders to lonely, horny men (whom obviously can't navigate the internet well enough to find actual hardcore porn, for free... ahem, AL4A.com... ahem.....) who are with a twenty dollar bill burning a hole in their pocket, who want to watch ditzy drunk chicks expose themselves, kiss each other, fondle themselves and act like good ol' American College Girls in the eyes of Al Qaeda. "Guys" it seems, is the same idea, but just supplementing the girls with Turbo Jocks with enough shit in their hair to make an oil tanker spill look only slightly more dangerous to the collective enviroment.

I watched three of these commercials for the "Guys" DVD (before my critics wittingly accuse me of being gay myself, I will quickly point out...) to get a sense of what the ad was exactly stating and where to send my money order to... I mean, uh, to ... uh... fuck it, next paragraph.

I wanted to compare, honestly. We've all seen the ad for "Girls Gone Wild" and we're all very much aware that we can expect roughly 90 minutes of conventionally hot chicks stripping down, playing with themselves, moaning for the camera, biting their lips, etc, all to Heavy Metal guitars and Hip-Hop beats. I wanted to see what "Guys" had to offer.

I mean, when you think of it, it seems like a pretty obvious idea: You take the standard formula of attractive people, attractive in the sense that we all agree on that they're hot, and have them parade around in skimpy clothes for our private enjoyment. We had girls doing it for close to a decade (if not more, ...my fact checker is out this week) so filming guys doing this would be the logical step.

I don't see the DVD sales comparing though. Those who buy "Girls Gone Wild" are lonely/frat boys who want to stare at tits, constantly stating in a monotone "dude she's so fuckin' hot." over and over again. The typical buyer of "Guys Gone Wild" will be a lonely gay guy.

After the third viewing (I didn't rewind, I just happened to sit through the ad thricely) I had gone from embarrassed, to ashamed, to amused. I was embarrassed at first because it was something overtly homosexual, and I can freely admit that I myself am not comfortable with such an... god the gay jokes forming in my head as I sit here thinking of the next line.... In Your Face (HA!) presentation of the homosexual lifestyle.

I then became ashamed because I suddenly thought to myself, what kind of stigma would be attached to these young men once these commercials air? With the girls in "Girls Gone Wild" they're kind of dismissed as either "drunk sluts" or they simply get a free pass because it's college. And then that made me think about the double standards attached to homosexual behavior. Girls can be "bisexual" to an extent and it's largely acceptable to society. Almost on the verge of encouraged I'd say. If a guy makes out with another dude at the bar after alot of drinks, even if it's one time! ...he's a fag for life.

Think about it. I'm not making this claim based on my personal feelings in this matter, gentle readers... think to yourself, how you'd react in this situation: You're at a bar, and it's a crowded friday night. It's a college crowd. You look to your right and you see two hot blondes full blown making out. There's a crowd around them, mostly guys, and their cheering them on. What're you thinking? At worst, you're thinking that they're attention whores. At best, you shrug it off. So What?

Now look to your left, and you see two attractive guys face-locked. What're your reaction? At best you're like "wow, that's ... not ... usual..." and you sip your drink and look back towards the hot blondes. At worst you pick up a bit of kindling and go to blow out one of those fag's teeth in a fit of repressed homophobic rage.

So then upon my third and final viewing of the ad, I felt amused. Why? Because these kids in this video are doing it for the money, that's why. I consider myself somewhat attractive, and if some chick (and I imagine it's a chick) approached me in a bar, and I had just too much to drink and she whispered in my ear a proposition to video tape me jacking off in some musk-smelling motel room up the road (where presumably three or four of my fellow frat brothers have previously jerked off) and was willing to pay my tab, plus give me a hundred bucks, fuck it, why not? Who's going to see this video anyway? Knowing in the back of my head that I don't even know anyone who's gay.....

The fast forward. My father... Charles W. Nason, never sleeps. He'll sleep maybe two hours at a time, and then be up for another two hours with his acid reflux. He tends to watch a lot of Comedy Central and Adult Swim (I take pride in introducing him to Family Guy and Aqua Teen Hunger Force). What made me so amused was taking the previous "for instance" and applying this bit of information at the end... my dad, up with severe heartburn, sitting on the couch, with his bowl balanced on his expanded beer gut, and then suddenly....

"What? What was that?"

And BLOOPBLOOPBLOOP goes the tivo...

And cut to a scene of me, in the aforementioned musky motel room, beating off shirtless to the encouragement of a young lady who's paying my tab plus another C note to spunk into a sock for her.

Hey, at least it beats spunking into a sock for nothing....

Best Of: August 2007

Another myspace.com throw-back. Not "throw-back" in the sense that it wasn't well written and I threw it back like an undersized Carp, but "throw-back" like an reproduced Magic Johnson jersey a black guy would wear.

Anyway, this originally ran August 18th, 2007. I hope you enjoy my laziness.

I can't lie for shit.

And while many of you reading this might think that's perfectly fine; a trait no one should be proud of having, I must tell you that it sucks not being able to be a good liar.

I've come across instances where lying would've either saved my butt, or furthered me in some sort of career. It would've at least made my life easier by being able to look some one directly into their eyes and not told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god.

I just can't do it! And by it, I mean really lying, not just telling a slight "mistruth" or "inaccuracy" or "white lie." And example of one of these would be not telling your sister that her new boyfriend is a total dickhead because you went to high school with him, or that .... see, I can't even come up with another example of a little lie! That's how bad I have it.

But before I go any further, I'd like to create a distinction between "lying" and just not giving enough information. A lie is telling something completely false, whereas not giving any or enough information is technically not lying. If someone asks you directly if you ate the last slice of pizza and drank the last beer too, and you certainly did, but tell them you didn't, that's a lie. Same scenario, but they ask "do you know who..." blah blah blah pizza and beer, and you say "I do not know" I don't think that's technically a lie. You're just withholding information that would incriminate yourself. There's an actual aspect of the Bill of Rights that protects you from doing that very thing! ...So if our fore fathers thought that was ok, then it must be fine to do.

But back to actual lying and the fact that I can't do it. This has plagued me most of my adult life. I can't look someone in the face and tell them a falsehood and I don't know why. When I do, or try to, I feel very transparent; I feel as if they know they're being lied to, and I feel like a snake for doing it. I feel like I'm insulting their intelligence, and they know it. It's like if you ask me something directly, I can't avoid telling you the truth of the matter. And I don't mean that I'm brutally honest with people:

"Does this dress make me look fat?"

"No, your face makes you look fat."

That's not the case at all. I just feel compelled to tell the truth.

This has followed me since I was with NYPD and that whole mess, it's haunting me where ever I go. I've blown polygraphs because of it, because I was too afraid of the truth, so I denied it and failed. I was so anxious at MEPS earlier in the week because I was afraid of some falsehood surfacing in my paper work that when they took my blood pressure I was 165/90. The tech taking it had to take it twice more because he thought his equipment was malfunctioning.

"Holy shit, is your BP normally that high?" he says to me.

"No... I don't know what's up..." I say.

"Must be white coat syndrome," and it takes me a good two minutes to get the joke, but I chuckled anyway.

And that brings to mind something else when it comes to people and lying: Most people out there want to be lied to. Whether it's in their jobs, or just the simple aspects of life, people do not want to know the awful truths that are out there.

A woman does not want to know her boyfriend is cheating on her, she'd rather go on suspecting for the rest of the relationship, than to know the truth.

People love to live in little safe bubbles where everything is ok. Take for example these military personnel that work at the MEPS. They do not care if you lie on your paper work. It's actually encouraged! ...But they won't tell you that. They actually make you watch this long Powerpoint presentation about how if you lie on your paper work and are caught you'll go to jail and be dishonorably discharged, etc. But if you read between the lines, their lives, your life, the recruiters, etc, are a lot easier if you just "forget" to mention some things in your paper work.

This was the case with me. I had very minor surgery when I was 15, got hit by a car when I was 22-23 and went to the ER for observations, and saw a shrink one time when I was 23-24 ish. I put all this information down on the sheet provided to me at MEPS and now I'm on hold. My recruiter was slightly pissed, because it's extra paper work for him to sift through, the techs at MEPS left me with the impression that I was wasting their time, and if I had just checked "no" on those above boxes, no one would've bothered to look into it and I'd be cleared to start basic or OCS. Instead, I'm on hold til the 27th. But with the lie hanging over my head, that's how my blood pressure got so high.

As my father put it when I told him I was on hold "Jim, its the federal government...you think they have time to go looking into 'no' answers? They see 'no' checked off, they leave it alone. Jesus Christ you're dumb." And this was largely confirmed by my service member friends who I asked.

So I decided to do some research on lying, and to see if there's some way I can learn to be better at. At least for the sake of my poker game. Because honestly, if I get a good hand, I act like a retard on a farris wheel.

I type "how to lie" into the Google and I get 91 and a half million responses.

The site WikiHow.com had the best tagline disclaimer out of all the other sites listed (most were really sketchy, like "so you wanna learn how to lie, huh" or "make'em believe you anytime, anywhere" I think it's the fact that I read those lines like some shady business men or used car sales man, or ... men hanging around in a back alley waiting their turns for a gummer from a used whore. Basically I felt raped while reading...) which read "by taking this advice you are putting into jeopardy relationships, friendships, and you're good word. Proceed at your own risk." My kinda place it would seem like.

The site gives pointers about how to act and psychologically how to feel. "Believe in the lie, make it the truth to you" it says. It even quotes George Costanza from "Seinfeld" "It's not a lie if you believe it!" Great, I'm totally not feeling like a scumbag right now.

The site goes on to give me tips about my physical appearance, how to smile, to try standing in front of a mirror and lie so I see how I look when I tell the lie, etc. I try this out for a few minutes, with something simple: I make up a lie that I went fly fishing yesterday, simple and painless enough. I stand in front of a bathroom mirror and recite over and over again that I spent my day fly fishing yesterday, making it into a little story.

But I notice something, and it's very subtle. The more I tell of the story, the less I can actually look at my face, I seem to keep focusing on my shoulder. It's as if I'm ashamed at myself even for telling something as innocent as falsely fly fishing friday. Ugh, I'm getting no where with this.

I guess in sumation I'm a horrible liar. Though this should come as shocking news to some of my readers, who have questioned the authenticity of some of my non-fiction articles in the past. I've in fact lead myself on some pretty outlandish adventures and written about them.

...Or have I? Because would you honestly believe someone who told you they were a horrible liar?

Best Of: September 2007.

Yes I'm fully aware that it's... pretentious (and perhaps lazy) to post some of your own work and call it a "best of". It's also compounded that it's only a few months old. But when I was re-reading this, I thought to myself "Jesus, this is good. I wish I could write an article like this every time..." So here, now, is a re-issue if you will, of an article called "Sunday Morning Thunder" off my old myspace.com blog. It originally ran on September 23, 2007, shortly before I would leave for boot camp.

I hope you enjoy.


I'm woken up from a strange dream this morning by the buzzing of my cell phone on my desk. The dream I was having involved a family trip to Washington DC where I was sitting in on some White House Tour and President George W. Bush showed up and spoke to us. He was wearing super casual clothes, but nothing that I would be too surprised in seeing him in. Not like he was wearing a mustard stained SPAM t shirt and little blue running shorts with flip-flops.

Anyway, in the dream I confront G-Dub about the shitty condition our country is in, and when I look into his eyes, I see that he's got the mind of a child. He has this unknowing innocence behind his eyes, and instantly takes on a "I know you are, but what am I" disposition when I bring up how I've been unemployed for two months and how for every tank of gas I buy, two soldiers die in Iraq.

Then I wake up, to the sound of my phone buzzing.

I crawl out of bed, grab my phone and flip it open. I yawn and say hello.

"Hey Jim, it's your dad!" Says a muffeled version of my father's unmistakable voice backed by what sounds like highway traffic. I figure he's broken down someplace.

"No kidding..." I say back and sit myself down in my computer chair, turning on my laptop, wishing it were a coffee machine.

"You wanna see something pretty fuckin' cool?" He yells. I pause, wondering in my mind what could be so "fuckin' cool" this early on a Sunday. At that point too I look at my cable box and see it's 9 am. I think to myself it'd better be a dead body.

"I guess..." I say instead.

"I'm on the South Street Bridge over the turnpike, get down here, bring your camera too!" And he disconnects. So I pull on a pair of jeans, a t shirt, grab my keys, sunglasses, gun, camera, and throw my M67 field jacket on and ride down. My father's parked his motorcycle along the side of the bridge and is standing looking down at the turnpike in his black leather jacket and sunglasses.

I jog up to him and look over the edge at the rushing cars. I look up at him he smiles at me.

"What the hell am I doing here?"

"Any minute now, there's going to be roughly two thousand motorcycles heading towards Augusta for the Vietnam Memorial Ride, it's going to be awesome!" He says, excitably. I nod along, and scratch my head. I rushed down here for this?

Dad goes on to report to me that he watched about fifty bikes head south just a few minutes after he called me and got some video on his camera. He tries to show it to me, but the batteries are dead and he curses. He tells me he's going to run down to the corner store and buy some batteries and he'll be right back.

I'm left alone on the bridge looking down at the passing cars early on a Sunday morning, crap still in my eyes, etc. I let out a yawn and wonder how long it'll be before some one passing over the bridge calls the cops because they think there's a jumper about to off himself. A visit from the local gestapos of Biddeford would pretty much fuck up my morning, and I look around nervously, feeling very conspicuous. A glance to my right and I see a guy about my dad's age approaching with a coffee cup and an American flag over his shoulder.

It turns out his name is Curt and he lives in one of the houses on the other side of the bridge. He hangs his flag over the side of the bridge and then goes on to explain to me that he wanted to hang a rather large banner that said "The Maine Turnpike Authority Has No Class" in reference to the MTA making the bikers pay the toll to ride up to Augusta today and not giving them a free pass. We chat idly about the volume of bikes and motorists passing by are already honking at the Stars and Stripes hanging off the bridge.

Soon my dad returns and he shows both Curt and I the video of the bikes. He's right when he says it's impressive. An endless caravan of motorcycles traveling southbound pass under him. There's no sound on his camera, so there's no throaty rumble, but none-the-less we're stunned.

So the waiting begins.

We three stand by the flag and wave to supportive patriotic motorists who flick their lights and honk their horns at us. A few good natured truckers blast their air horns. This fills me with a strange sense of pride I'm unfamiliar with. Maybe three out of every five cars toots their horn, gives a peace sign or some how acknowledges our presence on the bridge with the flag. It probably helps the situation that I'm adorned in an OD-Green jacket, which people seem to more freely associate with a protester than a military member. I stop and think about the sense of irony the whole idea envokes.

It's not the politics or the war or even the troops people are supporting, I come to think as I stand on the over pass. It's the idea of America; the American Dream is still strong in most people despite the black eye lady liberty has been sporting the past few years. People see the colors and don't think about our international status or a wayward and corrupt administration. They don't think about how our freedoms are slowly being witteled away by the closest thing to a totalitarian regime our nation has ever had. They see red white and blue and instantly stand behind those colors. I don't think they're thinking of Ground Zero or 9/11 or the war on terror. I think they're thinking about how we as Americans are all brothers and sisters under one flag, one idea.

We sit and talk, we three, for the next two and a half hours. We're all wondering if maybe the bikers took Rt 1 instead. I call my mom to see if she can use the computer to find anything out, and flirt with the idea of sending her out to bring us Dunkin' Donuts while we wait.

By now a few other people have arrived on the bridge, each has a different story to tell. Collectively we all stand by the flag and wave to honking cars. Mom calls me back and says she has a webcam feed from the Kennebunk exit and it shows what she says as "thousands" of motorcycles heading up the road. I pass the word to everyone and we all wait.

By noon, we can see them coming over the southern horizon, two powder blue Crown Victorias with blue lights flashing leading a tightly formed group of about ten police motorcycles from different departments with lights and sirens, leading a never ending cavalcade of iron horses booming, gut shaking exhaust sounds on parade. Chrome and black paint, a real-life manifestation of Eric Burden lyrics in two-by-two formation, pumping their fists towards us, saluting their flag, honking their horns. Leather-clad modern day nomadic barbarians in search of the next village to raze.

We all stand silently, maybe passing a comment between the person next to us, but mostly rigid with the awesome sight of so much machinery in formation. A classless idea showing much more than solidarity and confederation. Total unification for the common good, not protesting or revolting against any establishment, but just simply saying "here we are, and this is why we're here."

Their messages gets across to us on the bridge loud and clear.

I spend most of the time getting pictures and videos (if not up by the time you're reading this, they will be shortly. The video will be in my "my video" section, pics in the "random things..." folder. After about fifteen minutes the stragglers have passed and we all depart silently. I climb on to the back of my dad's bike and he gives me a lift down to the other side of the bridge, some 200 feet where I parked my truck. Curt breaks down the flag, but I still feel the surge under my skin regardless.